by Various
“It’s just in case one of the Peels get ill.” I feel foolish trotting out this patter. “Should they need a little blood or skin, or bit of bone.”
“Are they too proud to ask one another?” Sally’s sharp. “I’ve heard that they take the bits they want and toss the rest of you to their lapdogs. And what if they want an eye or kidney?”
“They wouldn’t want anything vital and the compensation would be in keeping, of course.”
“Compensation?” Sally presses me. She’s the sparring sort.
“That’s up for discussion. Someone got granted leave to live outside Liverpool for their help.”
Outside. Myth and mystery. That shuts her up.
“Yes, but what will you give me now?” Kate has more pressing concerns.
Both women are bright-eyed. They don’t look like they buy backdoor poteen or have the sluggish, undernourished look of opium fiends. They’ve worked in a button factory, not a mill, so they’ve young unblemished lungs, engine hearts and flawless flesh, except for their worn hands. Just the sort I’ve been told to look for. I feel like a rat, gnawing on a dying man’s toes.
Do whatever you need to survive, Dad would say. Do whatever you need to be free.
I put a silver coin on the table.
“I’ll do it,” Kate says.
“Don’t.” Sally’s like a terrier. I don’t know whether to kiss or kick her.
“We’ve queued for weeks with no luck.”
The indignity of hiring pens and agency lines. At the respectable ones they just check hands and teeth. At others, they take women and boys around back for closer inspection.
“What if they want something from you? What then?” Sally sounds panicked.
“All they ask is a chance to speak to you. No one’s forcing anyone.” It’s what I’ve been told to say, but the rich always have their way.
“Do it.” Kate’s firm.
I take off the bag strung across my chest and sit down at the table.
“What’s your name?”
“Kate Harper.”
Kate’s hands are callused from factory work but her forearms are soft.
“It’ll hurt.” I remove the sampler’s cap.
I put it over her arm and press down. I feel the tip bite flesh and hear the click as it chips off bone. It leaves a deep, oozing hole. Kate gasps but doesn’t move. It’s only ever men that shout and thrash about.
“I’ll give you some ointment to help it heal. What about Lolly’s father?” I try and make it sound like easy banter as I write her details in the log book and on the tube.
“He was a sailor on The Triumph.”
“You’re Richard Harper’s wife?” A name said with hushed reverence.
“Yes, and before you blather on about heroism, he didn’t give us a second thought. Everything we’d saved went on his sailor’s bond.”
The Triumph was a Peel ship that landed in the Indies. You can’t send men across the ocean on a boat and not expect them to want to get off on the other side and walk around. It’s a foul practice to stop sailors absconding, resulting in cabin fever, brawling and sodomy. The crew of The Triumph mutinied.
The leader, Richard Harper, was a martyr for his part. The authorities tied him to the anchor before they dropped it. His sailor’s bond, held with the port master, was forfeit.
“You were widowed young.”
Kate’s nod is a stiff movement from the neck. She tries to soften it with, “It’s just us now.”
“I understand. It used to be me and my dad until he died. He was a rag and bone man too.” I’m overcome with the need to tell her everything, but I can’t. “He wanted a horse instead of pulling the barrow himself. One day I’ll get one, if I can save enough.”
I’m trying to impress them. Sally sighs as if I’m tiresome but Kate pats my hand like an absentminded mother. Her unguarded kindness makes me want to cry. I want to put my head on Kate’s knee and for her to stroke my hair.
Sally watches us.
“I won’t do it. I don’t trust them.”
I realise that I want to touch Sally too, but in a different way. I have a fierce urge to press my mouth to the flesh on the inside of her wrist where the veins show through.
Sally stares me down and I want to say, I’m not the enemy. I’m not a flesh-eating Peel up in an ivory tower, but then I realise that I might as well be.
* * *
I sit in my room at The Baltic Fleet. Mother Kate’s essence shouldn’t be contained in a vial. I don’t want anyone else to possess her. Not some sailor, bound and drowned, and definitely not a Peel. She should be free.
