by Maggie Hope
Last night he had not meant to whip the lass so hard, no he had not. He thought once more about it. He had lost his temper, that was it. After all, it was his own hard-earned money, wasn’t it? Mebbe he should not have put money on a horse, he was a chapel-going man and gambling was frowned upon by the chapel. But he didn’t really gamble, no. He never joined the toss-penny schools down behind the slag heap. He wouldn’t even know how to play cards. Those things led a man to perdition. But he had put sixpence on a horse because it was trained by a man from Auckland way, practically a local man. A man had to have something to take his mind off his misfortunes, hadn’t he? He liked a little flutter and it didn’t hurt anyone.
Last night, though, he had simply been very angry with Lottie. What was she but a workhouse slut? When he had lifted her skirt it had been so that he could really hurt her by hitting her on her bare skin. There was some satisfaction in seeing the red weals the belt made on the white skin. But he had found himself aroused in a way that had had nothing to do with his temper or anger. Oh aye, she was growing into a woman and he hadn’t had a woman in quite a while.
Abruptly Alf got to his feet. He needed some fresh air; he felt hot and bothered. He pushed past Lottie’s slight body and grabbed his jacket from the hook behind the back door. It was his weekday jacket but it didn’t matter, no one who mattered would be about at this time of the day, they would all be inside digesting their Sunday dinners.
‘I’m away for a walk,’ he said as he opened the door. He did not look at Lottie, who was tipping hot water from the iron kettle into the washing-up dish. She paused and looked startled, but when the door closed behind him she was glad. The uncomfortable atmosphere that had arisen in the room as she moved around, all the time aware of his eyes on her, lightened.
She grated soap into the water and added a handful of soda crystals and began to wash the dishes. Soon she had the kitchen tidied and the only sign of the dinner was the lingering smell of roast beef. Lottie went into the sitting room, the room where Laura Green had died, and sat down on a padded armchair, one of only two in the house. It was a large chair and she could tuck her feet up and pull her skirt down over them and lean her head into the slight delve made where the cushion was buttoned in the back. Within minutes she was asleep.
The rest of that Sunday was uneventful. Until, that is, the three boys were in bed and asleep. Before that they had come in hungry for their tea and Lottie had made singing hinny scones and put out a pot of bramble jelly to spread on them. Mrs Bowron, from next door, had brought a jar in when she had made the jelly, for the lads had gathered the blackberries down by where the slag heap had spread out slightly into a meadow and bramble bushes had clambered over the tufty grass and bit of slag together. In spite of the poor ground, the berries were large and luscious and were a free treat the village looked forward to every year after the wild strawberries were long gone.
Noah and Freddie were laughing and chatting about the game of quoits they had played despite the disapproval of the minister who had happened to be walking past the alley at the time.
‘My dad said we could,’ Noah had insisted.
‘I will have to have a word with your father,’ the minister had replied, before going on his way.
‘By, it was funny,’ said Noah, with a sidelong glance at his father. But Alf wasn’t even listening. He was watching Lottie and his face was quite red and strange-looking.
Lottie sat down at the table once she had served the others and poured a cup of tea for herself. Alf handed her the plate of singing hinnies and she took one, a bit surprised at his consideration. Maybe he was sorry he had hit her so hard? She turned her attention to the youngest, Mattie.
‘Don’t you want anything to eat?’ she asked him. Mattie was sitting there with a faraway look in his eyes. He looked a little pale.
‘I’m not hungry,’ he said.
‘If you don’t want to eat, leave the table,’ his father said sharply.
‘I want me mam,’ said Mattie.
‘You can want as much as you like but she’s not coming back,’ snapped Alf. He was annoyed to be reminded of his dead wife.
‘Come on, pet,’ said Lottie. She forgot her own troubles as she saw the misery in his little face. ‘Your mam’s in heaven but she’s watching over you. Be a brave lad now. Eat a bit of bread and butter, then I’ll tell you a story when you are ready for bed.’
‘Don’t fill their heads with rubbish and lies mind,’ said Alf sharply. ‘It’s Sunday, tell them a Bible story.’
