by Anna King
At first his only aim had been to comfort the young girl in her hour of need. He was a decent, hard-working man and the only thought in his mind was that of caring and providing for Ellen until such time when she would be able to fend for herself, no matter how long it took. The idea of taking advantage of the young girl in such circumstances would never have entered his mind.
So he had brought her here to recover from her grief. She had no living relatives; it was only natural that Ellen should turn to Arthur, a man she had always known and loved, for help in the darkest moments of her young life.
The first six months had been the worst as Ellen slowly came to terms with her loss. Then Arthur had begun to notice the looks directed at him by his women customers, the same women who, when Ellen had first arrived, had applauded Arthur for his generosity in taking the orphaned girl into his home. The disapproving looks had soon escalated to open hostility and accusations at the state of affairs existing between himself, a middle-aged man, and a young, unchaperoned girl.
Arthur had been horrified. The very nature of the cruel implications had made him physically ill. He had been content just to have Ellen nearby, but he’d had to admit the whole set-up looked decidedly unsavoury to the outside world – the unfounded notions no doubt helped along by Agnes’ bitter tongue.
For a brief moment, Arthur’s conscience hung heavily on him. There had been a time when Agnes had been more than just an assistant to him. But that had been a long time ago, before Ellen had entered the world and his life. If he’d had any sense at all, he would have fired Agnes years ago. But, being the timid man he was, he had simply taken the line of least resistance and let life slip by. Though he had to admit Agnes hadn’t caused him any trouble back then. She had seemed happy enough to continue working for him with no strings attached – until the day he had brought the distraught Ellen into his home.
Overnight, Agnes had turned from a pleasant, easygoing woman, into a hard-faced, bitter harridan. Yet even now, confronted and hounded by the woman whose wages he had paid every week for the past 20 years, Arthur still couldn’t pluck up the courage to dismiss his one-time lover who was now the bane of his life.
His shoulders hunched, Arthur gave a long, shuddering sigh of self-pity. He was truly sorry he had caused Agnes so much hurt, but, oh, how he wished the blasted woman could put the past behind her and be happy for him.
The sound of raised laughter coming from the shop wrenched Arthur from his maudlin thoughts and brought a smile to his lips. That was Ellen’s laughter he could hear, he would know that sound anywhere. Yet even as he smiled, a sudden stab of fear shot through him like a knife. What if she did leave him one day? What would he do then? She was his whole life. Without her he would be nothing.
Gripping the edge of the table for support, Arthur tried to steady his rapid breathing while he reminded himself that it was Ellen who had first brought up the idea of marriage. Faced with the prospect of having to leave her new-found stability and, like Arthur, afraid of facing life without each other, Ellen had tentatively suggested that they should marry in order to silence the wagging tongues. It had seemed the best thing to do at the time. The irony was, that if Agnes had kept her spiteful tongue quiet, he and Ellen would most likely never have even contemplated marriage. And in due course, Ellen would probably have moved out of his home and made a life for herself – a life that might not have included him.
Getting to his feet Arthur gave a wry shake of his head as he realised, for the first time, that he had Agnes to thank for his wedded state, and wondered if Agnes was aware of that fact.
‘Arthur, Mr Stone’s here.’
Arthur jumped. He hadn’t heard Ellen enter the room. ‘Oh, oh, all right, love. I’ll be right out.’ Glad of the diversion, Arthur planted a wet kiss on Ellen’s cheek saying jovially, ‘Thanks, love. I won’t be long.’
When the portly figure had disappeared to meet his visitor Ellen puffed out her cheeks, her hand waving in front of her face in an effort to combat the heat of the room. Looking for something to do, she made herself a mug of tea, then realised the milkman hadn’t called yet. Knowing she had used the last of the milk earlier she walked over to the back door and looked out, her ears straining for the sound of the milkman’s horse and cart. After the searing heat of the kitchen, the cold February wind was a welcome relief, but only for a few seconds.
Soon shivering with cold, Ellen wrapped her arms around her waist for warmth, her eyes peering down the narrow, pitch-black alley, hoping to catch sight of the swinging lantern that would herald the arrival of the milkman.
