by Katie Flynn
Walking fast now, Miss Trent continued to try to count her blessings. There are other savings to be taken into account; I shan’t need to buy the text books which the school seemed to think I had to have in order to teach my ‘young ladies’, nor the exercise books, which I always thought a school provided anyway.
She stopped walking for a moment and looked around her. Where on earth was she? On either side of the road were dozens and dozens of stalls. Miss Trent gave herself a mental shake. She really must pull herself together. Why, she had walked right into the middle of the Great Homer Street market; now she would have to retrace her steps to her lodgings in Orange Street. She had warned Mrs Stockyard that she was intending to move out on the first of January, but now she would have to admit that she had been dismissed and would need to keep her room on for a bit longer if possible. She would be searching for work and ought to be in the centre of Liverpool where most jobs were to be found. So her best move now would be to go back to her lodgings, get a good night’s sleep if she could, and visit the nearest labour exchange in the morning. In her heart she knew that there was no hope of a teaching job at this time of year, but there must be something else she could do, something which would bring in, if not a living wage, at least enough money to keep her until she did find a post. Resolutely, Miss Trent made for Orange Street.
Cyril awoke. He lay in his untidy and rather smelly bed and for a moment could not remember where he was. Slowly, the events of the afternoon came back to him. He was in his ma’s house in Solomon Court and the reason that he ached all over was because he’d had a bad fall. Nothing to do with being drunk, he told himself hazily. No, it was them bloody kids; one of them must have given him a shove and he’d gone arse over tit down the perishing stairs. It were lucky for them he’d not broke a bone, but even so, when he caught up with them . . .
For a moment he simply lay there planning his revenge on the Trewin brats, but then another memory rose sluggishly to the surface. He had been in the pub with his mates, celebrating the start of their shore leave, when another seaman, even drunker than they were, had begun to boast about stealing jewellery from one of the big houses on Princes Avenue. The man had even taken a necklace out of his pocket and shown it off, holding it up to the light so that the sparkling stones flashed fire, and basking in the slurred admiration of his friends. There and then Cyril had known what he was going to do, and two hours later he had been waiting outside when the other man left the pub, had bashed him on the head, and had stolen the necklace . . . the necklace!
Hastily, Cyril sat up, aware that his heart was thumping, and sweat was breaking out both on his low brow and on the palms of his ham-like hands. The memories were clearer now; he remembered jerking awake on this very bed, minutes ago – or was it hours? – fully clothed and booted, as though he had simply come upstairs for a rest, and feeling for the necklace he was sure he had been holding when he lay down. He had not found it. Panicking, he had stumbled from the room, roaring for his mother, and that was when those scum had tripped him and pushed him down the stairs. What a fool he had been! Of course no one could have taken the necklace. It must be here somewhere. He threw off the blankets and began to root around in the rumpled bedding, but when no jewellery met his frantic fingers he gave a bellow of rage which brought his mother stomping heavily up the stairs.
‘Wharron earth’s wrong, Cyril me lad?’ she asked crossly. ‘I were dozin’ in front of the fire, wonderin’ when you’d wake, when you shruck out.’ She gave a rather unpleasant grin. ‘You sounded like a bleedin’ bull a-bawlin’. Lost a quid and found a penny?’
‘When you hears what I’ve got to say you won’t be laughin’,’ Cyril said grimly. ‘Someone’s been in here and taken a grand gold necklace all set about with sparkly stones, what I found lyin’ on a street corner on the Scottie Road.’
His mother snorted. ‘Oh aye? Expect me to believe that?’ she asked derisively. ‘You’ve lost it, that’s what. If you strip the bed it’ll probably be amongst the covers, see if I ain’t right.’
Cyril gave a howl of rage. ‘I done all that, you stupid old biddy. I were goin’ to sell it to a feller I know what would have paid good money. Well, you were the only other person in the house when it disappeared; what do you say to that, eh?’
Mrs Huxtable’s thin mouth set in a hard line. ‘As if I’d steal from me own flesh and blood,’ she said bitterly. ‘Besides, I weren’t the only person in the house. The Trewin brat were here, cleanin’ the veggies so’s we could sell ’em for Christmas dinners, so don’t you go blamin’ your poor old ma for what that devil’s daughter’s done. Who do you think tipped you downstairs? Would I do a thing like that?’