Lottie nodded. ‘I will.’
Soon the two youngest boys were in their nightshirts, with hands and faces washed and in their beds. Lottie sat in a chair by Mattie’s bedside and recounted the first Bible story that came into her tired mind, the story of the boy, Samuel.
‘My mam wouldn’t give me up to the temple,’ said Mattie. ‘My mam loved me.’
‘Aye, she did,’ Lottie agreed. ‘She still does.’ His eyes were closing and she bent over him and kissed him on the cheek. Poor little lad, she thought. Oh, she remembered her own mother dying. She went out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her. From the head of the stairs she could see the light where Alf Green was in the sitting room. By, she thought, she didn’t want to face him again the night. So she went up to her own small room and prepared herself for bed. It was early but goodness knows, she had to rise early too.
Lottie woke slowly; her mind felt thick and woolly. At first she hovered between waking and sleeping. She was not sure if it was a dream or real. But there was someone in bed with her and it was not Mattie. Mattie sometimes did climb into her bed when he woke during the night. He usually said nothing but huddled against her and seemed to draw comfort from her.
Lottie opened her eyes. It was not black dark in the bedroom, for the curtains were thin and there was a full moon outside. It was not a dream, she realized as panic rose in her. There was a man in her bed and he had one arm around her, holding her still, and with his other hand he was pulling up her nightgown. For a moment she was too shocked to even struggle, then suddenly she was fighting him.
‘Get off me! Get off!’ she shrieked but his arm was like a steel band around her thin chest.
‘Shut up, shut up or I’ll belt you!’ the man said and it was Alf Green, of course it was. ‘Don’t you wake the lads, do you hear me?’
‘No! No! Get off me!’ she cried. She wriggled and fought but she couldn’t get away from him.
‘Lie still, you little brat, lie still,’ he snarled. ‘It will be the worse for you if you don’t.’ She felt his hardness against her bare skin and she screamed. Alf smacked her face hard and she knew then he would kill her if she fought him any more.
Afterwards she lay on the bed, muscles she never knew she had throbbing and painful and adding to the bruises of the night before. She sobbed quietly as he too lay quiet, panting. After a moment he spoke.
‘You led me on, Lottie,’ he said. ‘Flaunting yourself in front of me, all day. You knew what you were up to, oh aye you did. You’re a born harlot, no doubt your mother was an’ all.’
He got up from the bed and pulled on his trousers, which he had dropped on the floor by the bed. ‘You’d best keep quiet about this an’ all. If you don’t, you will be the one that folk will blame. If they believe you, that is. Nay, they won’t believe you any road. Think on about that.’ Alf went to the door of the room. ‘Don’t forget to call me for the fore shift,’ he said, speaking now as if nothing had happened. ‘I cannot afford to miss a shift, mind.’
After he’d gone, Lottie lay for a few moments, weeping. Was this what her life was going to be? She was despairing. She might as well throw herself off Elvet Bridge into the Wear. She would, that was just what she would do. Slowly and painfully she got out of bed and pulled on her clothes. She tied her boots around her neck, opened the door noiselessly and crept down the stairs. Taking her shawl from behind the door she let herself out and made her way into the city, still in her bare fe
et.
The waters of the Wear swirled in small eddies around the solid stone stanchions of the bridge, built so many centuries ago. In the pre-dawn light, sprays of white were thrown up against the blackness of the water beneath. The bridge was deserted, as was the whole city. Shortly there would be people hurrying to work but just now, for a few moments more, there was no one except the small, slight figure of the girl standing by the parapet and gazing down into the water.
Lottie hardly felt the cold air or the even colder stones of the bridge against her bare feet. She was concentrating on the water, almost hypnotized by the sound of it. She swayed, and the boots hanging around her neck by their laces swung forward and back again, banging against her thin chest. She put her hands on the top of the parapet and felt for a foothold in the stones so she could climb up. She could barely remember her mother but suddenly she thought she saw her image in the water as the morning lightened. She found a foothold and raised herself up to the parapet.
‘Oh no you don’t do that, young woman!’
