Alley Urchin

by Josephine Cox

  It was Saturday, the second day of September, and Cook was in a bad mood. ‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ she snapped at the scullery-maid, ‘wherever did you hear such utter rubbish . . . electric lighting indeed! I’ll not see the day when they put it in my kitchen . . . I shall be kicking up the daisies first, I tell yer!’

  ‘Well, I know what I heard!’ retorted Amy. ‘When I went past the dining-room last night, the door was partly open and I heard the master’s guests talking about it . . . honest I did.’

  ‘Get away with you!’ snorted Cook, brandishing her rolling-pin and causing the maid to scurry from the room into the pantry, where she made an act of cleaning the shelves. ‘If your hands worked half as hard as your ears, my girl, we’d get things done a lot quicker round this place!’

  ‘It looks like I’ve arrived at a bad time.’ Edward Trent poked his face round the door, saying with a half-smile. ‘Shall I come back later?’

  ‘No, lad.’ Cook was always pleased to see this young man, who had a likeable character and a winning way with him. ‘Get yourself in here.’ She inclined her head towards the noise which was coming from the pantry. ‘Amy!’ she called.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Away upstairs and see to the fire-grates. There’s a nip in the air and the master will want the fires lit tonight, I’ve no doubt. Find the housekeeper . . . tell her you’ve done your tasks in the kitchen, and I’ll not have idle hands about me.’ When the little figure had gone, as quickly as her legs would allow, across the room and up the stairs, Cook turned to the young man with a hearty laugh, ‘Poor Amy doesn’t move so fast as she did some twenty years ago!’ She shook her grey head and cleaned the flour from her hands, in order to fetch the big enamel teapot from the tressle by the fire. ‘Still . . . we’re none of us getting any younger, my lad . . . I’m sure it won’t be long now, afore the master sends me packing through them doors.’ She filled up two rose-patterned teacups and pushed one towards him. ‘If there’s one thing I’m really afeared of, young Edward . . . it’s growing too old to be of use, and being left to rot in some dingy back room down some dark forgotten alley.’ She was in a very sorry and melancholy mood, on account of the fact that her old bones were beginning to stiffen, and her eyesight wasn’t what it had been.

  ‘That won’t ever happen to you.’ Edward Trent thought his own troubles seemed like nothing when compared to the dreadful fate which Cook anticipated. ‘I’ve heard my grandmother say often how marvellous you are, and how she could never find another like you in a month of Sundays.’

  ‘Oho! . . . It ain’t the mistress who I’m afeared might chuck me out, lad. Oh no! It’s your grandfather as worries me. Me and him have never really hit it off, y’see, we’re allus . . . suspicious . . . of each other. I’m no fool, and I knew fer sure that, given the proper excuse, he’d take real pleasure in seeing me pack me bags!’ She took a moment to squeeze her sizeable frame into the wooden armchair situated at the top of the table, then, taking a noisy slurp of the hot tea, she made a small grunting noise and shook her head. ‘My! He’s a sour-tempered man is your grandfather . . . if you’ll pardon me saying so?’ Yes, and a rogue of the worst kind into the bargain, she thought to herself . . . a murderer too, if that precious letter was anything to go by!

  ‘I’ll even say it myself,’ rejoined Edward Trent. ‘I know he’s fond of me . . . and I have a certain respect and liking for him. But he will ride roughshod over anything he takes a dislike to . . . however much he might be upsetting others.’

  ‘My very point exactly!’ remonstrated Cook, putting her cup on the table and leaning her great chubby arms on the table ledge. ‘Been at loggerheads, have you . . . you and your grandfather?’

  ‘He insists I won’t be going to Australia to stay with my father a while. He’s talking to my mother at this very minute . . . forbidding her to finance the venture.’

  ‘Oh dear!’ Cook pursed her thin lips into a perfect circle of wrinkles.

  ‘But it’s my money . . . sent to me by my own father!’

  ‘Makes no difference, lad. Still . . . I can’t say I’m surprised he won’t let you go. Not if it’s true what they say . . . that your father’s set up in business with Emma Grady.’ Of a sudden, Cook realised how she was letting her mouth run away with her. Emma was forbidden talk in this house . . . had been these many years.

