Salem Street

by Anna Jacobs

  Annabelle burst into angry tears at her first sight of Bilsden. Looking down from the moors she thought it like the black pit of hell after Brighton. It was a long thin valley full of smoke and filth, with a river threading its greasy way among the mills and terraces. She loathed the town on sight and complained vociferously about the house he had bought without even consulting her. It was ugly, had no style, the rooms were not large enough, the builder’s noise was driving her to distraction! Why, in heaven’s name, could he not have found somewhere for them to rent, instead of sinking good money into this hovel? And how much would it cost them for window tax at over eight shillings a window, not to mention heating in the winter? Nothing could be less like their cosy terrace in Brighton. Just think about the extra servants they would need!

  Jeremy’s smile was serene, and her complaints made no impression on his happiness. It galled her still further that she seemed to have lost her ability to hurt him and her voice tailed away, as she stared at him.

  “I sank good money into this house, Annabelle, because I knew that I should like living in Bilsden,” he said, as calmly as if they were discussing the weather. “There’s real work for me to do and I expect to spend the rest of my life here. This house was just what I wanted, large enough for our needs, yet close to the people whom I shall be serving. It was for sale, not for rent, so I bought it. And I like it very much! Look at that view over the park. And look at the size of the garden for Marianne to play in. There’s nothing wrong with the situation, surely! I think we shall do very well here, once you have got over your tantrums.”

  The only regret he felt was a mild one at leaving Mary, but she had not wanted to move to the north, away from her family and friends. In any case, it would not have been good policy to bring along his mistress to a town where he was trying to establish a name for himself. That would be no way to gain people’s confidence! He gave Mary a tidy sum and left her happily setting up a little sweet shop. After all, Bilsden was quite near to Manchester. Jeremy was sure that he would be able to go and assuage his physical needs there from time to time.

  He turned away from his wife’s sour pinched face to stare possessively at his house. Soon he would be able to start being a real doctor. He was impatient to begin helping people, to start his new life in Bilsden. He had tried fitting in with Annabelle’s desires and failed; now she would have to fit in with his.

  3

  Bilsden: March to May 1830

  Annie Gibson never forgot the day that the new family moved into Number Seven, because that was the first time she saw Matthew Peters. She didn’t usually like boys; they played too roughly and they were scornful of girls. This boy, however, was different. He was tall and well-built, and she was surprised when she found out that he was only twelve. Most of the older boys she knew were pale and thin, with dull hair and tired faces, for they worked long hours in the mills or in workshops and rarely saw the sunlight. Matthew Peters was an attractive lad, with shiny brown hair and a fresh complexion, and although he too was soon swallowed up by the mill, he somehow managed to retain his air of health and vitality.

  Annie was getting a bucket of water for her mother from the tap when she saw a small procession turn the corner into Boston Street. The man who led it was pushing Barmy Charlie’s handcart, which Charlie loaned out at sixpence a time. The woman was carrying a knotted blanket full of lumpy shapes, and the boy and three girls were all carrying tattered bundles. The two eldest girls each held a very young child by the hand. Annie guessed at once that they must be moving into Number Seven. She hastily finished filling her bucket at the tap, then dragged a protesting Lizzie back home at top speed, turning into Salem Street well ahead of the slow-moving group with the handcart.

  “Mam, they’re moving in!” she announced breathlessly, setting the bucket down on the kitchen floor so that the water slopped over the edge.

  “Mind what you’re doin’, our Annie!” Lucy said sharply. Then the words registered. “Who’s moving in?”

  “A family. Into Number Seven. Come an’ see!” Annie pulled her mother up from the rocking chair near the kitchen fire and dragged her into the front room to peer out of the window. “See! There they are! I saw ’em turn into Boston Street an’ guessed where they were comin’ to.”

  Lucy forgot her heavy body for a moment or two. “They look all right,” she said, her eyes weighing up their baggage and noting their clean, if ragged clothes. “They ’aven’t got much stuff, though, ’ave they? I wonder what they’re called.”

  “They look nice,” said Annie, feeling possessive about the newcomers because she’d been the first to see them.