Cyril was so distraught that he nearly answered ‘yes’, but just in time he remembered two things. The first was his mother’s strong right hand and ebony cane, and the second was that the teddy and the harmonica which had been on the foot of his bed were there no longer. He leapt to his feet. ‘Sorry, Ma. You’re in the right of it, as always. I shouldn’t ha’ said what I did. O’ course that bloody kid were here – I remember now. It’ll be her what took my property, and I mean to get it back right fast, before she’s had a chance to show her pals, or the scuffers for that matter. Wait till I get my hands on her – she’ll be sorry she were ever born.’
Chapter 3
JIMMY WOKE TO find that the sky was growing light. All around him was silence; it seemed that it was still too early for the market traders to have arrived, which must mean that a stealthy trip to the Court was perfectly possible.
Jimmy wriggled out of their warm little nest with great caution, managing not to wake his little sister. He smoothed his hair back from his face with both hands and picked up the canvas bag with its burden of clean but unironed linen, trying to make as little noise as possible. Mo looked comfortable and he had no wish to wake her, so he gently replaced the clothing he had disturbed the previous night and watched with satisfaction as she gave a little mew of pleasure and snuggled down.
He padded along the crisp pavement, wishing he had had the forethought to borrow an article of warm clothing from Mr Theaker’s stock, but as the sky gradually lightened he broke into a run; exercise was warming, he decided, and by the time he reached the Court he had forgotten the icy temperature. Now that he was back, hovering outside No. 4, he realised that he had no idea how to find out what had happened to Cyril. He had no intention of banging on the door and demanding to know whether his little sister had killed Mrs Huxtable’s precious son, and thought that if he hung around someone who was working an early shift might appear and tell him how things stood.
He had decided last night not to give Aunt Huxtable the money from the tearoom, but now that he was actually on the spot he realised that this might not be a good idea. Aunt Huxtable was a vicious and vengeful woman and would be only too happy to tell anyone who would listen that he had stolen it. He would keep the sixpence which she had promised him, but he tucked the rest of the cash well down amongst the linen, and propped the bag and its contents against the door. On the top step, he bent his head to listen. Cyril had a resounding snore which had often kept Jimmy awake for hours, but now there was no sound from the silent house. Jimmy frowned, then looked quickly at the parlour window which overlooked the Court, relieved to see no drawn blinds, which was the usual way of indicating a death. Perhaps Cyril had simply closed the bedroom door.
Tentatively, Jimmy tried the front door handle and was pleasantly surprised to find that the door swung inward at his touch. For a moment he stood there, still listening, then slid quietly into the cold kitchen. Had he and Mo been there the night before they would have made up the fire and then damped it down with ash, but it appeared that either Mrs Huxtable had not bothered with the mundane task, or Cyril really had been more badly hurt than Jimmy had imagined. Perhaps even now he was in hospital, and if so, Jimmy thought apprehensively, he would have to steer clear of the scuffers and anyone else who might be interested to know how Cyril came by h
is injuries. But he was quickly reassured by a peculiar gobbling noise and a couple of groans, which proved that Cyril’s fall had not been fatal, for Jimmy knew those sounds all too well. Cyril Huxtable had indeed shut himself into his bedroom, or perhaps his mother had shut the door in order to get some sleep herself. In any case, Jimmy would be able to re-assure his sister that, far from being dead, Cyril was merely, as usual, the worse for drink.
Having satisfied himself that poor little Mo was not a murderer Jimmy stole down the hall and let himself out into the ice-cold morning. He was just about to turn back to Scotland Road when he saw a movement and presently recognised Edmund Nuttall, commonly known as Nutty. Like Jimmy, Nutty often helped out at one of the markets, and now a big smile crossed his face and he opened his mouth, clearly about to shout a greeting.
Jimmy had never known he could move so fast, but he had reached Nutty and clapped a hand over his mouth before the other boy had drawn breath. ‘Shurrup, old feller,’ he hissed. ‘I come back here early, on the sly like, ’cos I wanted to know what’s been happenin’. There was a rare ol’ fuss yesterday and I heard that Cyril Huxtable had had a bit of a fall. Good job if you ask me, only it won’t sweeten the old gal’s temper. Were you around when it happened?’ He drew Nutty out of the Court as he spoke, and the two settled themselves on a pile of orange boxes outside a greengrocer’s shop whose owner was clearly still abed.
