After the door shut behind him, she sat looking at it, wondering what she would have done over the years without him. She, too, remembered the day he had come into the yard and cheeked her father, telling him he could choose his name from Smith, Jones, or Robinson. He had said he thought he must have been eight but that he didn't really know. At that time he would have been like many thousand of other youngsters, the sweepings of the hungry 'forties.
He must have been born in the middle 'thirties, when hunger was already rampant. The corn laws had seen to that. He had been with them for some time; two or three years before, he had told her that he didn't know where he had been born, or who his parents were. He only knew of the life he had led in the baby-farming house, one of seventeen young children. He had made his escape on the day he later confronted her father in the yard. She had taken to him from the first, and he to her, perhaps, on his part, because she had given him some hot mutton broth and let him eat as much bread as he could manage, which had been half a loaf; and then she had rigged him out in odd things.
Her father would joke about him to her when he'd had a drink over much: 'Ready-made son you've got now then, daughter, is it?' he'd say. 'Why didn't you have a shot when the goin' was good? It's too late now.' And many were the times when she had wanted to bawl at him, 'And who was to blame for that? You were, and me mam.' Lazy bitch, she was: lying on this couch day after day feeling too bad to move; but she could go upstairs and carry out the duties of a wife whenever the fancy took her. More likely in case he should go along the road to ease himself on Alice Mulcahy. Yet he was the kindest man you would wish to meet when the drink wasn't on him. It was she who had cared for him, and looked after him, too, until he died, and in the bed upstairs in which he had been born, and his father before him, in the days when this house had really been a farmhouse and the land about had been glowing with crops in their rotation. There had been cows in that yard outside and horses stabled around.
Her great-grandparents had lived in this house; it was her great-grandfather who had bought the farm; but from where had come the money for a Polish immigrant to buy a farm in those far-off days remained a mystery to both her grandfather and, of course, her father. All her father remembered about his grandfather was that he was a dour man and that the only relaxation he ever gave himself was at the races.
Therein, she thought, lay the source of the money as well as its eventual loss, because, when her grandfather inherited the place, the farm was already in debt. By the time he died there were no animals left in the yard, nor land to call his own, for it had been sold to the building men, who were throwing up The Courts in order to house the rabble from starving Ireland and those flooding in from all the villages from miles around, all in the hope of being set on in the great new factories that made linen and lawn
and blankets and shawls, everything that would go to cover a human being.
It had been from this influx that the rag business had started. Before that they had sold coal from the yard. She remembered when the coal had finished.
It was the time when her mother took to the couch because she couldn't stand the sight and sound of the hordes of women and children with their buckets, and the arranged fights among the urchins so that one or two of their gang could get away with some lumps of coal, which would make all the difference between having a fried meal or freezing both inside and out.
She could never remember just how the rag business started, but she recollected that she no longer went three times a week to the paid school. Her education from then on was the Sunday afternoon spent in the basement underneath the church in Halton Street, chanting the catechism.
It was scrap iron that came into the yard first, and bits and pieces of lead. What prompted her father to
go out with the hand-cart she didn't know, because underneath it all he was a proud man. She only remembered that right from the beginning he took her with him, and it was she who was sent to the doors to ask politely if they had anything to sell. At first they never went round The Courts; the route was always to the outskirts and to where houses had gardens, small or large. But there again, he never sent her to the really big houses because, as he said, if there was anything going, the servants would have had the first pick. Later, he was to learn that the terraces were really the best area, for here a woman would take pride in being seen to hand over some cast-offs, because, in a way, this indicated that she was well able to replace them.
The Saturday morning market in the yard was taken from the pattern of the street market, where the clothes were laid out in heaps on the ground with a decent garment on the top of each pile to tempt the passer-by to look further. So, what they had managed to gather during the week, her father would arrange on makeshift trestles in the yard.
Should it rain, he would bring the stuff under the arches. But if a woman should ask for a particular garment, he would take her into what had been the front room of the house and there, in comparative privacy, she could make her choice and try on the clothes. Yet with all his hard work and, definitely, hers, too, he seemed hardly to make a living.
It wasn't until almost his last breath that he told her of the board beneath his bed and what was under it, assuring her he had saved it for her. And after raising the board and finding six wash leather bags of sovereigns she had really believed him, and for only the second time she could remember in her life, she had cried. That was until the day of his funeral, when his fancy woman, Alice Mulcahy, through gin-inspired sorrow, told her that they had been making plans to go to America. She had known her father to be a kindly man." he would do anything to keep the peace and keep people happy.
But then, a week later, she had a visit from a strange man enquiring for her father, and who, after being told of his demise, informed her he had been asked to sell the property for which he had felt able to assure her father he would get a good price, seeing that land around was scarce. And he had ended by saying, 'He'll never get to America now.'
She remembered, following the man's visit, that she had sat dumb with rage, and had then rushed upstairs to his room, and every article belonging to him, even to his razor strop, she had brought down and thrown into the yard for the Saturday morning onslaught. And that morning's takings had trebled and brought her new custom, for he had always seen to it that he was shod well and had good small clothes and shirts.
