The Whispering Road

by Livi Michael

  2

  Mad Pat

  I start praying in earnest, like I never did at the workhouse. A fearful shape – man, not stone, but all in coarse grey, with a rag tied round his head and one milky, staring eye – looms over me. I shut my eyes.

  ‘What are you? Demon?’ he roars, shaking me so I can't answer.

  ‘Speak!’ he bellows, but my teeth are chattering too hard. ‘What do they call you?’

  ‘Jack – Joe – Tom,’ I stutter.

  ‘Jackjotom,’ he mutters and grinds his teeth. ‘What kind of demon are you?’

  There's a note of fear in his voice that surprises me, and I open one eye. I take in his clothes, that are nearly as soaked as mine. Muddy, ripped by briars. His great bare feet are cut by stones, and he's shivering as much as me.

  ‘You come out of the ground,’ he mutters, ‘but you'll not take me with you!’ And he seizes my shirt and lifts me clear off the ground.

  ‘I'm no demon, sir!’ I cry. ‘I came from the tunnel, not the… other place. I wasn't looking for you, I swear! I was looking for my friends!’

  ‘Friends?’ he bellows,

  ‘The… Little Angels,’ I gasp, and he gives such a roar I nearly pass out from fright.

  ‘Angels? Angels? What would a demon want with angels? You see that spire?’ he swings me round so that I can see, dimly, a tall spire through the yellow mist.

  ‘Ye-yes.’

  ‘That's where the angels come from,’ he whispers hoarsely. ‘Swooping down from their steeple to peck out your eyes!’

  He's mad, I think sadly, for while it's better than him being Owd Nick, it's not a comfort. But if there's one rule I live by, it's never annoy a madman who's got you by the throat.

  ‘Sir, not those angels, sir,’ I say, trying to free my throat. ‘The Little Angels are just boys and girls. They wouldn't peck out your eyes.’

  ‘How do you think I got this then?’ he says, pointing to his glaring, milky eye. ‘No angels – but demons did this!’

  ‘I'm not a demon, sir,’ I say. ‘I'm a boy. Jack's the name. If you'd put me down, sir, we could maybe talk.’

  He shakes me so hard I can't think, never mind talk, then suddenly lets me go so that I collapse at his feet. ‘What's your business with the Little Angels?’ he says, a cunning look in his evil eye.

  ‘The Little Angels, sir?’ I say, picking myself up cautiously. ‘Do you know them?’ For something in his look makes me think that he might.

  ‘What's it to you?’

  ‘They're my friends, sir, I told you I was looking for them.’

  It's stretching it a bit to say that the Little Angels are my friends. And it's come to something when the best friends you've got are a gang that tried to beat you to death with lead pipes – but there you go.

  He knits his brow and glares at me with his good eye. ‘Friends?’ he spits.

  ‘I lost them,’ I say, and I must have looked as forlorn as I felt, for he shakes his massive head.

  ‘You're better off without friends,’ he says. ‘Friends'll not help. Not when the poor rate comes and the paving tax and the lighting rates and the rates for water and the window tax… Where are your friends then?’

  He's off then, up on his feet again, swinging his arms around and the spit flies from his mouth. ‘When the beadle comes to cart you off to the poorhouse, where are your friends? When they come to tax the air you breathe and the cuts on your feet, where – are – your – friends?’ And he shakes his massive fist with each word.

  ‘I don't know, sir,’ I say after a long pause. ‘But… will you help me find them?’

  He sits down on a stone then and all his anger subsides. ‘I had friends once,’ he says. ‘Now I'm on my own – like a lone wolf,’ and he puts back his head and howls.

  ‘Sir!’ I gasp. ‘Don't excite yourself, sir.’

  ‘Do you know who I am?’

  I shake my head. Not a clue.

  ‘Name's Patrick McGann, he says, thumping his chest. Then he leers at me with his milky eye. ‘They call me Mad Pat,’ he says.

  Can't imagine why, I'm thinking, but I say nothing, and he looks at me again, sharp.

  ‘You want a house by the church,’ he says, cocking his head towards the steeple. ‘Twenty-two Half Street.’

  I'm taken aback by this. ‘A house, sir?’

