The Girl on the Doorstep: from the bestselling author of The Workhouse Children (A Black Country Novel)

by Lindsey Hutchinson

  ‘I suppose you could always ’ire someone to ’elp but there ain’t many women looking for work on the cut,’ Margy reasoned as she sipped her tea.

  ‘I could hire a man to work the engine and—’

  ‘Oh no you can’t!’ Margy cut in. ‘What! You and a man on a boat living together – unwed – it’s out of the question! Where would ’e sleep for starters? ’ow would you keep yerself safe from… unwanted attentions?’

  ‘Oh Margy! What am I to do? I’m not very wise about these things,’ Rosie railed.

  ‘Now, now… don’t get all upset, we’ll think of summat.’ Margy comforted the girl. Hearing the steam whistle blow she added, ‘Come on, let’s go and enjoy the sunshine while it lasts.’

  The two women climbed up onto the deck as another boat passed in the opposite direction. Greetings were yelled across the water as the boats chugged past each other.

  Rosie’s eyes glanced over the massive expanse of heath which held nothing but scrubland. The grass had long since been worn away by cart wheels and trudging boots leaving the odd tuft desperately trying to cling to life. Turning her head to the other side of the canal, she was greeted by beautifully painted boats filtering into the basins. Hearing the steam whistle of the train she looked up to see the great iron beast trundle across the overhead bridge as the boat chugged its way beneath. She smelled the coke in the steam as she turned to watch the train disappear.

  It was over supper later, that Margy explained to her husband what their young charge had in mind.

  ‘Well, we could allus pass a message that you’m looking for yer own boat and somebody to ’elp you out on ’er. It would need to be someone who could secure loads and backloads though, and bear in mind businessmen don’t much like discussing contracts with women. I know it’s unfair…’ He held up a hand, ‘but that’s the way of it gel. It’s the best we can do for now, then we see what, if anything, comes of it.’

  Rosie was delighted with the idea. She rounded the little table and gave him a hug. Feeling the familiar tremor, she said, ‘You mustn’t grieve, Abner.’

  He shot a look at his wife as Rosie sat once more. Holding out her hand she waited. At Margy’s nod, Abner placed his hand on hers. Closing her eyes Rosie said, ‘You think you’ve lost something very dear to you but – it’s not lost. Your heart aches but it will know happiness again. The spite shown to you was born of jealousy but it will not prevail. There will be a wedding which will prove a long and happy marriage. You will comfort a crying child.’

  Opening her eyes Rosie was shocked to see tears rolling down Abner’s cheeks. ‘Oh Abner! I didn’t mean to cause you distress – I’m so sorry!’

  Wiping away his tears with the back of his hand he said, ‘It’s all right, lass, you d’aint.’

  Margy sniffed as she set the kettle to boil again for want of something to do. A thump on deck said someone was boat hopping in the stopping place where they had halted for the night. The hatch opened and a ‘yoohoo’ sounded.

  ‘Come in, tea’s mashing,’ Margy called.

  The woman made her way into the already crowded living area.

  Rosie smiled; she loved the way these people just ‘popped’ into each other’s boats with no thought of disrupting the other’s private time.

  ‘How do. I ‘ad to come and tell you…’ the woman said to Rosie.

  ‘Well sit yer down and tell ’er,’ Margy said passing a cup of steaming tea over.

  A nod of thanks sent for the welcome and the tea, the woman went on. ‘You know yer told me about a ring coming to me?’ She saw Rosie nod. ‘Well it did! My brother gave me our mother’s wedding ring. I ’adn’t seen him in an age but ’e sought me out and gave me the ring. Also, an old friend passed as you said, God rest ’er soul, and left me a little bit of money! And…’ She drew the word out, ‘…my ’ubby got his spectacles so now he’s a damn sight safer on the cut!’

  Rosie smiled not at all surprised her predictions had come true for the woman. After all, wasn’t this exactly what she’d seen that day she did the ‘reading’?

  ‘I told all my friends about yer, and they all want to come and see you for a…’ The woman searched for the word.

  ‘Reading,’ Rosie put in helpfully.

  ‘Ar, that!’ The woman beamed.