It was now ten years since he had died, and during the first year she had herself pushed the handcart out almost every day for, except for young Ben, she was on her own. With the years, it had seemed to get heavier, so that now she made only two excursions a week, mostly to the outskirts, making a point never to visit the same house more than twice a year. And there was also another point she made: she would discard her black coat, black skirt, and black hat once she left the environs of The Courts. Early on, she had learned one thing: if the poor saw you prospering they didn't deal with you if they could help it, their idea being they weren't going to give you a hand. So, for The Courts she would wear the old black coat with the large pockets at the side holding the narrow strips of candy rock in one and the coppers in the other. However, it wasn't often she had to fork out the coppers when pushing the handcart through The Courts. A caring parent would pay a penny or tuppence for some old coat or skirt that could be cut up to meet the needs of some child.
She had discovered, too, one good source of decent clothing: periodically, churches and chapels would hold a sale of garments given them by their better-off parishioners. To those ladies who were responsible for dealing with this charitable effort, she would offer as much as five shillings for a bundle of what appeared to them as less attractive articles, especially if they were food-stained, as some old gentlemen's coats often were. But she knew that Chinese Charlie would clean and press a garment to make it look almost new and she could get as much as two shillings for a good overcoat or a suit.
So, over the years there had been a number of leather bags added to those under the loose floorboards
beneath the bed in which she now spent her nights and, in her time, expected to die...
Ben came in, saying, 'Billy the welder is roaring in The Crown. That'll mean he'll flail the lot of them tonight, an' there won't be a penny of his pay left for her. He was screaming his head off about the war and the Russians. He was all for sending Gladstone over to the "bloody" Russians.'
He grinned now. 'It was really funny to listen to him. They just stopped him from choking the life out of Bobby Carter because he had said everybody
was for the war: if we didn't show them Russians what was what, who would? By! I thought Bobby Carter was a brave man to stand up to Billy, and him twice his size.'
As he put the bottle and the can on the table, he said, 'Have a drop of gin first, eh?'
'Aye,' she said. 'An' don't leave the glass dry. But about Billy Middleton. Something should be done in that quarter. He's practically crippled that oldest lad of his, and him not ten yet, and she won't have a word said against him. Stupid bitch! The next thing'll be, he'll do for one of them, then she'll find out where she stands.'
'Odd, when you come to think of it' - he handed her a full wine glass of gin - 'but they say he's like he is because his father and mother were religious.
When he was a lad they used to tie him
up in the cellar, starve him for days and read the Bible to him as food for his soul. So since his old fella died and he couldn't take it out on him, he's taken it out on his young missis and the young 'uns.'
He again sat down on the settle opposite her, and sipped a glass of beer before saying thoughtfully,
'Funny, when you come to think about it, but it's what happens when you're a bairn that sets the pattern for a man or woman, in most cases anyway.' Then looking up towards the ceiling, he added, 'I wonder what she'll turn out to be like, that young 'un?'
'Well, there's one thing that seems sure to me: she's not goin' to have it as easy as she's had it up till now, by the sound of her.'
'What d'you think'll happen to her if her mother goes along the line?'
'It'll be the workhouse, where else? But then, from what I hear, that's overrun with bairns; they've stopped gathering them in from the streets. So, likely, they'll farm her out to somebody and she'll be put to work, probably as a runner in one of the mills.'
'That'll be a pity. I wouldn't like to see that happen to her.' He looked down into his glass and in a much lower voice now he said, 'Annie was put into the mill when she was seven, the same age as that young
'un.' Again his head jerked towards the ceiling. 'She did a twelve-hour day, sometimes fourteen. They say things are better for the bairns now since they brought the hours down to ten, but some of the pigs get over that. Before, they used to count their breaks in the twelve hours, now their breaks are in their own time. It's against the law, but they get off with it. Annie never knew what it was to have a pair of boots on her feet until she was ten.'
'Oh, my God! D'you want me to cry over her?
Anyway, she's had almost twenty years since that to get her feet warm.'
'There's two sides to you, you know, Aggie, and one's unfair and as bitter as gall.'
As he rose from the settle and put his glass down none too gently on the table, she said, 'Aye. Well, now go on and tell me me good side.'
'I doubt if you've got one.'
For a moment, she said nothing, but sat watching him pour out a mug of beer; then she said bitterly,
'You're an ungrateful devil. You know that?'
He put the can back on the table, placing his free hand across the top of it for a moment; then he took the mug over to the couch and, handing it to her, said, 'You know that isn't true. The fact that I'm here at this minute proves it.'
She sipped at the froth, then sat looking towards the fire. But when he went to take his seat again on the settle, she said, 'There's no need for you to hang about; get yourself away. But lock the gate and take the key with you, and don't make a rattle when you come back. And tomorrow, you could put a drop of oil on that loft door, and the stable one an' all; they screech like barn owls.'
He grinned at her. 'Barn owls?' he said; 'well, they might be an' all as we only close them at night. Barn owls ... You'll be all right?'
'Have you ever known me to be anything else?'