  He waves his hand, dismissing me. ‘It's where they all end up, sooner or later. Woman there'll know who you want. Tell her Pat the Irishman sent you.’

  ‘Right…’ I say, still stumped. There's something in his manner I can't work out, but at least it looks like he's letting me go. ‘Er, thanks.’ And I step backwards and turn, anxious to be off.

  ‘You tell Beelzebub from me,’ he roars after me as I quicken my pace, ‘if he wants Pat the Irishman he can come for me himself!’

  I hurry away, grateful for my escape, over the low wall of the burial ground, round by the side of the church.

  I find Half Street easy enough, a row of crazy, tumbledown old houses, each one a different size and shape, some of them leaning forward so far it looks like they're listening to the sermons in the church. Windows are narrow and high off the ground. No numbers on the doors. Then I find one with 17 carved in oak lettering with leaves entwined round. There's a narrow passage next to this, barely wider than me, and the next house says 23.

  Stumped by this I stare at the ginnel. There's a pool of yellowish water where the ground ought to be, and the sound of poultry squawking beyond. No choice but to splash my way through.

  The ginnel opens into a yard. There's hens, even sadder and scraggier than the ones in the farm, and a tethered pig. Sure enough, the houses on Half Street have other houses attached to the backs. Maybe that's why it's called Half Street, because only half of it faces the front.

  Some of the doors are hanging off and all the paintwork's peeling. Windows are higher up and narrower than at the front, and most of them broken. Some of the highest ones have bars on them. I look from door to door, and the last one I come to has two number twos scratched on it with a knife.

  Luckily I paid more attention to numbers than letters in the workhouse. Satisfied I've found the place I rap smartly on the door, and when no one comes, rap again.

  There's the sound of shuffling and swearing then the door opens about an inch. ‘Who is it?’ growls a voice. It's a woman's growl, and I can see long, shaggy hair hanging down.

  ‘My name's Jack,’ I say. ‘I'm looking for someone and a friend of mine told me to come here.’

  The door opens wider. I see a big, shapeless woman, tied up like a sack in the middle. Shaggy black hair hangs around her face and black eyes peer at me suspiciously. ‘What friend?’ she says.

  ‘Pat the Irishman,’ I say, and her eyes open wide. Next thing I know, door's flung open and out comes a volley of curses, the like of which I've never heard before. I back off hastily as she lumbers towards me brandishing a stick.

  If I thought Cora was the ugliest woman I'd ever seen I was wrong. This one's teeth are like tombstones, long and curving and all standing apart from one another. I back off so far I crash into some bins and the stick comes crashing down beside me.

  ‘He's not really my friend!’ I cry. ‘I just met him… in the graveyard… I told him I was looking for the Little Angels and he said to come here. And to give you his name,’ I add bitterly, realizing I've been had.

  I see her give a start when I mention the Little Angels, then her eyes narrow.

  ‘Give me his name?’ she thunders. ‘I'll give you something to remember me by. Take this back to him!’ and she raises the stick again. Just in time I dodge to one side as it comes crashing on to the bin behind. At the same time I fancy I see a face appear quickly at the topmost window of the house. I only catch a glimpse of it through bars, then it disappears.

  ‘Beg pardon if I've given offence!’ I say, dodging the stick again. ‘I only came to ask if you'd seen them but seeing as you haven't, I'll be on my way!’ and I skip towar
ds the ginnel as madam brings her stick down yet again.

  To my surprise she doesn't follow. Probably too fat to fit down the passage. When I realize she's not following I stop on Half Street then, remembering the face at the window, go back to take another look at the ginnel. She's not there. Peering at my feet in the yellow water I spy something I'd not noticed before – a single white feather, long and plumey.

  No hen dropped that, but I do know where I've seen one just like it – on the hat of the Little Angel they called Bonnet.

  Course, there might be any number of hats like that in Manchester. Still, I pick it up, twirling it thoughtfully in my fingers and, as if by magic, when I look up Queenie's there.

  ‘Well, well,’ she says, ‘if it isn't the Sling.’

  ‘Queenie!’ I say, managing a grin. For close behind her there's Digger and Ors'n'cart.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Looking for you,’ I tell her.

  ‘Looks like you've found me.’

  ‘So it does. Who are you looking for?’