Times are hard. I’ve filled in a whole page of Makin’s log book.
I go walking to clear my head, Gabriel at heel. Mrs Tsang, the publican, is stocking the bar with brown bottles of pale ale. She’s good to me, just like she was good to Dad. She lets me the room and I keep my barrow in the yard under a tarp.
“Okay, poppet?” she asks as I pass.
On impulse I lean down and kiss her cheek. She swats me away, hiding her smile. Mrs Tsang’s tiny but I’ve seen her bottle a man in the face for threatening her. The jagged glass tore his lips and nose.
The factories are out and everyone’s heading home. Workers pile into the terraces. Some sun themselves on doorsteps. A tethered parrot squawks at me from its perch outside a door, talking of flights in warmer climes. Kids play football on the street.
I head to Otterspool Prom where I stand and consider, looking out at the river. Herring gulls scream at me for my foolishness. Gabriel lies down and covers his face with his paws.
I drop Kate’s vial and stand on it. Then I kick every single fragment into the water and don’t leave until the Mersey’s taken it all away.
* * *
I pause outside Makin’s office.
“I’d advise caution with his sort, sir.” A stranger’s voice.
“What’s his sort then?” That’s Makin.
“Loners, in my experience, are freaks or agitators.”
“Tom’s neither.”
Behind me, someone clears his throat. I turn to find myself on the sharp end of a pointed look from Makin’s secretary. No doubt he’ll tell later.
“I told you to knock and go in.” He opens the door.
“Ah, Tom, this is Mr Jessop.”
Jessop’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen, with good teeth and all his hair. He’s no gentleman. He has the swagger of the law, not a regular policeman but a special.
“Tom, we were just talking about you.” He sounds like a Scouser now, a rough edge to his voice that was missing before. He must talk it up or down, depending on the company. “Can I see the log book that Mr Makin gave you?”
I look at Makin who nods. Mr Jessop flicks through it, checking against the ledger where a clerk copies the details.
“Is this address correct?”
It’s Kate’s.
“Yes.” I shrug. “I filled it in at the time.”
“Anyone else live there?”
“Her sister and daughter.”
“And you broke one of the samplers that day?”
“Yes. An empty one. I’m a clumsy oaf.” I try and sound like I’m still berating myself. “I dropped it and stepped on it. I reported it straight away, didn’t I, Mr Makin? I offered to pay for it.”
“No one’s accusing you of anything, Tom.”
“Do you know where Kate Harper is now?” Jessop doesn’t let up.
“Isn’t she there?”
I know she isn’t. I knocked at her door and an old man answered. Bugger off. I’ve no idea where they went.
“No, but you know that already because you went back.” Jessop smiles, the triumphant conniver. “You do know that she’s Richard Harper’s widow, don’t you?”
“Yes, but what’s that got to do with me?”
Jessop’s hands are spotless. He must scrub them nightly to get out suspects’ blood. Specials with manicured hands don’t come in search of
factory girls without reason.
Makin sits back, waiting. Of course. They’re terrified of Harper. That his wife will be a rallying cry.
“I didn’t know who she was until she gave the sample.”
“And why would she do that?”
“She needed money.”
“So she’s not being looked after by her Trotsky pals?” Jessop won’t let it go.
“I don’t think so.” I try and catch Makin’s eye.
“Why did you go back?”
Makin’s holding his breath, waiting.
“The thing is”—I shift about, embarrassed by the truth—“they were pretty and I wanted to see them again.”
“There’s no shame in that.” Makin seems relieved. Thank God that good men like him can rise in this world that favours politicians who use smiles, wiles and outright lies.
I feel bad about lying to him.
“We need to speak to her,” Jessop says.
“But I don’t know where she is.”
“But you’ll tell us if you do find her?” His smile makes me want to bolt for the door. “You’ve never had a job, have you?”
“I work.”