  But Edward Trent’s interest had been aroused by the mention of Emma Grady’s name, and not for the first time. His father had spoken highly of the woman who had gone into business with him. Edward himself recalled when he had shown curiosity about Emma, in a communication he had intended sending to his father. But it had been snatched from him and flung into the fire. His mother had been very agitated and had straightaway sat herself at the bureau, where a letter had been angrily written, instructing his father never to mention that woman’s name again. In all the letters Edward had received since, there had never been one single reference to ‘Emma’. ‘Who is Emma Grady?’ Edward asked now, his eyes intent on Cook’s anxious face.

  ‘Why, I’m sure it’s none of my business, young Master Trent,’ Cook replied in a jolly fashion. ‘Now then . . . off with you, and let a poor soul get on with her baking!’ When she saw how unhappy he looked, Cook’s old heart was sorry at his plight. ‘Aw, look here . . . talk ter yer grandmother, why don’t yer? Why! Yer the very apple of her eye, and I’m sure if it were only a matter o’ money that prevents yer from visiting yer father, well . . . she’ll help, I’m certain of it. Y’know, the mistress don’t always agree with what yer grandfather says, and she’s allus had a special liking fer Silas Trent, ’cause he’s a good man, and she knows it.’ A slight noise on the stairway caused her to gasp out loud and clutch at her chest. Seeing that it was only Amy returning, she visibly sagged with relief. ‘Oh my poor heart!’ she cried, sinking back against the wall. Then, fixing her small worried eyes on Edward Trent, she told him, ‘Go on! Do as I say, lad. But, don’t you mention to anybody that you and me were discussing yer grandfather’s business . . . else me life won’t be worth living!’

  ‘Why, I swear the thought never even crossed my mind.’ Edward Trent laughed, and put a finger to his closed lips. Halfway up the stairs, he called back in a quiet voice, ‘Thank you for your suggestion, all the same. It’s the very thing, I’m sure.’

  Amy had watched Edward Trent go, then, leaning her whole body across the table, she whispered something to Cook which made that woman’s kindly eyes grow big and round with astonishment. ‘What was that you said?’ she demanded, not being at all certain that she had heard right the first time.

  ‘It’s true!’ Amy nodded, her face alive with excitement. ‘I heard the mistress and Martha Trent. They were talking just now . . . in the drawing-room. Ooh! In a real fit that Martha was . . . and Mrs Crowther well, she was pacing up and down, not knowing what to do. After all, her and the master were partly to blame for what happened, weren’t they? If they’d helped poor Emma when she begged ’em to . . . the authorities might not have transported her!’ She gave a delicious little giggle, as she reminded Cook, ‘Emma won’t have forgotten how they turned their backs on her! No wonder the buggers are shivering in their shoes at the news, eh? Oh, and what news it is. After all these years, Emma Grady’s coming home!’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Emma was coming home! Marlow must have read the letter a dozen times and more; each time his excitement grew. He could hardly believe it when the landlord of the Navigation had given him the envelope. Apparently, the good man had received it the week before, with a letter addressed to himself and requesting that the enclosed be given to Marlow Tanner at the earliest opportunity, as it was of the utmost importance. ‘What you been up to, you bugger?’ the landlord had laughed, and when he saw Marlow’s face drain of colour on reading it, he gave him a jug of ale on the house. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, mate,’ he said, ‘bad news, it is?’ Then, when Marlow had told him how it was the best news, the very best he’d ever heard, he poured himself a ju
g of ale and drank to Marlow’s good fortune.

  That was two weeks ago. Now, it was the fourteenth of September and the ship bound from Australia was due to dock at Liverpool on the morrow. Tonight Marlow was seated in the corner of the Navigation, listening to revelry all around him and thoughtfully sipping his ale.

  ‘Funny that . . . you’re sitting on the very bench where your Sal used to sit, God rest her soul.’ The man was of medium build, with tufts of grey hair above each ear and a large expanse of baldness between. He had warm blue eyes, a large loose mouth and long square teeth, from which protruded a clumsy, curved clay pipe. ‘Shame about old Sal . . . she were a good sort,’ he went on, settling himself beside Marlow, who inched along the bench in order to make more room.