  She frowns and I see she's staring at the feather. I give it a twirl. ‘Soon as I saw this,’ I say, ‘I said to myself, “Something's up. If that feather's not Bonnet's,” I say, “then I'll eat her hat.”’

  Queenie's eyes narrow suspiciously. ‘What are you up to?’ she says.

  ‘Me?’ say I, all wide-eyed. ‘What should I be up to? I've come to see you, that's all – to see if I can join.’

  There's muttering behind Queenie at this, but Queenie says, ‘Why would we want you?’

  ‘Well,’ say I, twirling the feather again, ‘I know something you don't.’

  Queenie gives a sharp look at me and the feather. ‘Such as?’

  ‘I know where Bonnet is.’

  ‘Is that all?’ says Queenie, and the others laugh.

  ‘We know where Bonnet is,’ says Pigeon, pushing her way through. ‘Question is, how do we get her out?’

  ‘Maybe I can help.’

  ‘How?’ says Queenie. Course, I haven't got that far yet.

  ‘Well…’ I say. ‘You tell me who's got her and why she's got, and I'll tell you how I'll help. But only if I can join your gang.’

  Queenie's not impressed. ‘Push off,’ she says and makes as if to push past.

  ‘Wait!’ I tell her. ‘Don't go knocking at that door. She'll chase you off with a big stick.’

  Queenie finally looks impressed. ‘You mean to say that you knocked on the Tally-woman's door?’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘And lived?’ says Pigeon.

  ‘Last lad who did that,’ says Digger, ‘had his head split in two.’

  Thanks a lot, Pat, I think. ‘Well, she chased after me,’ I say, ‘but I dodged her. Who is she anyway?

  We've crowded back into the yard by this time and are whispering behind the bins. The pig snuffles and grunts at us suspiciously, like we're after his food.

  The Tally-woman's sometimes known as Mother Sprike. As far as the church knows she looks after orphans and street children, giving them a bed for the night and soup. She gets an allowance from the church for helping them ‘relieve the poor’. Really what she does is set them to work for her. She lives in that house with her five enormous daughters. They walk the streets for a living, Queenie says, looking at me as if I'd know what that meant, and I nod wisely. They pick up orphans, especially girls, and make them work for them in the house. Once the Tally-woman's got you she doesn't let you go, unless someone comes along and pays a big ransom. You pay her, supposedly for board and lodgings in that hole, and she keeps tally.

  ‘She's been after Bonnet for a while,’ Pigeon says, ‘because she's pretty.’ And again I nod as though I know what she means.

  ‘Well,’ I say when she's finished, ‘how much money does she want?’

  Everyone answers at once. ‘Too much!’

  ‘Loads!’

  ‘She's dearer than the best hotel in Manchester.’

  ‘I see,’ I say, fingering the coin, which is still in my pocket. I'm not ready to let it go just yet and besides, it might not be enough. ‘Well…’ I say again, to give myself time to think, and just then the pig snorts and sneezes and loads of muck flies up. And I have my big idea.

  3

  Pig

  ‘Have any of you lot,’ I ask, ‘got a knife?’

  Digger has, a short brown one with a folding blade. Might not be sharp enough.

  ‘We need to cut the pig loose,’ I explain, and they all look blank. I've ridden a pig before, on Bent Edge Farm. Main challenge is to get it to go in the right direction. ‘When I get on the pig, cut it loose,’ I say to Pigeon and Ors'n'cart. ‘Make as much noise as you can behind, on them bins. Queenie and Digger can knock on the Tally-woman's door, loud as you can. Rest of you try and make sure the pig goes forward. Use your sticks if it looks like swerving.’

  ‘What'll you be doing?’ says Queenie.

  ‘Riding the pig,’ I say and some of them laugh. ‘I'm going in,’ I tell them. ‘Tally-woman won't know what's hit her – you lot can come in after and get Bonnet.’

  ‘How will we know where she is?’ asks Pigeon, wide-eyed. I squint up towards the top of the house. ‘I saw a face up there,’ I say, pointing to a tiny window below the roof. ‘Just go in shouting her name.’

  Queenie doesn't seem too happy about all this but no one else has a better plan. I can see they're a bit nervous of the pig, which snorts and glares at us as we approach, but I walk right up to it holding out some cabbage leaves from the ground.