‘Well, you’re right about one thing,’ Nutty agreed. ‘There were a hellish fuss. That drunken sot come roarin’ out of his pit all set to beat up anyone in his way and fell from top to bottom of the stairs. His ma would have it he were dead and tried to blame Mo, but they say drunks can fall a good deal further than just down one flight of stairs without doing themselves any harm.’ He chuckled. ‘I didn’t see it myself, but my mam telled me that he were on his feet again and vowing revenge only a couple of hours after he hit the bottom.’
Cautiously, Jimmy tried to extract a little more information from his friend. ‘How did he come to fall?’ he asked with well-simulated curiosity. ‘After all, he knows where the stairs are; he’s stumbled up and down ’em often enough.’
Nutty shrugged. ‘His old ma said somethin’ about bootlaces, I’m not sure what. I reckon he could have tripped over them, wouldn’t you say? But bein’ a Huxtable, of course he had to try and find someone to blame; stands to reason. And now he’s sayin’ he’ll get whoever tripped him if it takes him the rest of his life, but I reckon that’s just talk. After all, it’ll soon be Christmas Day, and knowin’ him he’ll be on the booze from the moment the pubs open. By Boxing Day it’ll all be forgotten.’ He jerked a thumb at the Court behind them. ‘You goin’ back there? I’ve gorra job in Paddy’s Market makin’ up bags of fruit and nuts so’s Mrs Apply don’t have to waste time weighin’ ’em. You gorra job an’ all?’
Jimmy opened his mouth to tell Nutty that he would be working for Mr Theaker, then changed his mind. Nutty was not a gabster, never had been, but what he did not know he could not tell, and the fewer people who knew where he and Mo were, the better. So he shrugged his shoulders, replying evasively that he had only come back to the Court to discover for himself just what had happened the previous evening.
Nutty grinned. ‘Well now you know you might as well come along o’ me and see if anyone on Paddy’s Market needs a young fellow what’s quick and honest and hard-workin’. Or you could try the Great Homer Street lot.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘Looks like it’s goin’ to be a fine day, even though it’s cold,’ he said encouragingly. ‘Aw, c’mon, Jimmy. I bet Mrs Apply would be happy for you to help with deliveries.’ He paused, looking with renewed curiosity at his friend. ‘Where’s that kid sister of yourn? It ain’t often you see one without t’other; young Mo ain’t never far from your side. But acourse, knowin’ old Ma Huxtable, you’ll have taken care neither of you gets within swipin’ distance for a while yet. I reckon you’ve already got yourself a job an’ Mo’s holdin’ it for you while you find out about yesterday. That’s why you didn’t jump at the chance of a delivery job.’ He winked and patted the side of his nose with his forefinger as the two of them slid off the pile of orange boxes and set out along the Scotland Road. ‘Am I right?’
Jimmy sighed. So much for hoping to keep Nutty in the dark. He might have known his friend would guess what was up; best tell him what had happened, swear him to secrecy and pray to God that he kept it to himself.
Nutty was staring at him, his sandy eyebrows gradually climbing. ‘You can trust me, old feller,’ he said rather reproachfully as the two lads fell into step and headed for the markets. ‘Have I ever let you down? Have you ever known me blab? But we’d best gerra move on or we’ll neither of us have a job, ’cos Mrs Apply expects me to turn up just as soon as there’s light enough to tell a Brazil from a walnut.’
They had reached Great Homer Street and Jimmy was opening his mouth to admit that he and Mo would be working at one of the second-hand clothing stalls when Nutty gave a crow of triumph. ‘It’s awright, me old pal, you don’t have to say a word. I see Mo behind Harry Theaker’s stall, so I reckon you’ll be workin’ there once the customers start to come.’ He looked curiously at his friend. ‘What’ll you do for Christmas Day, old feller? You won’t want to go back to number four and the market will pack up, so no hope of a Christmas dinner there. But I’m sure me mam would let you come to our place. She’s bought a leg of pork, a big bag of sprouts and the nicest taters we’ve seen for a long while. There’s seven of us, but I reckon it’ll feed nine. What say, Jim old mate?’