  ‘Oh good,’ Rosie said with the merest trace of sarcasm which was completely lost on the woman. But she gave a small smile as way of thanks.

  Margy stifled a titter and Abner covered it saying, ‘Rosie is thinkin’ of getting ’er own boat, but her’ll need someone to ’elp her with it.’

  ‘Right, I’ll pass it along the grapevine then.’ With her thanks for the tea, the woman left their boat the same way she had come.

  Quiet laughter sounded in the tiny cabin and Abner said, ‘That message will be all over in no time, ’opefully with a good outcome for yer.’

  ‘It sounds like I have my work cut out for me regarding the ‘readings’.’

  A little while later Rosie retired to her bed and felt the excitement at the prospect of owning her own boat but she was worried about finding an employee to aid with the boat’s running. It had to be someone she liked; who she could get along with and – a woman. She needed to find a woman who knew about boats and the steam engines that drove them. Did such women exist?

  She realised then this could be much more difficult than she had first thought. She drifted off to sleep with the thoughts still swirling in her mind.

  Rosie woke with a start in a cold sweat. Pulling aside the curtain that covered the tiny porthole window she saw it was still dark but the sky held the beginnings of the oncoming day. The shudder she felt took her back to her dream.

  Closing her eyes again she saw the child fall. The little boy was playing around the lock and then he leaned over to peer at the rising water. Leaning too far he had toppled in. Rosie squeezed her eyes tight shut. She heard the scream of his mother who was in a blind panic, then saw a man strip off his jacket and jump in after the boy. She watched the pictures in her mind as the man kept the child afloat as the water rose in the lock. Others were shouting encouragement but the man was tiring rapidly. Keeping himself and the struggling boy afloat was sapping his energy. Suddenly the child was propelled up into the air to be caught by the onlookers. Once the boy was safely with his mother, all eyes returned to the water. The man was gone.

  Rosie opened her eyes and a sob caught at the back of her throat. Another prediction had come true, for all it had not been voiced. In her mind she asked the good Lord to welcome the brave man who had given his life to save the drowning child.

  Unable to sleep now, Rosie climbed quietly from her bunk. Wrapping her blanket around her she crept up on deck to watch the dawn of a new day, one she knew the man’s wife would spend in grief.

  All day Rosie’s mood was sombre and the couple whose boat she shared made no mention of it. They left her to her thoughts but kept a close watch nevertheless.

  Abner skilfully moored up at the Wharf at the Monway Branch of the canal in Wednesbury. The waiting men began to unload the cargo of fruit and vegetables to be taken to the market on their carts.

  Rosie watched with disinterest as the boat deck emptied and the carts filled; she heard the wheels rumble as they moved away.

  ‘Fancy a walk?’ Margy asked gently.

  Nodding Rosie heard her friend shout, ‘Abner, we’m off to the market.’

  ‘All right, my turtle dove,’ he called back and Rosie smiled for the first time that day.

  Although she had sold her pegs at the houses in the small ‘Black Country’ town, Rosie had never visited its market that she could remember.

  Crossing over Coppice Bridge the women walked on before stepping over the bridge that joined the Birmingham Canal to the Walsall Canal. Waving to boats moored at the basin there they continued on over the heathland in the direction of the town. Joining Leabrook Road they passed beneath the railway bridge, scrubland and disused collieries on one side, and the town�
�s inhabitants on the other. Rosie marvelled at the warehouses and shops as they entered the town proper.

  Striding out, they walked into Dudley Street before turning into Union Street and on into the market place. The sunshine filtered through the pall hanging over the buildings which made their journey rather a pleasant one.

  In the market place Rosie was amazed at the sights, sounds and smells assaulting her senses. Rows and rows of stalls were laid out with walkways between them. The fragrance of fresh fruit wafted on the gentle breeze to be replaced by the aroma of hot pies. Stall holders called out their prices to prospective customers and bantered with those buying their wares. She smelled sugar as she passed by Teddy Gray’s sweet stall and her mouth watered. Second hand clothes were draped on another stall and tin pots and pans rattled on yet another as women sorted through them.

  Rosie’s face lit up as a young man called out to her. ‘Hello beautiful, what are yer looking for this fine day?’