  ‘Just keep feeding her these,’ I say, and I grab her ears and swing my legs over.

  Digger's slow cutting that rope. The pig rears and bucks and I lie flat as I can, gripping hard with my knees. Pigeon and Ors'n'cart set up an unholy racket, banging on the bin lids with their sticks and the pig breaks the last strand itself.

  Pig goes wild, rearing and lunging. It runs every which way round the yard squealing like it's being slaughtered, and by some miracle I hang on. Soon the other kids get the hang of driving it forward with sticks and Queenie bangs on the Tally-woman's door.

  Out flies the Tally-woman, roused by the racket, and the pig charges forward.

  ‘What –?’ she says, and it's as far as she gets, for she's bowled over by the charging pig. It carries her along a narrow passage that stinks worse than the yard outside. – I'm clinging for dear life to its back and she's on its front – I'm right up against her horror-struck face. The others pile in behind and it all goes much better than I hoped, for the pig skids to a halt in front of the wall and sits down squarely on the Tally-woman. I slide off its back and follow the others up the narrow twisting stairs.

  ‘Bonnet!’ we yell. ‘Bonnet!’

  Just as I thought, she's in the topmost room. ‘In here, in here!’ she squawks, and we fly up the last lot of rickety, rotten stairs.

  The door's locked but luckily the wood's as rotten as the stairs. A few kicks send it flying open and Bonnet runs forward, feathers flying from her hat.

  Back down the stairs we go, hardly pausing to laugh at the Tally-woman who's still stuck under the pig, roaring and swearing. Pig's still screaming and Pigeon and Ors'n'cart are still banging away on the bins, but as soon as they see us they leave off and we all charge into the ginnel.

  ‘Which way?’ I shout, and Queenie swings round and stops dead in her tracks. Lumbering towards us up Half Street are five of the biggest women I've ever seen, all decked out in frills and furbelows, each one more brightly painted than the last. When they see us the biggest one lets out a roar and they all gather up their skirts and charge forward. ‘This way!’ I yell, hoofing it in the opposite direction.

  Though I haven't a clue where we're going, I'm leading the way. Past a long line of rickety houses, through a ginnel into a yard, and out again on to a broad thoroughfare where the gas lamps and the lights from shop windows shine as bright as day and carriages and hackney cabs roll past with rich people inside. Still the five enormous
daughters of Mother Sprike gallop after us like carnival figures, so everywhere we run people and children point and laugh and stare. I grab one barrow off a lad hardly older than me and tumble it into their path, him shouting in surprise – but nothing stops them and it's getting desperate.

  I turn off down an alleyway that leads to yet another yard where women and drunks sit in doorways, and little kids play in the dirt with no clothes. We shoot out the other end and double back on usselves and it works. The five enormous daughters grind to a halt and can't work out which way we've gone. Then Queenie pulls my sleeve and takes the lead. We head back along the street and duck into another ginnel, and by some miracle we're back where we started. Two, three ginnels more and we're by the church and the burial yard. Mad Pat sees us and sets up a howl and I shake my fist at him as we run past. Round another corner, through an alley and we're on the banks of the river itself.

  Tall houses lean over like they're about to fall in. Some of them seem like they've already slid part way down the bank. In front there's a narrow path, so narrow you can only go along it sideways, and an iron rail that's rusting and falls off towards the end. Below us the river heaves and churns, brown and purple with dye, and the great factory opposite belches out coloured smoke, and lets out a stink that's worse than the sewers. But just as the broken rail gives way we come to a door, painted blue, hanging off its hinges.

  Queenie and Digger push the door aside and we're in. A dark square room like a cellar with one tiny window, high up and barred. It must have flooded at one time and the water just covers our feet. There's no roof, either, just planks of wood where the ceiling must have been. We stand around, panting, and start to laugh.

  ‘We did it!’

  ‘Did you see them?’

  ‘All them apples from the barrow!’

  ‘The look on their faces!’

  ‘Do you think she's still under that pig?’

  ‘Are we all here?’ Queenie says, and I try to get my breath back while she counts. There's Digger, Ors'n’cart, Half-moon, Pigeon, Bonnet, the little lad with the bent leg – Lookout, and another lad I don't know called Pickings. There were more of them in Angel Meadow.