Jimmy smothered a sigh. ‘Thanks very much; that’s real kind of you, and I’d love to accept but I dursen’t,’ he said regretfully. ‘We’ll not be coming near nor by Solomon Court until Cyril’s ship sails, and him with it. You don’t know what he’s like, honest to God you don’t. He near on broke young Mo’s arm last time he were home because he reckoned I’d took his share of a pie the old girl had bought cheap from Sample’s. If he thinks either one of us had anything to do with his fall, he’ll take it out on our hides.’
Nutty stared, eyes rounding. ‘Surely he wouldn’t hit a kid like Mo?’ he asked incredulously. ‘She’s only a baby, when all’s said and done, and me mam says she’s that underfed that Mrs Huxtable ought to be prosecuted.’ He cocked an eyebrow. ‘Is your dad comin’ home for the holiday? If so, you’ve got to tell ’im how you’re treated, so—’
Jimmy snorted; he couldn’t help it. ‘Dad thinks sending money is all he has to do,’ he said bitterly. ‘Our mam died more’n a year ago and he’s not been home once since then; he only stayed for a couple of days after the funeral, just long enough to agree to the Huxtables moving in to our house.’ He lowered his voice. ‘That’s why me an’ Mo’s goin’ to make ourselves scarce until after Cyril’s ship sails. I dunno quite what we’re goin’ to do yet, but I’ll think of summat.’
‘And I won’t breathe a word to a soul,’ Nutty promised. ‘Wish I could do more to help, old feller, but me and my brother Sammy is goin’ to put our money together to buy our mam one of them lovely cookin’ aprons what I see’d on a stall next but one to Mrs Apply’s. Tell you what, though, why don’t the pair of us nip out when the market’s quietened down an’ cut some holly in Princes Park? Mam says that’s stealing, but me da says it’s no more stealing than a blackbird pickin’ off hawthorn berries. Trees belong to everyone, he says.’
Jimmy grinned. ‘Mo an’ me always get our holly from them thick hedges what keeps us out of the rich people’s gardens. Thanks, Nutty; that’s a good idea of yours. I were goin’ to go anyway, but between the pair of us we’ll be able to cut a really good bunch and sell it door to door. It’s funny really; most of the customers are buying their own holly back, when you come to think. Anyway, why don’t you an’ me meet in Princes Park when the markets shut, and if Mo an’ myself can make enough gelt sellin’ my half tomorrow then maybe our Christmas won’t be too bad after all.’
Miss Trent tried every labour exchange in the
city, but though some of the staff were sympathetic she was not offered work. She had explained that she had been deputy head at the Peabody Academy, that she had been ‘last in, first out’, having only joined the school in September, that she had references from both her previous employer and a governor of the Academy, but it had been useless.
‘Put yourself on the supply list,’ a friendly clerk advised her. ‘After Christmas there’s always flu or tummy bugs and schools need replacement teachers for weeks, sometimes. Only you’ll need to go to the education department; we don’t deal with short-term temporary jobs here. And if I were you I’d leave it until the new term starts.’ The clerk, a middle-aged woman with a round face and twinkling dark eyes, smiled conspiratorially. ‘Wait until they’re desperate. Good luck, Miss . . .’ she glanced down at the papers before her, ‘Miss Trent.’
‘And you’ve nothing I might take in the meantime?’ Glenys asked hopefully. ‘Most of the shops have sales after Christmas; I thought I might get a temporary post in one of the big stores . . .’ She would have continued, but the clerk was shaking her head.
‘With a hundred people jostling for every job and no previous retail experience you wouldn’t stand a chance,’ she said. ‘Tell me, Miss Trent, have you considered returning to your home and trying there for work?’
Miss Trent opened her mouth to explain and closed it again. It was pointless after all and would only embarrass the woman if she replied, truthfully, that there was nowhere she could honestly call home. So she smiled and shook her head but did not go into detail. ‘I’m living in lodgings at present,’ she said evasively. ‘But there’s good sense in what you say, and I’ll take your advice. I’ll speak to the Education Department around the tenth of January, when in my experience temporary staff are beginning to be needed.’