  ‘The best!’ Marlow rejoined. ‘There’ll never be another like her.’ His handsome dark eyes clouded over.

  ‘From what I hear, she would have been proud o’ you, Marlow Tanner. I hear you’ve done right well for yourself since coming back from seeking your fortune. I heard tell that you had to come right back to your own front doorstep afore you made good. Started off by getting your own barge back . . . at twice what the bugger were worth! Then you worked like a dog, ‘till you’ve now got three cargo barges . . . everyone kept busy from contracts fetching and carrying goods from the docks. Atop o’ which, or so rumour has it, you’ve brought one o’ them big houses up Park Street. Is that the truth, mate? Have I heard right?’

  ‘You have, but don’t think it came easy. Anything that’s worthwhile never comes easy!’

  ‘Don’t I know it. You’re a bit of a legend in these parts, Marlow Tanner, and, if I’ve heard a dozen things told about you, the one that’s told most often is about the way you’ve sweated blood to make your way up. And good luck to you, that’s what I say! It can’t have been easy to come back home and find your only family buried in the ground . . . oh, and the fellow who knew you both since you were toddlers . . . what were his name, Gabe Drury? Aye! . . . Drowned not twenty feet from this ’ere pub!’

  Marlow didn’t want to hear any more. He was so filled with excitement and dizzy with thoughts of Emma that talking of the bad things which happened would only spoil it all. He didn’t want to be depressed. Not tonight. Not on the very eve of Emma’s return. ‘I’ll say goodnight, then,’ he told the man, at the same time getting to his feet.

  ‘Aye, well . . . mind how you go.’ He nodded and slid further along the bench, saying as Marlow negotiated his way round the table, ‘That were a funny business, though . . . about the urchin, I mean. Strange, how nobody knew where she came from . . . Sal would insist as how she’d been left by the little people, but then, you know how fanciful Sal’s imagination could be.’

  ‘I expect it was some poor little foundling Sal came across,’ Marlow told him, ‘she always did have a heart of gold.’ He too had heard all about the girl, and for a while his own curiosity had been fired. Weeks upon weeks, he’d searched for the girl and enquired after her, until all trace of her had vanished and he was forced to give up. The last he had heard was that, when the girl had somehow found the money to pay for Sal to have a proper burial, she just disappeared. There was talk of her having fired the hut where she and Sal had been living, then gone from the area. Nobody knew anything more. Marlow would have liked to have found the girl, if only to thank her and to repay her for taking care of Sal’s funeral. It would have broken his heart to come home and find his sister in a pauper’s grave. Marlow made mention of these things now, in view of the fellow’s kindly interest. And he was alarmed to hear something he had not known before.

  ‘By all accounts, she thought the world o’ your sister, and the lass did find the money to bury her proper. But, if you ask me, she went about it the wrong way because, for some reason, she set herself up badly with no other than Justice Crowther.’

  ‘How was that?’ Marlow resumed his seat. ‘Where does that loathsome fellow come into it?’

  ‘Don’t rightly know, and folks tend to keep their mouths shut tight when his name’s mentioned. But, not long back, I spent a term behind bars. There was an old lag there who got dragged from his bed one night, and thrown in the waggon. He saw things, he said . . . to do with that girl and Justice Crowther. The lass ran off, with another fellow who was in the same waggon. The old lag reckons as how Justice Crowther swore and vowed to track the urchin down.’

  ‘This “old lag” . . . where can I find him?’

  The man gave a strange little laugh as he told Marlow, ‘Huh! In the very pauper’s plot the urchin saved your sister from, I shouldn’t wonder!’

  ‘You’re telling me that he’s dead?’

  ‘’Fraid so . . . had his guts rotted by the drinking . . . or so I heard tell.’

  Of a sudden, the accordian music started up, and someone called for Marlow and the fellow to join in the singing. While the fellow did so, with merry enthusiasm, Marlow chose that moment to leave, and to walk home at a steady pace while he pondered what the fellow had told him. It was a few years since his Sal had passed on and the girl had gone from the area. He supposed she must be many miles away by now, and doing well. Yet Marlow could not forget what that girl had done for Sal and he realised how much she must have loved his wayward sister. God knows, thought Marlow, Sal was no angel, and if truth be told, there’s no doubt he would have given her the sharp end of his tongue for having gambled away the barge that had been their parents’ and their grandparents’ before them. But, as always, he would have forgiven her, because he loved her. No doubt just as the girl had done.