'Aw!' He shook his head with impatience. 'Nobody can be kind to you, can they, Aggie? You won't take kindness, will you? You get worse, you know that?
more sour.' He turned now and went hastily from the room, and she repeated to herself, 'You get worse, you know that? more sour.'...
The twilight was fading fast when she entered the bedroom but she could see that the child was still sitting bolt upright in the bed.
'You should be asleep.'
'I... I was waiting for you. It... it was getting dark.'
'It's a long time off dark. Lie down now.'
The child lay down; then she watched the big fat woman undress herself, noticing particularly that she did not wear corsets like her mama, but that she wore a habit shirt, and one bodice petticoat and two waist petticoats. Her shift, too, was white, but it was sticking to her body here and there with sweat.
She watched Aggie ease it off her flesh, then take a nightdress from a drawer and pull it over her head, and lastly, sit on the side of the bed and draw off her stockings.
When Aggie climbed into bed, such was her weight that the child rolled towards her, and her head seemed to fall naturally between her breasts and when the small face peered up at her and the small whisper said, 'You're very big,' Aggie said,
'Aye, I'm very big. An' you're very small; an' you have too much to say, so go to sleep.'
As the head snuggled into her and the thin arm came round her waist, Aggie drew in a long tight breath; then when her own arm automatically went around the child, she closed her eyes tightly, because for the first time in her life she was feeling flesh close to her own.
TWO
It was eight o'clock the following morning when Ben came back from the town. Aggie was dressed for the day: her hands and face looked clean, her hair had been combed; she was wearing a clean blue-striped blouse. She had just finished her breakfast of dripping and bread and a piece of cold bacon when Ben came into the room. She said immediately, 'Well?'
'She'll be up at ten o'clock before the Justice.'
'Did you find out anything more? Who did you talk to?'
'Well, would I talk to anybody else but your dear Constable Fenwick.'
'Well, what did my dear Constable Fenwick say?'
'He said, she's among the others. There's nine of
'em. But he has no details of her because he didn't bring her in, he said.., which was kind of him.' He now pulled a face at Aggie and went on, 'He said he thought she was new to the job.'
'Is that all?'
'Aye, except he pointed out that if she was new to the job and she tried to muzzle in around that quarter, the others would soon make short shrift of her. Remember the other month, it was in the papers, wasn't it? about them tearing the clothes off that one who tried to queer their pitch? If I remember, that was on a Saturday night when the gents came down for their pickings. Anyway, I've been thinkin' about her. She's not up to much, is she, if she takes a bairn like that 'un with her when she's on the make?'
'Well, likely it was the lesser of two evils. She would have had to leave her alone in the house, and Nelson Close isn't in the suburbs, is it?'
'Is she still asleep?'
'She was when I left her.'
He sat down at the table now, and she pushed the bread board and the dripping towards him, saying,
'Want a piece of bacon?'
'No; I don't feel like it this mornin'.'
'No, you wouldn't. You didn't get back into the loft until one o'clock, did you?'
'Timing me now, are you?'
'No, but I did wonder why you don't move
your bed along there. Dear Annie'll make room for you.'
'Yes, I could. I've t
hought about it, an' all.' They stared at each other; then, his tone changing, he said, 'What's goin' to happen to the young 'un if the mother goes along the line?'
'Well, we went into this last night, didn't we?
All I'm concerned with is handin' her over to her rightful parent or whoever's goin' to take responsibility for her.'
'You're goin' down there?'
'I'm goin' down there to the court? Aye, I am.'
'Well, well, well. You mean to get rid of her, don't you?'
She now placed her large square hands on the table and leant towards him, and her voice was low and hard as she said, 'Well, what's the choice? Can you see me keepin' her here? Look around you, look at the refinements I've got to offer.'
He didn't answer her for a moment; when he did, it was quietly. 'She could do worse, a hell of a lot worse. I can speak for that, can't I, Aggie?'
She straightened up now and bawled across at him, 'You were a lad; now you're a young man. She's just a chit, and a knowin' one at that, who's been brought up in a different atmosphere. It mightn't have been the class but there's been some schoolin'
there an' some refinement. Can you see her fittin'
into this? Aw!' She shrugged. 'You're soft in the head. You know that? It's them books you're readin'.
Mr Dickens is gettin' at you. Help the poor. My God!
What does he know about it? The only thing I feel about Mr Dickens is he's makin' his money out of exposing misery.'
'Aye; well-' he got on to his feet now - 'it takes somebody to expose it. God Almighty! there's plenty of it, and nobody's bothered much with it except here and there. They keep their distance; the smell of the poor's enough for them. Mr Dickens is doin'
some good.'
'Well, he's certainly got a supporter in you. But while we're on, I'll tell you this; you'll go blind readin' that small print.'
'Oh Aggie, shut up!' He had turned and was starting to walk towards the door when he received a full blast from her as she yelled, 'Don't you tell me to shut up! you young prig, else you'll find the door locked on you. Aye, you will. I'm not as soft as all that. It's come to something, hasn't it, when I can't speak in me own house now.' She addressed the fire, saying, What's come over him anyway? He's never stood up to me before. All through that 'un.
The Rag Nymph Page 3