The Pawnbroker's Niece

by June Francis

  A tear rolled down Rita’s cheek. Why couldn’t she have been blonde and had style like her mother instead of skinny with hair the colour of a new penny? It was not that she really wanted to be attractive to men and smuggled abroad — not on your nelly! She could have got a job in one of those classy clothes shops such as Cripps or Bacon’s in Bold Street.

  Where were Eve and her fella now? Rita felt too tired and scared to wander the docks looking for them anymore. She tucked her bare foot beneath the skirt of her coat and dozed off.

  The squawking of a cat woke her. Immediately she was aware of the hardness of the step beneath her and opened her eyes. The sky was silvery grey and the stars had paled. She shivered. The streets were Sunday quiet but across the way she could see a couple of Chinese men putting out the lanterns. One was carrying a sack.

  She stood and stretched. Her mouth was dry and her stomach craved food but her first thought was of Eve and her fella and that Miss Sinclair. Why had her mam sent her to that woman? How come they knew each other? Rita had noticed the three golden balls hanging over Miss Sinclair’s shop and knew some pawnbrokers lent money. Could Eve owe her money and that’s what this was all about? Maybe Lucas knew more about Eve’s whereabouts than he was cracking on. She’d go back home and find out. Perhaps she would even take a shortcut through Chinatown — should be safe enough at this time of day.

  She limped across the square, inspecting the ground for any rusty nails or stones, wary of ending up with a septic foot. Chink chonk Chinaman bought a penny doll, echoed in her head, remembering kids chanting the words to half-caste Chinese children.

  Immediately she entered Pitt Street she was aware of an unfamiliar sweet odour and wondered where it was coming from and what caused it. She passed confectioners and grocers, an eating house with lanterns and poultry hanging from hooks. Other windows displayed ornamental models of willowy men and women dressed in Chinese costume and little fat bald men with bare tummies, their belly buttons painted gold.

  She jumped out of her skin as a door opened with a crash and a man came flying out. He landed on the pavement. A Chinese man stood in the doorway, arms akimbo. ‘You don’t come here again. You trouble!’ He went back inside and shot the bolts.

  Rita would have made a run for it if the dark-haired young man wearing a reefer jacket and peaked seaman’s cap had not looked so ill. His face was pale and clammy as he staggered to his feet and leant against the wall.

  ‘Yer look terrible,’ she said.

  ‘I feel terrible.’ He closed his eyes.

  ‘What have yer been up to in there? What’s the funny smell?’

  ‘Get lost, kid. Get home to your mam.’ He moved away from the wall but swayed so much she darted forward to prevent him from falling.

  ‘Yer drunk!’

  ‘No, I’m not. Besides, what’s it to you?’ He pushed her away. ‘I’m skint, so yer wasting yer time. Got to get to the Home.’

  ‘I’m not what yer think I am,’ she said, flushing. ‘I’m looking for me mam. Where’s your home?’

  He shook his head as if to clear it and leant on her. ‘Give us a minute.’ Closing his eyes he took several breaths before saying, ‘Sailors’ Home.’

  Rita nodded sagely. ‘It’s not that far away. I’ll be a crutch for yer for a tanner to buy a bun and a mug of cocoa.’

  ‘Are you deaf, kid? I told you —’

  ‘So you’re still here, Billy! Pops said you would be,’ interrupted an irate voice. ‘I hope you haven’t spent all your bloody pay-off money!’

  Rita gazed at the newcomer who was blonde and good-looking with the bluest eyes she had ever seen. He wore a tweed cap with the peak turned sideways and a shabby jacket. He smelt of horses. ‘He was thrown out of there,’ she said, pointing to the closed door.

  ‘You didn’t have to tell him that,’ said Billy, frowning. ‘He thinks he has to know the ins and outs of everything. Wheedled the fact I was here out of me dad, I bet!’

  ‘I was thinking of Mother and Alice. We’ll lose the bloody yard if you don’t help us.’

  Billy clenched his jaw. ‘Your mother called me a bloody thief. I’m no thief and you know it! And I’ve stopped bloody caring about the yard. I’ve offered help and had it turned down. You want it — you find a way of getting rid of the debt. Why the hell d’you think I ended up here but to try and stop Dad gambling?’

  ‘Well, you didn’t succeed, did you!’