My dad would say, We’re free. Never subject to the tyranny of the clock. The dull terrors of the production line. No one will use us as they please.
“Bone grubbing. Piss-poor way to make a living.”
“Enough.” Makin tuts.
“So sorry.” Jessop’s oily and insincere. “If you do find her, be a good lad and run up here and tell Mr Makin.”
I want to say, Shove your apology, but keep my gob shut.
* * *
The bastards follow me about all day. Jessop and his pals, got up like dockers. I pretend I’ve not seen them but they stand out. They’re too clean to look real.
I look for Kate and Sally in the hiring lines, strolling past with my barrow as if on my way elsewhere. I wouldn’t give her away. I just want to see her face. I ask the washerwomen at the water pumps and the old men standing around the fires at night.
Kate, Sally, Lolly. There’s not a whiff of them.
I go up to the destitute courts of the Dingle, each court comprised of six houses set up around a central yard. The noxious stench from the shared privy is of liquid filth. I look through open doors: blooming damp patches on the plaster, crumbled in places to bare brick. I see faces made hard by deprivation. Infants squalling from drawers because they’re hungry. It was a miracle that Makin clawed his way out of here.
“You.”
A priest accosts me. He’s on his rounds, demanding pennies from the poor to give to the even poorer.
“Come here.”
Closer and he’s unshaven and smells. He’s ale addled. I feel for him, driven to despair and drink by the gargantuan task of saving so many lost souls. He follows me out of the court, onto the street.
“I’ve heard about you, Thomas Coster.”
I tie Gabriel to the cart in case he goes for the man and wait for the rage of the righteous. I don’t feel so well-disposed towards him now.
“You’re in league with evil.” He shoves his face into mine. Gabriel goes crazy. We’re drawing quite an audience. “The Peels keep people in tanks like fish, cutting off the bits they want.”
I’m panting from pushing the cart uphill and trying to outpace him. Jessop’s up ahead, leaning against a wall.
“A man should be buried whole in consecrated ground.”
The priest’s enraged when the crowd laughs. Burial’s expensive. The poor are cremated on pyres.
“You’ll be damned. You’ll suffer all hell’s torments. You’ll be flayed. The devil will sup on your gizzards and crack the marrow from your bones.”
Jessop laughs under his breath as I pass.
* * *
It’s a rare day that a Peel comes to town.
The Peel factories have closed an hour early to mark the day. Men loiter on Hope Street, outside the Philharmonic pub. Rowdy clerks from the insurance offices and banks are out, seeking white-collar mayhem. One turns quickly and shoulder barges me as I pass. He’s keen to prove he can push more than a pen. His friends laugh.
His mates all line up across the pavement to block my path. I step into the gutter. One of them steps down to join me. He’s wearing ridiculous checked trousers and his hands are in his pockets. I wonder what’s in there.
“You walked into my friend. You should apologise.”
I open my mouth but someone’s standing at my shoulder. It’s Jessop.
“I think you’re mistaken,” Jessop says as he opens his jacket. Whatever’s glinting within is enough to put this bunch off.
I glance around. Jessop’s travelling in numbers, all of them in black suits.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
Oh, to wield so much power that you don’t have to exert it.
Jessop picks up his pace, looking back to give me a final grin. I follow in their wake, pushing through to the barrier. There’s a big crowd. Lord Peel’s here to give a special address to his foremen. They must be in need of bucking up if he’s got to come down here to talk to them himself.
The doors of the assembly rooms open and a pair of specials come out, eyes scanning the crowd. The foremen follow, dressed in their Sunday best. They look uncertain as they emerge, blinking in the afternoon sunlight. Makin and his secretary follow. Makin looks stiff and starched. I’m used to seeing him with his shirtsleeves rolled up, fingers inky from his calculations.
Then Lord Peel steps out, the brim of his hat angled to shade his face. I realise there’s silence. Not even the sound of shuffling feet.