‘Morning, Mrs Mitson.’
The sound from the darkness caused Ellen to stumble back into the doorway.
‘Oh, Mr Parker, you made me jump.’ Feeling a little foolish Ellen forced a smile to her face to hide her confusion.
‘Sorry about that, Mrs Mitson, I didn’t mean to scare you.’
The light from the bakery washed over the man standing before her, making it easy for Ellen to recognise Ted Parker, one of her regular customers.
Smothering a nervous laugh, Ellen replied, ‘That’s all right. I just came out to see if there was any sign of the milkman.’ She heard her words come out in a high-pitched tone and silently chastised herself for acting like a fool.
‘Oh, he’s just turned into Shore Street, he should be here soon. I’ll wait with you if you’re nervous.’
The note of mockery in the man’s voice caused Ellen to draw herself up to her full height, her manner now defensive. Feeling the rush of blood to her face she replied tersely, ‘That won’t be necessary, Mr Parker. I’m sure I’m quite safe on my own doorstep. Anyway, my husband is within calling distance if I should need any assistance.’
The man tipped his hat towards her. ‘I’m sure Mr Mitson’s presence is very reassuring. It would take a brave man to tackle him.’
This time there was no doubting the sarcasm in the man’s tone, but before Ellen could make a suitable rejoinder, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves broke the silence of the early morning – and the uncomfortable atmosphere.
‘Oh, here he is,’ Ellen cried thankfully.
The man stepped back, a sardonic smile on his lips. ‘Good morning to you, Mrs Mitson.’
‘Good morning, Mr Parker,’ Ellen said stiffly, painfully aware of her beating heart.
Some time later, as she sat with a mug of tea in her hands, Ellen went over the small incident in her mind, cringing as she recalled how stupid she must have sounded – not only stupid, but child-like. Aware of her still-shaking hands, Ellen gripped the mug tighter. She knew most women would have handled the situation with more aplomb, most of them even enjoying a bit of harmless flirting. But most women of her age had some experience of life and she’d had none.
Suddenly impatient with herself she slammed the mug down on the table with an angry thud. What was the matter with her? Letting a trivial incident upset her so much. She really was acting like a child now. But isn’t that what she was? Oh, she might have a wedding ring on her finger, but that didn’t make her a woman. She wasn’t a woman in any sense of the word, not even in the four-poster bed she shared with Arthur.
Apart from an affectionate cuddle and a peck on the cheek, her husband had never tried to take things any further, thank God!
Appalled at her thoughts, Ellen got to her feet in confusion. She had to find something to do, something that would occupy her. Getting a bowl of water and a scrubbing brush, Ellen got down on her knees and began attacking the floor. But still her mind would give her no peace. For the first time since her wedding, Ellen was experiencing the pangs of discontent. And all because of Ted Parker!
Resting back on her heels, Ellen stared into the empty room. She was only 18 and married to a man old enough to be her father. She had never known the thrill of being courted by a man of her own age, never had the chance to experience the world, or the people in it. And now she never would.
Young, exciting men like Ted Parker were out o
f her reach forever. She must accept that fact and learn to live with it.
Yet as she scrubbed at the scrupulously clean floor with renewed vigour, the feeling of resentment continued to surge through her body.
If only people hadn’t been so nasty about her living with Arthur she wouldn’t have been in such a rush to get married. But she mustn’t forget what she owed to Arthur. Without him she might have ended up in the workhouse.
Her thoughts tumbling around her head she remembered the conversation she had unwittingly overheard a week before the hastily arranged wedding.
She had been rudely awoken by the sound of a fierce argument. Still half asleep she hadn’t recognised Agnes’ voice and when she did, she had crept out of bed, tip-toeing down the carpeted stairs, hardly able to breathe. She hadn’t realised at the time why she had been so careful not to be heard, but at the back of her mind she had known there was something going on between Arthur and Agnes. Sitting on the bottom step in her nightgown, she had listened in stunned silence as Agnes had begged Arthur to call off the wedding. It had been obvious Agnes was crying by the tremor in her voice as she reminded Arthur of the love they had once shared, a love she still harboured for him. Arthur’s reply had been too soft to hear. There had followed a strained silence, a silence so great that Ellen was afraid the sound of her rapidly beating heart would give her presence away. Then Agnes, her voice low and bitter, had said harshly, ‘Don’t give me that load of old rubbish, Arthur. If all yer wanted was to give the girl a proper home without people gossiping, yer could ’ave offered to adopt her. After all, you’re old enough to be her father, ain’t yer?’