  ‘Certainly not you!’ Margy yelled back much to the amusement of the women gathered at the man’s meat cart.

  Rosie tittered as they moved on; down one aisle and up the next. ‘This is so lovely!’ she said as she breathed in the perfume hanging in the air from a nearby flower stall.

  ‘Ar, but it’s bloody bleak in the winter,’ Margy said as she waved to a woman standing by a cart loaded down with jars of home-made jams and pickles. ‘It’s bad enough on the ‘cut’ in the winter, but ’ere the wind blows cold round your nether regions!’

  Rosie laughed at her friend’s turn of phrase.

  ‘That’s what was nice about the vardo, with the stove lit it was warm and cosy,’ Rosie said a longing tingeing her words.

  ‘You missing it, lovey?’ Margy asked tentatively.

  ‘Not as such, I’m still travelling after all. I do miss Maria though sometimes.’ Rosie smiled. ‘However that time is past now, and I have a bright new future to look forward to.’

  ‘That’s the way to think on it.’ Margy smiled as they ambled around the market.

  Then they heard a screech ring out.

  ‘You! Gypsy!’ The harsh cry came again.

  Rosie turned to face the woman who had called out to her. ‘Are you speaking to me?’ she asked deliberately keeping her voice low.

  ‘I am!’ the woman yelled scurrilously as she grabbed Rosie’s arm. ‘You did a “reading” for me – do you remember? Well—’

  ‘Yes, I remember,’ Rosie cut in quietly as she pulled her arm free from the woman’s clutches.

  ‘Ar well, there was summat you either didn’t see or didn’t tell!’ The woman’s temper boiled. She stabbed a forefinger at the girl.

  Standing face to face now, Rosie spoke in hardly more than a whisper. ‘Oh, I saw.’

  ‘Then why d’aint you tell me? I could ’ave done summat about it! I could ’ave—’ the woman wailed.

  Again, Rosie interrupted in a calm voice. ‘You couldn’t have done anything about it. The pattern was set.’

  Margy was all ears as were the other women now gathering around listening to the conversation taking place.

  ‘I could! I could have stopped ’im!’ the woman railed on.

  ‘Could you have lived with yourself if that child had died?’ Rosie heard a collective intake of breath from the women listening in.

  Seeing the woman deflate Rosie went on gently. ‘I am sorry your husband died, but he passed on to the Lord as a hero. He saved a child’s life with no thought to his own safety.’ In her peripheral vision she saw heads nod. ‘I know you are bereaved and I’m very sorry for that, but you are grieving the loss of a man who will always be remembered for his heroism.’

  The woman burst into tears and Rosie moved forward wrapping her arms around the sobbing woman. Whispering close to her ear Rosie said, ‘You must go on, you are going to be a grandmother.’

  The woman looked at the young gypsy girl hearing the words meant only for her. Rosie nodded. Bowing her head in shame of her actions, the woman walked away.

  ‘What did you whisper to her?’ Margy asked.

  ‘I told her she was going to have a grandchild,’ Rosie answered, her voice just loud enough for those close enough to hear. Looking at the faces surrounding her she went on, ‘I see the pictures, I tell the news. Sometimes good, other times bad, but I do know these things usually come hand-in-hand. That poor lady lost her husband but she will welcome a new life – a boy.’

  ‘Come on gel, let’s move on,’ Margy encouraged.

  With a heavy heart Rosie turned and walked away.

  Ten

  Later that day in Bilston, a voice asked. ‘Mrs Mitchell?’

  Sarah nodded at the man standing on her doorstep. Her eyes roamed over his railway uniform.

  ‘I’m looking for Bill,’ he said.

  ‘You and me both!’ Sarah snapped.

  ‘Is he here?’ the man asked.

  ‘Would I be looking for him if he was?’ Sarah’s voice dripped sarcasm.

  The man harrumphed and tried again. ‘Do you know where he might be?’

  Sarah sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘No, I don’t know where he is but I tell you this, if he’s with another woman again…’

  ‘Erm yes, well, if he comes back, please tell him he’s sacked!’ The man turned on his heel and marched away.

