Born to Trouble

by Rita Bradshaw

  They nodded and as James hugged her again she put out a hand and drew Patrick to them. She would work till she dropped, beg the foreman at the pickling factory for a double shift when any were in the offing, anything, but no one would take her brothers from her. She had let them down once, she would never do so again. They were her life now.

  For a moment the mental image of a handsome male face topped by a shock of corn-coloured hair was strong, but as she stood up she told herself that that dream was in the past and gone for ever. She had to concentrate on the present, and that meant James and Patrick.

  Blinking away the tears, she took the boys’ hands in hers. ‘How about if we get a bag of chitterlings and a hot meat pie apiece on the way home, to celebrate?’ she said brightly. ‘And maybe a crusty loaf and a pat of butter to go with it?’

  The boys’ faces lit up.

  ‘Mind, I’ve only got one knife and fork and spoon at present. We’ll have to buy another two sets next week.’

  ‘We like eating with our fingers,’ said Patrick chirpily, ‘although the kitchen officer, Miss Ratlidge, used to rap our knuckles with the cane if she caught us. Rappy Ratarse, we used to call her.’ He stopped abruptly, obviously wondering if he had said too much.

  Pearl stared at him and then burst out laughing. ‘Well, I won’t rap your knuckles,’ she promised, ‘but I shall expect you to use your knife and fork when the King comes to tea.’

  All three were laughing now and it was like that, with the boys’ hands held in hers and smiles on their faces, that they walked home.

  Chapter 16

  On Monday evening Leonard Fallow left his very comfortable quarters and roaring coal fire after telling his wife he was going to his Monday night card game. The card game was a front; he and his friends used their Monday nights for quite a different purpose.

  He walked briskly along Chester Road away from the workhouse and towards the east of the town, making for the Station Hotel in Prospect Row. The railway line from Durham built in the 1830s terminated at the staiths in Low Quay, and the railway station stood near the town moor; it was after this wooden structure the public house was named. The Station Hotel was in the heart of the warren of streets close to the docks, transit sheds and warehouses in the East End, and after dark the dock dollies plied their trade in dark corners and alley-ways or on the strip of town moor which remained behind the almshouses and orphan asylum. On arriving in Sunderland as a young man, Leonard had very quickly nosed out the less salubrious part of the town and carefully, over a period of years, made the acquaintance of men of like mind. Due to the nature of the area, he’d also rubbed shoulders with villains and ne’er-do-wells, contacts which had proved useful on occasion.

  When he entered the public house the others were already gathered in one corner drinking. This was part of the ritual. It was important to establish exactly who was present before they went their separate ways, in case an alibi was needed. Occasionally, as had happened the week before, one of them had heard of a new young girl being offered in one of the whorehouses, and they had all visited it together. And she had been young, as young as Pearl had been. He licked his lips, his body hardening. But tonight he had a different agenda in mind and one that wouldn’t wait.

  The group of men spent an hour in the Station Hotel and then left together, as though intending to go on to a different pub. Once the others had dispersed, Leonard cut through Silver Street into Low Street. The street’s location along the riverside meant its pubs were especially popular with sailors and shipyard workers, although there were only a handful of those pubs left these days, compared to forty or more at the begining of the previous century. The houses that were occupied by families often had rooms to let for seamen, as Pearl’s had once done, but as he walked by the Crofts’ old house Leonard didn’t spare it a glance.

  The bar he entered was small and smoke filled, the sawdust on the floor and pockmarked face of the bruiser of a barman suggesting it was not an establishment for the faint-hearted. Glancing round, Leonard spotted the person he had been hoping to see. He made his way over to a corner of the room near the grimy window where an old man with an unkempt beard and rheumy eyes was sitting nursing a pint of ale, an equally ancient bull terrier fast asleep under the table.

  ‘Hello, Arthur.’ Leonard smiled. ‘What can I get you?’

  Faded blue eyes surveyed him for a moment. ‘That’s very nice of you, Mr Fallow. A tot of the hard stuff wouldn’t go amiss.’