  ‘He would have lost more if we hadn’t had a row and stormed off. Anyway, I’ve got to get going. I’ve a ship to catch. Come on, kid!’ Billy urged Rita forward.

  ‘You’re not going with that little tart, are yer? She had money out of you?’

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ said Rita crossly. ‘And I’m no tart.’ She felt bowed under by the weight of Billy’s arm. ‘I’m looking for me mam and I just happened to be passing when he appeared.’

  Tawny eyebrows elevated like humped caterpillars. ‘This is bloody stupid! Get out of the way, girl! I’ll take over.’ He attempted to detach Billy’s arm from about her shoulders but Billy resisted.

  ‘I don’t want your help, Jimmy. Get off home.’

  ‘Don’t be bloody stupid. Alice is going to love this when I tell her! You know she worries about you. Don’t you care?’

  Billy blinked and rubbed his eyes. ‘She’s the best thing that came out of the marriage between your mother and my father but you won’t get me back to the yard. I’m leaving on the morning tide.’ He squeezed Rita’s shoulder. ‘Come on, kid. I’ll see you get something to eat.’

  Those words were enough for her to stick with Billy despite Jimmy’s good looks drawing her gaze to him. She allowed herself to be hustled along but Billy moved so fast she tripped over one of his feet and it was only Jimmy’s outstretched hand that prevented her from dragging Billy to the ground.

  ‘Beat it,’ said Jimmy, pushing her away and turning to his stepbrother. ‘I get it. You’ve left most of your money at the Home. I’ll come with you and see it gets to where it’s most useful.’

  Billy laughed. ‘You never give up, do yer? But you’re too late. I took a leaf out of Dad’s book and tried to treble my stake. I’ve still got a few bob to my name but in future I’m not going to worry about saving the bloody yard or my father. I’ll spend my money the way I want.’ He reached for Rita and pulled her against him as Jimmy stepped back. ‘Come on, kid. I don’t want to lose my berth.’

  ‘I’ve stubbed me toe! It’s bleedin’.’ She did not expect any sympathy but it would have been nice to get some.

  ‘I’ll get one of the women to stick something on it,’ said Billy.

  Jimmy swore and stormed off.

  She went with Billy, hoping he would keep his promise of seeing she got some food. By now she was consumed with curiosity. All her life she had wanted to be part of a proper family with a mother and a father, brothers and sisters. She knew that families fell out sometimes but the ones she knew stuck together despite the rows and helped each other out. No doubt the man beside her would change his mind about his family next time his ship docked.

  They came to the Sailors’ Home and went inside. Despite the early hour all was hustle and bustle. Rita’s eyes widened as Billy detached himself from her. She followed him, her gaze taking in the soaring columns and the galleries of cast iron decorated with nautical themes. She was to learn the foundation stone had been laid almost seventy years ago when four thousand ships a year had docked in the Mersey and there had been a desperate need for safe accommodation for the seafarer, too often a victim of the wicked rapacity of crimps, pimps and prostitutes. The building was modelled on a ship’s quarters and had rooms like cabins arranged around an internal court.

  ‘You in trouble again, Billy?’ said a deep voice that Rita recognised.

  She shrank behind Billy but she had been spotted and he pulled her in front of him, resting his hands on her bony shoulders. ‘I need to get back to my ship and could do with a gallon of coffee first but I promised this
kid something to eat, Padre.’

  ‘I don’t want to go with him,’ said Rita in a trembling voice. ‘I’ve heard things about him.’

  The padre shook his head. ‘Foolish child! You shouldn’t believe anything a pimp says.’ He turned and shouted a name.

  Almost immediately a small rotund man dressed in black and wearing a dog collar appeared. ‘Yes, Padre! What can I do for you?’

  ‘Take the young lady to the kitchen and see one of the volunteers gives her something to eat.’

  Billy smiled at Rita. ‘You’ll be OK now, kid. Thanks for your help.’

  Before she could say tarrah or ask where the yard was he and his stepbrother had mentioned, he had turned from her and she was whisked away by the clergyman.

  In the kitchen several women were preparing breakfast. One of them looked disapprovingly at her. ‘Who’s this you’ve got? She’s only got one shoe and looks like a slummy.’