  Sarah slammed the door and returned to the kitchen. Dropping into a chair she picked up her cup. Anger that welled in her boiled over and she threw the cup against the wall. Looking at the fragments of china lying on the floor she screwed up her mouth and sighed again. Well that just about put the tin lid on things. Bill had now lost his job.

  The mention of Bill seeing another woman caused Sarah to cast her mind back. She had known nothing about it until his employer had called to ask after his health. Bill had apparently told them he was ill and couldn’t work. He had left and returned home at the usual times dressed in his uniform so Sarah had been none the wiser. When he had come home that particular day, Sarah had tackled him about taking time off work. Where had he been? What had he been doing? Why was he not at work as he should have been? Eventually Bill had crumbled under the pressure and revealed all.

  Sarah scowled as she relived the memory; her husband had cried his apology, begging her forgiveness. He had promised he would never cheat on her again. She had forgiven him but their relationship had changed. The trust between them had been shattered. Sarah was sure he’d stuck to his promise over the years, but every time he left the house she wondered.

  She remembered shouting at his parents on one of their rare visits that their son was a philanderer, and of his affair with the woman from the market who she had heard had moved away shortly afterwards.

  Margy had said he was a grown man; she could do nothing. It was not up to her to sort out their mess. Sarah had expected support from her in-laws, after all she was the injured party, but had received none. Her anger knowing no bounds she had yelled that they had raised a liar and cheat.

  Sitting now staring at the broken cup Sarah felt again the mixed emotions; anger at her husband’s affair and the hurt of her in-laws’ disinterest. Margy’s words of that day sounded loud in her mind. ‘If he’d been happy at ’ome, ’e wouldn’t have strayed!’

  Sarah’s wrath surged again and the saucer followed the cup, hitting the wall with a loud crash.

  *

  Whilst their mother was smashing crockery, the twins sat at the edge of the towpath at Gas Street basin in Birmingham.

  ‘So, brother, what do we do now?’ John Mitchell asked.

  Frank shook his head. ‘Well, we can’t stay here,’ John added. ‘Should we go home?’

  Frank looked at his brother who was always the more cautious of the two. ‘I’m not going home, John, not until I find out about the couple mother upset so badly.’

  ‘All right then, we’ll do it together – but how?’ John asked watching the activity on the boats.

  ‘Firstly, we need to earn a bob or two so we can eat. While we
do that we can ask around the boats that come and go. It makes sense to stay put; this is a huge basin. It’s my guess that couple will arrive sooner or later,’ Frank said.

  ‘That could take years!’ John gasped.

  ‘You got anything better to do?’ Frank asked with a laugh.

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ John answered with a sigh.

  Jumping up the boys walked along the line of boats shouting up their question to each. Did anyone have any work for them?

  A yell came back to them saying help was needed loading and stacking crates. Stepping smartly in the direction of the shout, the boys looked at the name painted in bright colours on the side of the boat. ‘Lucky Lad.’ Sharing a smile, they jumped aboard throwing their bags into a corner on deck. They worked all morning lifting heavy crates and piling them neatly on the deck of the boat ensuring they were secure.

  Thanking the man who had hired and paid them, the twins looked around for either more work or somewhere to buy themselves some lunch.

  Around the corner in Bridge Street they found a pie shop. With a couple of meat and potato pies in one hand and their bags in the other, the boys stared at the Old Wharf directly opposite the pie shop.

  They enjoyed their lunch watching boats and barges come and go before walking back in order to attempt to find more work. Neither gave a thought to where they would sleep that night.

  Working all afternoon humping boxes of nails between them from a barge and loading them onto a cart, the boys now with money in their pockets, sat down again on the edge of the towpath. Tired and dirty they relaxed as the sun began to lower; they watched as the sky took on hues of scarlet, orange, yellow and lilac. The sun finally dipped her bright face behind the horizon and only then did they think about finding beds.

  ‘I don’t want to spend my hard-earned money in a fleapit of a hotel!’ John said.

  Frank nodded his agreement. ‘Let’s just sleep here, I’m too tired to care either way.’

  Shoving their carpet bags beneath their heads the twins stretched out and fell instantly to sleep.

  *