  “There’s a girl who looks about your age, love,” Lucy pointed to a curly-haired girl with the same rosy cheeks as her brother.

  “Mmm.” Annie stared at the girl. “She might be all right.” It occurred to her suddenly that if she made friends with the girl, she’d be bound to see something of the boy. “She’s got nice hair,” she conceded.

  Lucy laughed and hugged her daughter. She didn’t know what she’d have done without Annie in the past few months. “Get on wi’ you! Who’re you to pick an’ choose?”

  A sudden clatter and a wail of dismay from the kitchen at the back sent them both hurrying in, to find Lizzie sitting howling in a puddle of water next to the overturned bucket.

  Annie flew across the room and clouted her sister on the ear. “I’d only just fetched that water!” she shouted, and followed up the clout by giving the little girl a good shake, “Will you leave things alone, our Lizzie!” Then she saw her mother standing in the doorway, looking wearily at the wet floor. She hastily swallowed her anger and pushed Lizzie out of the way. “It’s all right, Mam. I’ll mop it up. Won’t take me a minute.” She took the floor rag from the cupboard under the stairs and set to work to clear up the mess. The looks she cast at Lizzie from time to time boded no good for the little girl, but she knew that any more shouting would upset her mother, so she held her tongue.

  “Why don’t you go an’ have a bit of a lie down, Mam?” she suggested. “I’ll get some more water an’ see to Dad’s tea.”

  Lucy hesitated, swaying on her feet. “I think I will, love, if you c’n manage. Eh, I don’t know what’s wrong wi’ me today! Must’ve got out of bed on the wrong side!”

  The fiction was maintained at all times that the ill-health was a temporary thing. Every afternoon Lucy took a nap so as to look her best when John came home from the mill. Only Annie realised how ill she really was, much worse than she’d been with the other babies. Tom was out all day at school and Lizzie noticed only herself.

  Annie finished mopping up the puddle and picked up the bucket. She hesitated for a moment, then sighed and yanked her sister to her feet. Lizzie at once let out a wail of protest at this rough treatment. “Shut up!” hissed Annie. “You’re comin’ wi’ me. I’m not havin’ you wakin’ Mam up. She’s tired.” She sighed again. If only she didn’t have to look after Lizzie all the time, or if only her sister had a bit more sense! Neither Tom nor Lizzie was of much help around the house. And anyway her brother was not often there. His schooling always rankled with Annie, for he would not share his knowledge with her.

  As she was running a fresh bucket of water, Annie was joined by the boy she’d seen moving into Number Seven. What a bit of luck! When the bucket was full, she hesitated for a moment, then addressed him breathlessly, afraid of a rebuff.

  “I’m Annie Gibson an’ I live in Salem Street as well, Number Three. I saw you move into Number Seven just now. This is our Lizzie.” She waited. Would he speak to her or would he ignore her? You could never tell with boys.

  He nodded and smiled down at her eager face. “I’m Matthew Peters. They call me Matt.”

  His bucket was soon full and they turned by common consent to carry the water back home. He didn’t seem to mind being seen talking to a girl. She tried desperately to think of something interesting to say to him. She wished Lizzie weren’t trailing along behind th
em with her snotty nose, which she never bothered to blow unless someone reminded her. What would he think of her with a sister like that?

  “I’ve got a sister about your age,” he said abruptly. “Ellie, she’s called.”

  “I’ve got a brother who’s eight,” she volunteered. “Our Tom. Can your sister play hopscotch?”

  “Yes, she can. She likes playing out.”

  “She can play with me sometime, if she wants.”

  “I’ll tell her. She’ll like that. Thanks.” They turned the corner into Salem Street.

  “Our dad works in t’mill. He’s a chargehand,” she boasted.

  “I’m startin’ there on Monday.” His dad hated the idea, hated the big new mills altogether and said they were abominations, but his mam said they needed the money.

  The two children arrived at Number Three. Annie wished it had been a longer walk. Matt was nice to talk to. She nodded shyly. “I’ll ’ave to go in, then. ’Bye!” Once inside, she put the bucket down carefully in a corner and threatened to murder Lizzie if she went anywhere near it. Then she got some more coal in. Lizzie curled up on the rag mat in front of the fire and fell asleep.