  As he let himself into the grand front door of his Park Street house, Marlow thought how proud he would be to tell Emma of his achievements. Lady Luck had smiled on him and he was grateful. Now, he must force himself to be patient until the morrow when he would be waiting on the docks for his Emma. He wondered what Silas Trent had meant when he spoke in the letter of a ‘wonderful surprise’ which Emma was bringing with her. He was filled with excitement at the prospect of seeing her, of holding her, in this land where they both belonged.

  Marlow tried hard to push away the thought of that girl whom Sal had raised, and to whom he owed a debt. With Emma paramount in his thoughts, it was not difficult after a while. But he could not entirely quell the curiosity within him, as he recalled what the fellow in the pub had said. ‘For some reason, she set herself up badly with no other than Justice Crowther . . . the old lag saw things that night.’ Marlow couldn’t help but wonder what it was that the old lag had seen. If in fact he had seen anything at all, or if he had seen it all in the bottom of an ale-jug. Folks did like to talk and gossip; even more so if there was the price of a drink in the offing.

  All the same, Marlow thought there were questions left unanswered – like who were the girl’s real parents? And had Justice Crowther a vendetta against the girl. If so, why? He hoped it was all just idle speculation, because who should know better than himself, and Emma, what it was like to be hounded by that man!

  Marlow came into the hallway and lit the lamp on the small circular table. ‘Wherever you are, young ’un,’ he murmured in a serious voice, ‘if you really have made an enemy of Justice Crowther, don’t ever come back to this area. And may God keep you safe!’

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Cor, bugger me, gal! It’s like a bleeding sale at the fishmarket, ain’t it?’ Nelly cried out when her toe was trodden on and a great surge of bodies sent her along at a faster pace towards the gangway. ‘I’m blowed if these impatient folk won’t send us arse-uppards into the water any minute!’ She flashed an angry look at one burly woman who was so intent on pushing her way to the front, that she actually took Nelly a few paces along with her. ‘Did y’see that?’ Nelly demanded of Emma, who was some way behind. ‘I’ve a bloody good mind to fetch ’er one!’

  Emma was caught in a crush of her own, when her only thought was to keep safe the child in her arms, and to emerge intact from the excited throng of passengers who were, understandably, excited
at the prospect of meeting their loved ones waiting on the Liverpool quayside. ‘Just watch where you’re going!’ Emma called back to Nelly. ‘If we get separated, wait for me at the bottom of the gangway.’

  Within the hour, Emma and Nelly were reunited, having come to no harm and gone safely through the process which awaited all disembarking passengers. Now they had their luggage on the ground beside them, a small trunk, five portmanteaus and three large tapestry bags. They were both utterly exhausted, and the child, who up to now had been content in Emma’s arms, was beginning to fret. ‘The young ’un wants his tit, I expect,’ Nelly told Emma in her usual forthright manner, being quite oblivious to the disapproving stares of several elderly women who happened by. ‘Look!’ She pointed to a sign over the far wall. ‘There’s a waiting-room across the way. You’ll not be disturbed there. Go on with yer. I’ll stay here and keep watch.’ She lowered her voice and smiled at Emma in a knowing way. ‘Don’t worry, gal,’ she said, ‘you’ve told me enough about yer fellow fer me to pick him out in any crowd. I’ll keep me eyes skinned . . . and I’ll fetch yer the minute I suspect he’s come a-looking fer yer.’

  But Emma would not be budged. Looking down at her son, she saw that he was not upset in any way. It was true that he’d become more fidgety and was beginning to make protesting noises, but Emma believed that was more a consequence of being pushed and shoved in every direction, and being made hot and uncomfortable because of it. ‘He’s fine,’ she told Nelly. ‘As soon as Marlow finds us, we’ll be on our way.’ She raised her anxious grey eyes to scan the crowds, who were still milling around them. Nelly’s eyes were anxious too, as they gazed on Emma and saw how determined she was to make no move until Marlow Tanner came, as Emma fervently believed he would.