  Once Leonard returned with a double whisky for Arthur and one for himself, he sat down beside the old man. No one glancing at Arthur Bell would imagine that the benign-looking, somewhat down-at-heel elderly gentleman knew every crook and felon – not to mention what they were up to – in the East End of Sunderland. On taking over as workhouse master, Leonard had first heard Arthur’s name mentioned when he had been offered a supply of meat by a contact at the slaughterhouse, no questions asked. As it was a third of the price the then present supplier, a reputable butcher, was asking, Leonard had jumped at the chance to buy inferior meat and pocket the difference in money. No matter that the slaughterhouse meat was ofttimes diseased or of equestrian origin; he made sure the meat for his own household and that of the officers’ mess was obtained from the original source and then doctored the butcher’s bill once he had paid the man, in case the Guardians checked the accounts. The contact at the slaughterhouse had put him in touch with Arthur for other supplies from questionable avenues; flour sacks which regularly fell off the back of lorries, vegetables which were so spotted they looked to have the pox, and so on. And Arthur had been very helpful. As he always was for the right price.

  Leonard leaned forward, his voice low when he said, ‘Arthur, I’ve a problem and you’re the only one who can help me.’

  ‘Is that so, Mr Fallow? Well, you know me. If I can oblige, I will.’

  ‘I need someone to do a job for me. A very private job.’

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘There’s someone who’s out to cause trouble for me.’ Leonard knocked back his whisky and set the glass on the table. ‘I need them to disappear.’

  Arthur didn’t bat an eyelid when he said, ‘Permanently?’

  Leonard nodded. ‘And there might be more than one. This woman could well have her brothers in tow.’

  ‘A woman, is it?’ Arthur had finished his whisky and now looked pointedly at his empty glass.

  ‘Same again?’ Leonard was already standing and reaching for the old man’s glass. Once they had two more whiskies in front of them, he continued, ‘This woman, Pearl Croft, has already blackmailed me once, Arthur, and likely she’s told her two brothers what she’s got on me. They’re young lads, ten or thereabouts, but if they open their mouths once she’s disposed of . . .’

  ‘Three’s as easy as one, Mr Fallow, if you know the right people to do the job.’ Arthur didn’t ask what it was this woman had on his client, it wasn’t his business. ‘But it’ll cost you, you know that? This isn’t like a spot of moonlightin’ or creamin’ off the odd sack or two of flour, and it’ll take more than one to pull off a job like this with no disturbance or repercussions. Know what I mean? You pay for silence in this game.’

  ‘I know that, Arthur, and I’ve a bit salted away.’

  ‘Aye, well, you’ll need it an’ all. Like I said, these blokes don’t come cheap. Look, I’ll see what I can do. Meet me here tomorrow about the same time and I’ll have an answer for you. They’ll want payment before the job’s done, but you say that’s no problem?’

  ‘No problem at all, Arthur.’ Leonard’s words tumbled over themselves in his eagerness.

  ‘Where does she live, this Pearl Croft? Local, is she?’

  Leonard pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. ‘That’s her address and I’ve written her name and her brothers’ too.’

  ‘Aye, well, leave it with me till the morrer. ’Tis likely I know the very lads for this job but I’m thinkin’ they’ll want twenty pounds a head or more. You up fo
r that?’

  Leonard swallowed hard. He had more than that under his mattress but it was galling to think he was having to fork out to get rid of that little baggage. Still, needs must. ‘Aye, I’m up for that.’

  By the end of the week it was signed and sealed. Leonard had paid over seventy pounds – the wily Arthur had demanded a nice bonus in view of the nature of the business and Leonard hadn’t thought it wise to quibble – and in return received an assurance that he’d be notified when the job was done.

  ‘Efficient, are they, these blokes you know?’ Leonard asked as he watched the wad of notes disappear into Arthur’s trouser pocket.

  ‘Oh aye, sir, don’t you worry about that.’ Arthur reached down and patted his dog as the animal expelled wind loud and long. As the tail end was by Leonard’s feet he received the blast full in the face. ‘Aye,’ Arthur went on, ‘when these lads take a job they look on it as honour bound. Know what I mean?’ He smiled, the blue eyes complaisant.