Shaken and disturbed, Ellen had crept back to bed. She had never mentioned to Arthur that she had overheard the heated conversation of that night. But by God! She wished she had.
Back then, she had been so naive, so unworldly, so afraid of losing her new home and the comforting presence of Arthur. She had trusted him implicitly. Now she had to question his true intentions. It was no wonder Agnes hated her so much. Given the circumstances, Ellen didn’t blame her.
It was as Agnes had said that night. If all Arthur had wanted was to provide a home for Ellen, then why hadn’t he done what Agnes had suggested and adopted her?
Getting slowly to her feet, Ellen sat down at the table, her expression thoughtful.
Since her marriage she had begun working in the shop, and the experience of coming into daily contact with the colourful people of the East End had quickly opened her eyes to the ways of the world.
But by the time she had realised she could fend for herself, Arthur had already made her his wife.
* * *
Ted Parker turned at the top of the alley into Morning Lane, a wry smile on his face. He shouldn’t have tormented the poor cow like that, but he hadn’t been able to resist it. He had been at the end of the alley, making his way towards the tram stop when the light from the back of the bakery had caught his attention and, without thinking, he had walked towards the light. As might any man, only some men might have taken advantage of the situation. What was her husband thinking about anyway? Letting a young girl, and that’s all she was, a girl, stand about in the doorway of the pitch-black alley. Good God! Anyone could have walked by. It was ten years since the last Ripper murder in 1888, but they’d never caught him, had they? For all anyone knew, the maniac could still be walking the streets. The clanking of the tram brought his mind back to the present. At such an early hour Ted easily got a seat, and, after paying his fare, settled back on the wooden slat, his face thoughtful. Old Mitson must have thought his boat had come in when Ellen had agreed to marry him. He was old enough to be her father, or grandfather come to that.
Ted gave himself a mental shake and turned his mind to other matters. But he couldn’t get the image of those big, brown, trusting eyes out of his mind, nor the image of the silky chestnut hair caught up in a bun at the back of the slender neck. A girl of Ellen Mitson’s age should have her hair falling naturally, not bound up like some woman twice her age. Oh! To hell with it! What was he concerning himself about anyway? It was no business of his what she did. Yet, some hours later, as he bantered good-naturedly with customers at his stall in Roman Road market, he still couldn’t get Ellen’s sweet face out of his mind.
Chapter Two
Micky Masters hurried along the cobbled pavement clutching the hot parcel close to his chest for warmth, the heady aroma of the package wafting tantalisingly up his nostrils. Ignoring the rough pebbles that dug cruelly into the soles of his feet through his worn boots, the boy turned into a side road, his hurried steps taking him towards a derelict building that stood out amid a pile of rubble that had once been a row of terraced houses. Micky was nearing his destination when he saw the shadowy figure of a man lurking in front of the building he was heading for. With a loud cry Micky sprang forward.
‘Oi, you! What yer hanging around ’ere for? Go on, piss off, yer dirty old man.’ His grimy face etched with fear, Micky leapt towards the figure barely visible in the dark, winter morning. Stooping quickly he picked up a broken piece of brick and, without thinking, threw it with all his might at the figure.
Startled, the man began to back off, then, hitching up the collar of his thick coat, he hurried away.
‘An’ don’t come back, d’yer hear me?’ Micky shouted after the retreating figure. His heart beating fast, Micky waited until the man had disappeared before running into the ruin calling out fearfully, ‘Molly? You all right, Moll?’ Silence greeted him, causing his stomach to lurch and increasing the rapid beating of his heart. Then, out of the darkness, a soft, tremulous voice replied, ‘I’m here, Micky. I’m up here.’
