A Child's Voice Calling (9 page)

And sometimes she would let herself drift into another dream – another summer garden where she was Anna-Maria Drummond, playing on the lawn with her little daughter Mabel.

I’d have married you, Anna-Maria, and called the child mine.

Mabel Drummond, the eldest of a family of healthy, nicely dressed, well-behaved children.

Just for an hour or two . . . Annie Court’s world was bathed in a rosy glow.

And nobody, she thought, knew about the screw-topped jar hidden behind the curtain.

MABEL LOOKED GUILTILY
towards the wall clock. Gone half past four. Time she were home. The floor had been swept, the crockery washed and put away; the stove was raked out and the battered enamelled potties hung in a row beside the sink and towel rails. Matron was ready to lock up, but a little brother and sister still remained uncollected from the Hallam Road Babies Mission. Their mother who worked at Price’s candleworks had not turned up and Miss Carter, the Matron, frowned and shook her head. ‘This is the second time it’s happened in two weeks, Mabel,’ she said. ‘If she’s not here by five I shall have to take them home myself – and give her a warning. If she can’t come herself, she should ask somebody else to fetch them.’

Mabel shone a reassuring smile at the forlorn little pair, both under four years old. If only she could take them home with her and look after them! ‘D’ye want me to wait, Matron?’ she asked, feeling obliged to make the offer, while hoping it would not be accepted.

‘No, Mabel, not this time. It’s been a busy day for you without Miss Clay. You’d better be going now.’

‘Thank yer very much, Matron.’ With a last smile and a wave to the two small children Mabel hurried off. Miss Carter watched her from the window, almost running along Hallam Road towards Lavender Hill. She found Mabel Court a willing worker
and so good with the young children who poured into the Mission each day from just before eight o’clock until half past four. Thirty-eight of them had been in today and as she’d had to send Miss Clay home with a sore throat, she and Mabel had worked non-stop, with scarcely time for a cup of tea and the sandwich they brought with them. As the day’s work ended, Mabel’s face began to show signs of tension and she always seemed in a hurry to get home. Almost as if she was afraid of what she might find when she got there, Miss Carter thought, although there was no doubt at all that Mabel loved her work.

The Mission had been started by a lady who had given up her suffragist activities in order to devote her energies to what she saw as a more pressing need; her generous subsidy kept the fee down to threepence per day per child, and that included milk and bread and butter at midday. Miss Carter, a trained nurse from the East London Hospital for Children, had been appointed as Matron with a local grocer’s daughter, Ada Clay, as her assistant. School leaver Mabel Court had at first been considered too young at fourteen to be taken on as extra help with such responsible work, but thanks to her teachers’ report and Dr Knowles’s enthusiastic letter of recommendation she had been given the job at five shillings a week. Oh, the thrill of that moment when the letter came with the wonderful news! Mabel had literally danced for joy at this first step towards achieving her dream and had quickly become indispensable to Miss Carter. Although two years on she earned only seven shillings weekly, her true reward was the love and trust she saw in the faces of the little children who crowded round her at the Mission.

On reaching Sorrel Street she found that there had been no need to worry. Her mother was in the kitchen brewing a pot of tea and Mabel breathed a secret sigh of relief. Alice was sitting on the piano stool reading a twopenny romance she had got from a classmate and George was bringing in coal from the back, ready for the range oven tomorrow.

There was a sound of quick, eager footsteps as little Daisy rushed to greet her eldest sister. ‘Mabel, Mabel, where have yer been?’

‘Up to the palace, to visit the Queen!’ cried Mabel gaily, picking up the dark-eyed girl who gleefully continued with the adapted rhyme.

‘Mabel, oh, Mabel, what did yer there?’

‘The King an’ Queen told me to sit on a chair!’ replied Mabel and George looked up with a grin.

‘I told ’em I’d only come up for a dare!’ he added and Daisy squealed with laughter.

‘The Queen’s got lots o’ nits in her hair!’ She giggled.

But Mabel pursed her lips on hearing this version. ‘Now then, that’s quite enough o’ that, little Miss Cheeky,’ she said, putting the six-year-old down with a warning shake of her head. Turning to her mother, she asked, ‘What sort of a day have yer had, Mum?’

‘Oh, not too bad, dear, I was all right once I got going.’ Annie gave her a tired smile and they exchanged a kiss.

‘Alice, come and put this ironing away,’ called Mabel. ‘Don’t leave it all to yer mother. Any news o’ Dad?’ she asked Annie.

‘Still at Newmarket and might stay there over the weekend. You know he lodges with that chap who married the publican’s daughter there, they’re as
thick as thieves. He’ll probably be back on Monday, who knows with your father?’ She shrugged and sighed.

They were all glad when Mabel came home. She had become the central pivot of the family as her mother’s health had gradually declined into a vague semi-invalidism. Now in her middle thirties, Annie was thin and careworn, her face as lined as a woman of fifty. Half her neighbours envied her for having such a dutiful, home-loving daughter as Mabel, while the other half thought her far too dependent on the good-natured girl who at sixteen seemed to have no life of her own.