  At the sound of her voice several heads turned and to Rita’s dismay she recognised one of them as her former teacher, Miss Turner. ‘Rita Taylor! What are you doing here? No fibs, mind! You tell me the truth or you’ll be in trouble.’ Her dark eyes were like gimlets and her voice real schoolmarmish.

  ‘I always tell the truth, Miss Turner!’ Rita crossed her fingers behind her back.

  ‘Don’t give me that, girl! I wasn’t born yesterday,’ said the teacher.

  ‘Now isn’t this nice that you know each other,’ said the parson, eyes gleaming behind the thick lenses of his spectacles. ‘Father Jerome said you were to feed her.’ He left them staring at each other in an unfriendly fashion.

  ‘Where is your mother?’ said Miss Turner, spreading margarine on toast and placing it on a plate. She indicated Rita sit down at the corner of a table.

  Rita ignored the question, her gaze on a steaming urn. ‘Any tea goin’?’

  The teacher frowned. ‘Finish your words, Rita. Go-ing! All those years teaching you wasted — and answer my question.’

  Rita bit into the toast. She munched, savouring every mouthful. No way was she going to tell Miss Turner her mother had left with a black fella and gone to Wales.

  A thick white mug was placed in front of her. ‘With a man, is she?’ The teacher’s voice was not unkind. ‘Don’t you worry, dear. I’m not judging you by her slatternly ways. I’ll see you home.’

  The colour rose in Rita’s thin face. ‘Yer don’t have to worry about me,’ she muttered. ‘Mam’s moved. I can find me own way there.’ She lifted the mug and a tear ran down her cheek and dripped into the steaming tea.

  ‘“My”, not “me”, Rita,’ corrected Miss Turner. ‘And I don’t care what you say, I’m coming with you. I know my duty.’

  Rita decided to take the teacher all over the show until she was sick and tired of walking. But things did not work out the way Rita planned. The teacher cottoned on to what she was up to and frogmarched her to her old home. She hammered on the door and eventually someone came.

  ‘What the bloody hell d’yer think yer playing at knocking me up at this time of morning?’ said a woman with pipe cleaners in her hair. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, miss,’ she added hastily, seeming to recognise the teacher at a second glance. ‘What are you doing here with Rita? Evie’s gone and the kid’s supposed to be staying at her aunt’s place.’

  Rita was stunned. ‘I haven’t got an aunt. She’s lying.’

  ‘Don’t you call me a liar! I’ll get Lucas! He can tell yer where she lives.’ She vanished up the lobby and they heard her yelling, ‘Luu-ca-as! Get yer arse down here. Yer wanted.’

  Several minutes passed before he appeared. ‘What do you want with me? Don’t you know this is a day of rest?’ He stared at Rita. ‘You shouldn’t have run off like that, girlie. That Miss Sinclair was real annoyed.’

  Miss Turner frowned. ‘You have this aunt’s address?’

  ‘Sure do.’ He dug into the back pocket of his trousers and produced a scrap of paper. ‘Here yerrah!’ He slapped it on Miss Turner’s palm, and stepping back closed the door firmly.

  Rita did not want it to be true but was remembering how Miss Sinclair had called her mother ‘Eve’ and said she had a bone to pick with her.

  ‘Well, Rita?’ said the teacher sternly.

  ‘If I had an aunt, Mam would have told me,’ she said desperately.

  ‘Where is your mother? No lies now.’

  Rita was silent.

  Miss Turner gazed at the address on the slip of paper. ‘Right! Let’s go! I’m going to get to the bottom of this.’

  Chapter Two

  Margaret Sinclair lifted a cardboard box from the shelf and placed it on the pink cotton eiderdown. Removing the lid, she gazed at the wax doll. Made in Germany, it was one of a pair, a gift from her brother Donald when life had been full and happy. ‘The stylish Sinclair sisters’ they had been called just before the Great War, part of a group whose parents met in each others’ houses for musical evenings. The last one had been in 1910 and had been a happy occasion. They were not to know that within the year Donald would be dead, his ship having foundered in the North Sea. Their mother had gone mad with grief and refused to get rid of anything of his — and even today his bedroom remained as it was before he died. This doll had been taken from her and placed in his room, sacred because Donald had bought it.