The voice came from behind and startled her, so that she almost fell anyway and would have done but for the two arms that went around her and dragged her down on to the safety of the roadway on the bridge. She could barely see him with her poor eyesight and in the poor light, just a hazy outline. But she knew him for a bobbie, the polis, and his seemingly enormous frame loomed over her. Lottie began to shake.
Chapter Six
As the light grew stronger, Lottie found herself up the hill from the bridge and into Saddler Street leading to the marketplace. She passed by Malcolm’s ironmonger’s shop, all shuttered up still, and entered the marketplace, where a number of people were milling around on their way to work. The bobby had escorted her from the bridge and so far up the cobbled road.
‘You’re not going to do anything silly now, are you?’ he asked, before turning back to go to the police station to sign off from his night’s walking about the streets.
‘I should take you in, you know. It is a criminal offence to kill yourself.’
Lottie stared up at him in misery. In the daylight he noticed the bruises on her face; why, she was nobbut a bairn, he thought and sighed.
‘Did some man give you a hiding? Your da, was it? You should be a good lass you know, keep out of trouble. Mebbe you deserved it.’
Lottie shook her head but said nothing.
‘Aye well,’ said the bobby. ‘Don’t do anything daft, lass. You have your whole life ahead of you. Any road, everything looks better in the morning light.’
He turned and strode off down the hill, his boots ringing on the cobblestones. Lottie watched him go. He had been kind enough and she was grateful for that. Then she turned and went on into the centre of the marketplace. Only after just a few steps, she felt a deathly tiredness and her head began to thump painfully. She sat down at the base of the statue of Lord Londonderry, resplendent on his great horse, and leaned her head into the heel of her hand, her eyes closing.
She was still sitting on the steps of the statue when Bertha, Sister Mitchell’s friend, found her. Bertha was on her way to see one of the washerwomen who worked for her in her laundry business, before going to the farm, which belonged to her future husband’s family. Charlie Carr was a stickler for timekeeping and she was hurrying along when the sight of the small, huddled figure on the statue steps gave her pause.
‘It’s Lottie, isn’t it? Lottie Lonsdale? What on earth is the matter, lass?’ Bertha asked.
Lottie lifted a tear-stained face, saw Bertha and quickly tried to cover the ravages of the last few hours. She rubbed at her face with a rag she took out of her pocket, wincing as she caught the bruise on her blackened eye.
‘I’ve … I fell down and bumped my face,’ she said. ‘I’m all right, though, I am, really.’
‘You don’t look all right to me,’ said Bertha. ‘In fact you look like you’ve been through a war an’ no mistake.’ She stared at the girl, then sat down beside her on the steps, all thought of the need to get her jobs arranged so that she could get to the farm on time forgotten. She remembered Eliza Mitchell telling her Lottie was a workhouse girl and she was only too well aware of how vulnerable a girl like her, friendless and alone, could be. Hadn’t she been one herself?
‘What are you doing, pet? You can tell me what happened.’
Lottie responded to the friendly tone, her small attempt to cover up soon done. Besides, she did remember Bertha; they weren’t truly strangers.
‘Has someone attacked you?’ Bertha prompted.
Lottie bit her lip. She didn’t know whether to tell Bertha or not, for she was ashamed to say she had pinched the tanner from Mr Green. But in the end she had to tell someone.
‘Aye,’ she said and bent her head and gazed at her small hands that were clasped in her lap. They were reddened and sore, not only from their regular immersion in hot water and soda but also by the cold. And then she looked past them and saw her boots.
‘It was my own fault,’ she said.
‘Don’t be daft, it couldn’t be your own fault,’ Bertha declared. She forgot for a moment that she was in a tearing hurry and how angry Charlie would be if she was late going over to help his mam. She sat down on the steps beside Lottie and put an arm around the thin shoulders.
‘Now then, tell me,’ she said.
Lottie was desperate to confide in someone and the whole story came tumbling out, or almost the whole story. The worst of it she couldn’t admit even to herself, so she blocked it off.
‘Swine,’ she said when Lottie was finished. ‘Canting, blooming hypocrite.’