At the sound, Micky’s heart slowed its frantic beating. With a bound he raced towards a piece of rope dangling from the rotting roof and, with the dexterity of youth, pulled himself up into what had once been a bedroom. Peering into the gloom he hissed, ‘What yer doing sitting in the dark? Yer scared the living daylights outta me.’
Relief turning to anger he felt around the dirty floor for the candle and matches. Finding both he quickly struck a match and ignited the tallow wick. The flare of the candle instantly lit up the gloomy room, and the tear-stained face of the little girl crouched in the far corner, her back tight against the wall.
‘I’m sorry, Micky. I… I had ter put the candle out, ’cos that man came again. He was calling for me… An’ I was frightened. So I thought if I put the candle out, he might think there was nobody here. Why does he keep coming ’ere, Micky? He scares me… I don’t want yer to leave again. Please, Micky, don’t leave me on me own again.’
Averting his gaze, Micky made a great play of pulling the warm package from the inside of his jumper muttering, ‘I can’t, Moll. Yer know I can’t. I ’ave ter look fer work, an’ I can’t do that with you tagging along.’ Breaking off a chunk of warm bread he handed it to the forlorn figure, adding in mock cheerfulness, ‘C’mon, Moll, ’ave some breakfast. I got some buns too. An’ they’re still hot. Go on, ’ave some.’
The little girl stretched out a grubby hand to take the food, her hunger overcoming her earlier fear. Her confidence returning now her big brother was back with her, Molly asked through a mouthful of bread, ‘Yer not going out again, are yer, Micky?’
Micky lowered his head saying gruffly, ‘Now, come on, Moll. We’ve been through this all before. Yer know I’ve got ter work. How we gonna get a place of our own if I don’t work?’
Molly’s lips began to tremble. Spraying out a spittle of dry crumbs she said tearfully, ‘But what about that man, Micky? He always comes when yer not here. He must be watching all the time. What does he want, Micky? Why does he want me?’
Again Micky felt a wave of helplessness sweep over him. How could he explain to his eight-year-old sister that certain men liked little girls instead of women. Especially when he didn’t understand it himself. What he did know was that his little sister was in constant danger whenever he wasn’t around to protect her. Yet what e
lse was he supposed to do? As he’d tried to explain to Molly, he had to find work. If he didn’t, how would they survive? At the same time he had to look out for his sister. He was all she had now. It was up to him to provide for her and to keep her safe. But how was he to do both? If there had been work for him at the bakery, he would have been gone for hours. Suppose that man had managed to get to Molly during his absence? The very notion brought a wave of bile up from his empty stomach into his throat. Forcing the disgusting thoughts from his mind he broke off two more chunks of bread and, handing one to Molly, said, ‘Look, he’s gone now, ain’t he? So get on with yer breakfast an’ forget about him. I’m ’ere now, ain’t I? And he ain’t gonna come back while I’m ’ere, is he?’
Molly immediately brightened. Her childish mind eased, she forgot her earlier fears and concentrated on the food her brother had provided.
Micky too was now thinking only of his stomach. Stuffing the warm bread into his mouth with relish he thought how good it would be to have a hot mug of sweet tea to wash it down with.
Instead he filled two tin cans from a bucket of tepid water he had fetched from the standpipe at the top of the street earlier that morning.
In the soft candlelight he gazed lovingly at Molly as she drank noisily from the tin can. Her thirst quenched, she gave a loud sigh of contentment.
‘That was lovely, Micky, thanks.’
Micky shuffled awkwardly, saying gruffly, ‘Don’t be daft, I’m yer brother, ain’t I? There’s no need ter thank me fer feeding yer, that’s what I’m ’ere for.’
Looking into the large, blue eyes staring at him so trustingly, Micky felt a lump gather in his throat. Then his gaze travelled to his sister’s matted hair that, when washed, fell to her waist in golden curls. But it had been a long time since Molly’s hair, and body, had seen any soap and water. He too was in dire need of a good wash. The nearest either of them had had recently was a quick sluice over their hands and faces from the water bucket.