  Annie went out again and got the washing in, careful not to let it touch the floor. She set it to air round the fire on the wooden clothes-horse her dad had made, resisting the temptation to shove Lizzie out of the way with her foot. When it grew dark, she lit a candle and started getting the tea ready for her dad. He got mad if his tea wasn’t on the table when he came in. He said it made you famished working in the mill all day.

  She put the breadboard on the table and got out the loaf and the sharp knife. Putting the frying-pan ready near the fire, she carefully shaved six pieces of bacon off the piece that her mother had bought two days ago. It had to last for a while. In some families only those bringing in money got any meat or cheese, and the others thought themselves lucky if they had dripping or gravy on their bread. But her dad said that little ’uns needed good food to grow on, so they all got a share of the bacon, or an egg occasionally. He was a lovely man, her dad was, though he’d been a bit edgy lately.

  Annie met Ellie Peters the very next day on the way back from the privies. The two girls were of much the same height, in spite of Ellie being a few months younger. They stopped and stared at each other, Ellie with a hopeful expression on her face. Matt had told her that there was a girl of her own age in the street, who looked nice and who had said she could play with them.

  Ellie was agonisingly shy when she first met people, but Matt had made her promise to speak if she met a girl with red hair. She swallowed nervously. “H-hello.” Her face was a bright peony-red by this time.

  Annie nodded. “Hello,’ she said confidently. No one could ever accuse her of being shy. “You’re Ellie Peters.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Annie Gibson. I met your brother Matt.”

  “Yes. He said.”

  “Do you want to play with us?”

  “Yes. If that’s all right.”

  “I have to help Mam now. She’s not so well. But I can play out later. When t’one o’clock siren goes at the mill. That’s when I allus play out.”

  “I – I’ll ask my mam.”

  “Right,” said Annie, brisk and businesslike. “I’ll meet you back here, then.” She turned and went into her house. For the rest of the morning as she bustled about helping her mother, she speculated aloud about Ellie Peters until Lucy had to laugh at her.

  “Go on, do, our Annie!”

  “Yes, but, Mam – don’t you think she looks nice? She’s got such lovely hair.” Annie held up a red braid scornfully in her thin, work-reddened hand. “I wish I had long, black hair.”

  “You’ve got lovely hair.”

  Annie pulled a face. “I’d rather’ve had black,” she insisted. “An’ Ellie’s got lovely rosy cheeks, too!” She sighed and reached down the twelve-inch square of speckled mirror that stood on the mantelshelf for John to shave by. She scowled as she peered into it. “Look at me face, Mam! Just look at it! Dead white, it is!” Her reflection stared back at her solemnly, its clear pale skin flawless by most standards, but in Salem Street and the Rows, you had to have rosy cheeks to be considered a beauty.

  Lucy hugged her again. “I think you’re lovely,” she said. “I couldn’t wish for a better daughter. When I’m better I’ll make it up to you for all this.”

  “I like to help you, Mam.” Annie nestled against her for a moment. “Now, shall I start sewing that shirt for our Tom?” Lucy had passed her sewing skills on to her daughter and they were working on a new pair of shirts for Tom, who had grown again. The Gibson children often had new clothes, thanks to Lucy, except for Lizzie, who had to wear Annie’s cast-offs and already resented it. Not many of the women in the Rows had any skill with a needle, so Lucy, with Annie’s help, occasionally made or altered clothes for others, for a small payment. More often altered, for there was a thriving trade in cast-offs and little spare money for new things.

  When they’d all had their noon slice of bread and dripping, Lucy sent Annie out to play. For once she made the effort to look after Lizzie herself; for once Annie, lost in dreams of friendship with the Peters, didn’t urge her mam to rest.

  Ellie was waiting outside, her hands clasped nervously in front of her. It was a cold day and she had a matted, much-washed shawl pinned round her faded dress.

  “Hello,” she said, still nervous.

  “Come on,” said Annie. “I’ll show you the places where we play.”