  ‘Honour among thieves?’ There was an edge to Leonard’s voice.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And you impressed on them it’s urgent?’

  ‘I did that, Mr Fallow. They’ll see to things this weekend. By Monday morning, all your troubles will be over.’

  ‘I hope so, I’m paying enough,’ Leonard said irritably. Handing over the money had been painful. ‘There’s plenty on the march for jobs – likely a couple of them would have done it for less.’

  ‘You don’t want amateurs for something like this, take it from me. And you’re paying for discretion, don’t forget. There’ll be no comeback with these lads.’

  ‘Aye, you’re right, Arthur. Of course you’re right.’ Leonard stood up, anxious to be gone. This was the third time this week he’d left his fireside. Delia was beginning to smell a rat. Only this evening she’d proved a little difficult when he’d said he was popping out again. ‘And I will know when the job’s done?’

  The gentle blue eyes surveyed him over the rim of a whisky glass. ‘You’ll know, Mr Fallow. Rest assured, you’ll know.’

  Leonard nodded at the old man and turned for the door. This place and the people who inhabited it disgusted him. He glanced down at the sawdust at his feet, splattered with phlegm and dog’s pee. He was better than this. And that girl, daring to threaten him and put him in this position! It was all down to her, Pearl Croft. She was the root of all his troubles. Once he knew she had been taken care of, the thorn in his side which had been troubling him for years would be gone.

  He paused at the door, turning and raising his hand to Arthur, who nodded an acknowledgement. Then he pushed open the door and stepped out into the black night.

  Chapter 17

  Pearl finished work at the pickling factory at midday on a Saturday, and James and Patrick were waiting for her when she emerged into the grey October afternoon. The last days had been something of a worry, but she had kept any trace of concern from her brothers. She was finding herself hard pressed already to make ends meet, and the lads had only been with her five days. They ate so much, that was one thing. It was as though now the meagre and unappetising food of the workhouse was no more, they were making up for lost time. They seemed to be forever hungry. And although she had seen to it that they were enrolled in the Methodist church school, they were home long before her in the evening, which meant the fire was lit earlier and more coal burned. Already she could see that her present wage wouldn’t be enough to keep the three of them in food and fuel, and that was without things like clothes and boots for the boys taken into consideration. She had asked the foreman at the factory to keep her in mind for extra shifts, but these didn’t crop up too often. With so many folk out of work perhaps that wasn’t surprising.

  She had left the boys curled up snug and warm in bed that morning, only their noses visible as they’d said a sleepy goodbye. When she had stepped out into the dull light of early morning her normal optimism had been flagging and the work at the pickling factory had seemed twice as arduous as normal.

  Sleeping in the chair at night was taking its toll too. She tended to catnap for part of the time in spite of being exhausted, and invariably woke up with a crick in her neck.

  Now, as she looked at her brothers’ bright faces, her worry and fear for the future lifted temporarily. Somehow they would manage. Against all the odds they were together again and she wouldn’t let anything part them, not while she had breath in her body.

  ‘Look what the lady in the cake shop gave us.’ Patrick was hopping from one foot to the other in his excitement as he thrust a bag full of cakes and rolls under her nose.

  In answer to the expression which had come over Pearl’s face, James said quickly, ‘It’s all right, honest, Pearl. We were looking in the window and she came to the door an’ asked us if we wanted anything and we said no ’cos we hadn’t any money. Then she come back with these. She said they were old and stale, and the manageress had told her to put them in the farthing bin but there were lots more and the manageress wouldn’t miss these.’

  When Pearl looked at her brothers, she could see what had melted the cake lady’s heart. Their pudding-basin hair-cuts under their caps spoke only too plainly of a brush with the workhouse, and their thin faces made them look all eyes. No doubt they’d had their noses pressed against the windowpane. She glanced again into the bag and then smiled widely. Lunch was taken care of at any rate, and she wasn’t too proud to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially if it was bringing food.