Some lackey shoves a child forward and she holds up a bunch of pink roses. Peel turns his face as he takes them. He’s a shocker close up. His nose and eyes are leonine. Thin lipped. Skin stretched to a sickening smoothness that rivals the silk of his cravat. His blue eyes are faded by age.
Then it begins. A low baritone from deep within the crowd.
The sea takes me from my love …
Another voice joins in, then another, then more so there’s a choir.
The sea takes me from my love
It drops me on the ocean floor
The sea tempts me from my true love’s arms
And I’ll go home no more.
Peel smiles, thinking this impromptu serenade’s for him. He doesn’t know that each ship has its own shanties and ballads and this one’s famed as The Triumph’s.
Makin leans over and whispers in Peel’s ear and his smile fades. There’s another chorus and it sounds like the whole of Liverpool is singing.
The sea takes me from my love
It drops me on the ocean floor
The sea tempts me from my mother’s knee
And I’ll go home no more.
There are no jeers or shouts. Just the people’s indignity dignified in song. The police don’t know how to respond. They form a ring around Peel and his retinue. The foremen are outside this protective circle. Someone motions for Peel’s carriage.
The air’s filled with fluttering white sheets. They’re being thrown down onto the street from the roof of the infirmary. Hands reach for them. Makin plucks at a sheet, reads it and crumples it in his fist. Peel’s caught one too. He’s angry. He turns to Makin and jabs at his chest with a gloved forefinger as if he’s personally responsible.
I pick up one. It’s The Echo, a dissident rag, printed on cheap, low-grade paper, the ink already smudging. It advocates minimum wages, safety measures and free health care. This edition’s different. It bears the words Lord Peel’s Triumph, with a drawing of Richard Harper floating on his anchor. It’s the anniversary of his death. A bad day for Peel to show his face.
Once Peel’s departed the police will demonstrate their displeasure for this display. Jessop’s already giving orders. It’s time to leave.
Peel’s in the carriage as the singing continues. Makin turns as he climbs in and his gaze fixes on me, The Echo still clutched in my hand.
* * *<
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It’s an official match day, when the factories close for the machines to be serviced.
Football’s a violent and anarchic game where passions are vented, on and off the pitch. The crowd wears the colours, red or blue. They’re no longer just a dark mass of serge and twill that pour into the black factories.
Jessop and his sidekick are behind me. I try and lose them in the crush. The hoards of Everton, Toxteth, Kensington, and Dingle come together for this sliver of pleasure.
The constabulary are mounted, their horses stamping and pawing the cobbles. They’ll tolerate fisticuffs amid the crowd to vent rising tensions. A good-natured kicking or black eye, as long as everyone’s fit for work the following day no harm’s done.
The coppers know if they weigh in the crowd will turn on them, but I can see in their eyes how they’d love to beat about with batons and hand out indiscriminate thrashings in the guise of peacekeeping.
I see my chance. A chanting group comes up the street towards Anfield’s football pitch, waving Evertonian flags. Red banners are at my back. The two groups meet, posturing and jostling. I dart down an alley, ducking to avoid the lines of washing. Jessop’s lost.
There’s one place I’ve not looked for them. The dirty terraces where parlours of women wait for the game to end. It makes me shudder.
I peer into windows and am shocked by what’s on show. It’s just another factory, churning up girls, making fodder of their flesh. I go around the back. Women line the wall, waiting to be hired. My heart stops when I see her. I push past the other girls who try to lure me in with promises that make me blush.
“Where’s Kate?”
“You.” Sally looks tired and bored. “Are you paying?”
Hard and heartless. I rifle in my pocket, glancing up and down the street. “Here.”
“It’s double that.” She scowls.
I give her more. We have to get indoors.
She leads me to a house. A room’s free at the top of the stairs. It’s painted an oppressive red that would look fashionable somewhere grand. The window’s dirty. There’s a bed with a sheet and pillow on it. A pitcher and bowl on the dresser. A headboard rattles on the other side of the wall.
“What are you doing, Sally?”
“Earning a living.”
“Here?”