  Ellie tagged along meekly, her heart bursting with anxiety to please. When they had lived down in Claters End, she had been forbidden to play with the other children, who were not only lousy, but light-fingered and foul-mouthed, her mam said. And before that, the Peters family had made so many moves, even in Ellie’s short lifetime, that no friendship had been more than transient. This time, her mam said, they were here to stay, if she had to cut out their father’s tongue herself, to stop him getting turned off from his job again. Her father had looked angry at that, but he knew that even Elizabeth’s monumental patience had at last worn out.

  Salem Street was a step up again in the world for the Peters family, a step nearer to what Elizabeth had known before she got married. They’d recently been reduced to living in one attic room down Claters End, because yet again Sam’s incurable honesty and blunt speech had cost him his new job in Bilsden.

  Sam Peters was a slow, painstaking man, who had learned to read late in life by courtesy of the Methodist Church. He was now not only a staunch Methodist, but a firm believer in the rights of the common man to literacy and a vote, a dangerous combination, this, to most employers. A few weeks ago, however, Sam had got a job with the new doctor, who had set up near the park and who was even willing to tend the poor. Sam had met him quite by chance after a street accident, when some bales had fallen off an overloaded dray. Being Sam, he had automatically gone to help the victim, regardless of possible damage to his one and only decent set of clothes.

  The doctor, noting his gentleness with the injured woman and the way he didn’t flinch at the sight of blood, had asked him abruptly how he was employed. When Sam had admitted that he was seeking work, the doctor had offered him a job as a kind of general helper. He would have to drive the gig, tend the pony on the yard boy’s day off, learn to mix simple medicines and roll pills, and help with the patients, especially the poorer ones. Sam had accepted the offer on the spot, without even asking about the wages, for it was a job after his own heart. Master and man were so pleased with each other after a few weeks, that the family had dared to move to Salem Street, to a house the doctor had found for them. Now, Ellie was hoping to make and keep a friend, and she was desperately hoping that it would be Annie Gibson.

  The two little girls wandered around the streets, exchanging information about their families and the things they liked to do. It was to be the beginning of a life-long friendship. Annie soon forgot that sh
e had seen Ellie as a way of getting to know Matthew and came to love her for her own sake. They played together when Annie could get away and occasionally Ellie came into the house. They both had to take their younger sisters with them much of the time and this, too, formed a bond. Ellie understood and sympathised when Lizzie was naughty, and Annie showed a similar understanding when Patty and Addy became unbearable.

  It was a few weeks before Annie was invited back into Ellie’s home. In a burst of confidence one day, Ellie explained that this was because they had not yet got much furniture.

  “You see,” she said, scuffed boot drawing careful patterns in the dust, “our dad, well, he can’t help speakin’ his mind when summat upsets him an’ – an’ sometimes the masters don’t like it an’ – an’ then he loses his job.” She shivered at the memory, then brightened, “But he’s suited now. He says Dr Lewis is the best master he’s ever had. An’ our Matt’s doin’ all right in the mill, so our mam says we c’n begin to get a few things together again. On’y – well, we haven’t got much yet.”

  “Nobody has much round ’ere,” said Annie, as one who knew. “Your mam doesn’t have to bother about that. An’ you’re one of the cleanest families in the Rows, my mam says.”

  Ellie blushed pink with pleasure at this compliment and later passed it on to her mother.

  When Annie was at last allowed to go into the Peters’ house, she sat shyly in front of the fire and listened to Sam reading the Bible aloud to his family, which he did every evening and twice on Sundays. She didn’t understand a lot of the words, but she liked the way it sounded.

  One evening, she confided in Sam her burning desire to learn to read, like her brother Tom.

  “That’s a fine thing to wish for, lass,” he told her seriously. “Don’t you let anyone stop you. There’s allus a way, if you look for it. You’ll get your wish one day.”

  “Aye, but when?” she answered, practical as ever. “Our Tom goes to Sergeant Brown’s for schoolin’ an’ he won’t show me anythin’ he learns! He’s a mean pig! He’s not doin’ so good hisself, I reckon.” She brooded for a moment on the injustice of life, then burst out, “It’s not fair! I’m older’n he is an’ I’m cleverer, too! I bet I could learn to read twice as quick as him!”