  Her mother had been furious when Margaret’s interest in clothes had resulted in her undressing the doll to see how its garments were stitched together. She had been working at Bacon’s in Bold Street, a real classy shop, at the time. Despite her eighteen years her mother had shoved her in the cellar and refused to let her out. She had been scared stiff not so much of the dark but of this example that her mother was becoming more and more unhinged. She had not been in the cellar long before her father freed her after a screaming match between his wife and younger daughter. Within six months Eve had got herself pregnant by a married man and run off.

  The door knocker sounded but Margaret decided to ignore it, fingering the doll’s satin skirt, feeling afresh the loss of her family and those far-off happy days.

  The knocker sounded again. ‘Don’t they know it’s the Sabbath?’ she murmured. Still, it would be foolish to turn down the chance of making money and what was the Sabbath to her these days? After her mother’s suicide her father had lost his faith, and her own had been sorely tested after God had taken her fiancé, Alan, as well.

  She replaced the doll in the box and put it back on the shelf and went downstairs. Drawing back the bolts, she whipped the door open and was about to say it would cost them extra on a Sunday when she recognised her niece — but not the woman dressed in a navy coat and a dated cloche hat in a lighter shade of blue.

  ‘Miss Sinclair?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is Rita here your niece?’

  ‘Of course she is! Her mother is my sister.’ She held out a hand imperiously, ‘Come in, Rita! I hope you won’t be so silly as to run off again.’

  What was it about these spinsters of a certain age that they had to always be bossing a girl about? Rita did not want to admit it but she was scared of Miss Sinclair and determined not to show it. ‘If yer me aunt, how is it I’ve never heard of yer before? I think yer not telling the truth.’

  ‘Don’t be rude, Rita,’ said Miss Turner. ‘I won’t hand you over until Miss Sinclair proves what she says is true.’

  Margaret said coldly, ‘My father ran this business nigh on forty years. He died last month and I’ve taken over. Anyone in this neighbourhood could verify who I am. More to the point, who are you?’

  ‘She used to be me teacher,’ said Rita. ‘So don’t think yer can put one over on her. She’s a brainbox!’

  ‘Rita, be quiet!’ Miss Turner sighed heavily.

  ‘I have my sister’s note so you can see that,’ said Margaret. ‘Come in.’

  She led the way along the lobby and into the kitchen. She waved Miss Turner to a chair in front of the fire, and said, ‘I don’t know why you are interested in m
y niece when she’s left school. In the note Eve sent she says Rita will be fifteen this year, although she looks much younger. Apparently her father was a sailor and died during the war.’

  ‘No! Me dad could be living in Timbuktu!’ cried Rita. ‘It’s hot there and people wear silk robes and carry funny little sunshades. One day he’ll come back for me and buy me ice cream and chocolate.’

  ‘Stop! Such imaginings only lead to trouble. Sit and be quiet!’

  Rita did not want to do either of those things, she just wanted to beat it, yet her knees felt weak and her stomach was quivering. She sat by the table determined not to give in to her fear of her aunt. She felt lonely and rejected because of her mother’s desertion, but tried to buck herself up by telling herself Eve had just gone on ahead to Cardiff to see what the place was like and would send for her. She glanced at the jar of chocolates on the table and imagined the creamy taste of them on her tongue, listening to the women’s conversation with half an ear.

  Margaret had produced Eve’s note and Miss Turner had read and returned it to her. ‘I’m sorry if I offended you by asking for proof. I’ve been concerned about Rita since she finished school. So many girls in her situation end up going down the wrong road. I’m sure I don’t have to cross the Ts and dot the Is for you to understand my meaning.’

  ‘I understand perfectly. I wouldn’t have chosen to have my niece live with me, and no doubt I’ll have my work cut out licking her into shape, but I was never one to sit down and die.’

  ‘I wish you the best of luck. Will she work in the shop? She’s had less schooling than she was entitled to. Your sister kept her away times without number until we were sick of sending the man from the school board around. Rita’s not stupid. In fact she’s sharp in her own way. Even so…’

  ‘I’ll have to give her a few lessons then, won’t I? She’ll need to work out percentages amongst other things.’ Margaret stood and moved towards the door. ‘Now if you don’t mind I have a lot to do. She’ll need a bath, clean clothes and something to eat, no doubt.’ Suddenly she noticed her niece was no longer sitting at the table but had vanished.