  ‘How about if we go to Mowbray Park and have a picnic?’ she said gaily. ‘And after we could visit the museum and the Winter Garden.’ Admission was free, and they could spend the afternoon in the warm looking at everything in the museum and the antiquities and art galleries, and in the large conservatory adjoining the rear of the building called the Winter Garden there were tropical plants and cages of foreign birds, and a pond well stocked with goldfish.

  It began to drizzle as they sat on a bench in the park munching their way through the stale cakes, tarts and rolls, but they didn’t mind. The boys were still heady with the excitement of being free of the workhouse, and everything was an adventure. Pearl, looking at the world through their eyes for a while, felt her spirits lift.

  Once inside the museum the boys wandered around fascinated, and she was content to follow them, their happiness like balm on her sore heart. She held out no hope that she would ever see Christopher again – maybe his parents would make sure he didn’t return to England for many a long year – but that didn’t stop her looking for him wherever she went. She knew it was madness but she didn’t seem able to help it.

  Patrick was entranced with the goldfish pond in the Winter Garden, especially when one of the attendants let him sprinkle some special powdery food on it and the fish almost jumped out of the water in their eagerness to eat. Pearl found a bench where she could sit down when the boys showed no signs of wanting to leave and she must have dozed a little; suddenly the museum was about to close and it was dark outside.

  On their return journey, the earlier misty drizzle settled into persistent rain, and by the time they approached the Old Market in the East End it wasn’t so busy as usual in spite of the fact it was all under cover. The market didn’t close until midnight, but one or two of the traders were already beginning to pack up. Pearl and the boys hung around a while. There were bargains to be had at such times.

  By the time they left they had a big bag of scrag ends and yellowing vegetables which would see them over two or three days when cooked slowly in the black pot Pearl had bought and which sat neatly on the steel shelf over the fire. The stallholder who had sold them the ageing vegetables had thrown in some pieces of spotted fruit too, and all her purchases hadn’t cost Pearl more than four pence.

  She was thinking of their dinner that night as they trudged home towards the house in Long Bank through the back ways and alleys. She had some stale bread left from yesterday, and once she’d lit the fire and it was glowing nicely, they cou
ld have toast and dripping – that was filling. And the boys could have the fruit for afterwards. She still had a few spoonfuls left of the quarter pound of tea she’d bought before the boys came, but at two shillings a pound they’d have to eke that out until she got paid again next week. And they were getting low on coal. She squinted through the rain, her mind grappling with the problem of filling the boys’ bellies and keeping them warm.

  They’d almost reached Long Bank and the smell from the kipper-curing house on the corner was strong as she became aware of the men behind her. Before she could react or even open her mouth, she was manhandled against the wall of the alley they were in, James and Patrick being grabbed from behind by two of the men, who had their hands over the boys’ mouths.

  ‘Don’t scream.’ The man who had pushed her against the wall wedged her there with his hand over her mouth, her bags having fallen to the ground. ‘It’s Seth, Pearl. All right? It’s me – Seth. I’m not going to hurt you.’

  Half fainting with terror, she remained rigid against the slimy bricks. It was dark in the alley but she could see the man’s outline. He was tall with broad shoulders.

  ‘Listen to me – it’s your brother, Seth. Do you understand? And Fred and Walter. We’re not going to hurt you, but I have to talk to you and you mustn’t scream.’

  Dimly she made out familiar features, features which she’d last seen a long time ago and which had changed, coarsened. But it was Seth. As the terror drained away she went limp against him, and he removed his hand from her mouth as he gathered her into his arms. ‘Come on, you’re all right,’ he muttered thickly. ‘Breathe deeply, that’s a good lass.’

  James and Patrick were still wriggling and twisting like eels in their brothers’ arms but they were no match for the muscled men Fred and Walter had become. Nevertheless, as a kick from James’s hobnailed boots made his captor swear, Pearl revived enough to straighten and say, ‘Don’t be frightened, lads, they’re not going to hurt us. It’s your big brothers.’