‘I’m sorry,’ mumbled Lottie, crushed by Bertha’s verdict on her.
‘Nay, lass, not you,’ said Bertha. ‘I’m talking about Alf Green.’
‘Oh.’
Lottie felt a little better. Her body ached in parts she hadn’t known she possessed and the bruises on her face and thighs throbbed. But the horrible weight inside her lifted. Bertha was talking like a friend and she hadn’t any friends, not since she had left the workhouse. Yet maybe Bertha hadn’t truly realized Lottie’s culpability in it all.
‘I should not have pinched the tanner,’ she said. Then, ‘You don’t think I led him on, do you?’
‘I do not, no. I don’t blame you at all, lass. And any road, he should have given you your due. He’s a skinflint and a sinner. The chapel council should be told about him.’
She sat silent for a moment and Lottie regarded her anxiously.
‘They won’t believe me,’ she whispered and Bertha thought that was likely true.
‘Howay along of me,’ said Bertha suddenly. ‘I’ll take you to Eliza. She’ll help you for sure.’ She got to her feet. Charlie would have to wait and so would her washerwomen.
‘Eliza? Sister Mitchell do you mean?’
‘I do. Now be sharp about it, I’m late.’
Lottie had begun to feel better already, now she had a friend and somewhere to go, even if it was only for an hour or two. She began to cry again and it had nothing to do with her sore body – it was purely from relief. She did not have to go back to the workhouse, at least not yet.
‘Come into the kitchen, pet,’ said Eliza. ‘I’ll put the kettle on and you can tell me exactly what happened. Has someone attacked you? Has someone stolen your purse?’ She had been in the hall when the knock came to the door or she wouldn’t have heard it, it was so soft. Bertha had just brought Lottie to the door and sped on her way, for time was precious.
‘Bertha brought me,’ said Lottie. ‘You don’t mind, do you? I had nowhere else to go.’
‘Course I don’t,’ said Eliza stoutly. The lass had a black eye; were there pickpockets at work in the city, as was rumoured? She filled the kettle and settled it on the glowing coals. By, she thought, the police should get on and catch the villains.
‘What?’
Eliza was shocked out of her thoughts by what Lottie was saying.
‘Mr Green did it,’ Lottie said in little mor
e than a whisper. ‘I wouldn’t let him do what he wanted so he hit me and put me out of the house.’ She hung her head, unable to look at Eliza. When it came to it, she couldn’t admit just how far Alf Green had gone, not to Sister Mitchell. She felt dirty and perhaps it had been her fault. Perhaps she had done something to make him think she wanted it. She felt confused and ashamed. So she pretended it hadn’t happened.
Mucky sod, Eliza thought but she didn’t say it. Maybe she had not understood what Lottie was saying. ‘You mean he tried …’ she stopped. The lass was but a bairn, she couldn’t go on.
Lottie nodded. Her head hung even lower. ‘He got into my bed,’ she whispered, then quickly, ‘but I got out, I did, straight away I did. Honest.’
‘Mucky sod.’ This time Eliza said it aloud. She wasn’t quite sure what sod meant, even though she was a nurse, but it was a swear word commonly used and usually combined with mucky, hacky, dirty, filthy.
‘Oh, Lottie,’ she said, ‘let me look at you. I’ll bathe your poor face, eh? I’ll get clean water and put some white vinegar in it. That will make it feel better.’ She handed the girl a cup of tea with sweetened condensed milk in it. ‘Drink that first, it’ll do you good. When did this happen?’
‘Last night. I managed to get away from him. Bertha found me in the marketplace and brought me here. You don’t mind do you? I mean me coming here?’
‘It’s all right, hinny, so it is.’
Eliza didn’t know where she was going to put her but that didn’t matter. She couldn’t put her out, could she? She tended to the girl’s bruises and made her toast and took her in to sit with her mother. Mary Anne Teesdale was in the front room. She had had a bout of trouble with her heart that the doctors said was a result of having rheumatic fever when she was young, but was recovering nicely. At the minute she was thoroughly bored with being idle, for Eliza wouldn’t let her do a thing. Hearing Lottie’s problems took her mind off her own.