‘Shouldn’t Albert be in by now?’ Mabel asked. ‘He’s bringin’ supper, isn’t he?’ It was Friday, and her mouth watered at the thought of fried fish and chips, her favourite dish.

‘They might have put him on lates again, you know how they take advantage of the young boys,’ said Annie with a worried look. There had been a fatal accident in a railway siding the previous month and Annie was constantly anxious for her son’s safety.

‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry, Mum, Albert’s got his head well screwed on,’ said Mabel quickly. ‘He’ll be a driver before he’s twenty, you’ll see.’ She had long decided that her brother Albert was a law unto himself; he had gone to work at the railway depot on leaving school and came home as black as any coal miner from his shifts. At fifteen he contributed more to the household than Mabel and affected a workmanlike air of toughness that annoyed Alice who looked down her dainty nose at his rough manners; he teased everybody except his mother and Mabel, the sister to whom he remained as close as ever.

‘Well, I hope he hurries up, or we’ll all be starving,’ said Alice, turning down the corners of her mouth. She had one more year at school and then had her sights on the city and the opportunities it offered to bright, ambitious girls. Alice saw herself as one of the new young businesswomen with a career in the Post Office, perhaps in the big new telephone exchange at St Paul’s Churchyard, earning thirty shillings a week. No more dirty-faced, sticky-pawed children, no more coarse ragging from Albert or bossing from Mabel: the very thought of it seemed like heaven to the pretty, discontented girl.

‘It’ll be all the better for waitin’ for, I reckon,’ said George, referring to their supper and Mabel shot him a grateful look. Though not yet eleven, George was a serious-minded boy, old for his years and so
nice
, always sensitive to the feelings of others. He was far more willing than Alice to help in the house, even to pushing the wet washing through the mangle and hanging it out on the line or spreading it over the wooden maidens that took up so much room on wet washdays. He could be relied on to take Daisy to and from school, turning his back on diversions like football and tip-cat, and he usually managed to steer clear of fights. He could defend himself when he had to and would go to the rescue of smaller boys who were being bullied, but he preferred a quiet life. With his wavy fair hair and blue eyes, he was the complete opposite of Albert, who called him his little sister, a taunt that rolled off George like water from the proverbial duck’s back; for like Mabel, George knew that his brother’s good points far outweighed the deliberately sardonic impression he liked to give.

Albert swaggered in to cheers at half past six, accompanied by two other young railwaymen, each
carrying deliciously greasy packets wrapped in newspaper.

‘Ooh, don’t that smell a bit of all right!’ said George, sniffing appreciatively.

‘Put them on the table, the plates are all ready an’ warm from the oven,’ ordered Mabel, bustling around and putting out extra knives and forks for the visitors whom Albert now introduced with a flourish.

‘Sam Mackintosh an’ ‘Arry Drover, founder members wiv yours truly o’ the union against exploitation o’ young workers!’ he announced, waving his arm towards the pair. ‘Sam an’ ‘Arry, meet me mum an’ me lovely sister Mabel – the rest of ’em ain’t worf a mention, except for me little darlin’ – come ’ere, Daisy, an’ give yer poor old ’ard-workin’ bruvver a kiss!’

The little girl’s dark eyes sparkled as he lifted her up and twirled her round above his head.

‘Daisy, Daisy, gimme yer answer,
do
! I’m half crazy, all for the love o’
you
!’ he sang, while Alice rolled up her eyes at such caperings and Mabel smiled fondly, until she remembered her manners and turned to greet their guests. Sam Mackintosh was eyeing her up and down in a boldly admiring manner, while the other young man stood back as if rather unsure of himself. He was of middle height, slightly built, a few years older than the other two and, while not obviously good-looking, Mabel immediately thought what a kind face he had. Like Sam, he too was looking at her, but far more respectfully. She wanted to put him at his ease, but was not sure what to say and felt herself blushing.

‘Cor, I’m that parched!’ groaned Albert. ‘Put the kettle on, Mabel, for ’Oly ’Arry, ’cause ’e’s signed the
pledge. Sam, pick up a couple o’ jugs an’ go down to the public for beer for us ordin’ry men, will yer?’

At fifteen, Albert was a well-grown lad, as handsome as his father with the same dark eyes and hair, the same strong white teeth with the two prominent incisors that added to his attraction. The difference was that Albert cared nothing about his appearance; his cap was stuck on the back of his head, his jacket sleeves were frayed and the bottoms of his ragged trousers were tied with string. He despised Jack Court’s insistence on well-pressed suits and polished boots, and seemed to take a perverse pride in looking as if he had just come from the railway depot. Which, of course, he had.

As they gathered round the table for their fried fish banquet, Harry Drover glanced apologetically at Mabel who seemed to be more in charge than Albert’s mother. ‘I hope it’s all right, comin’ in on yer like this, Miss Court. Yer brother’s such a card, the rest of us never know when he’s serious or pullin’ our legs.’

His natural politeness had an immediate appeal for Mabel. ‘Albert’s a comic right enough, but he’s a good sort at heart and any friend o’ his is very welcome here – ‘specially as ye’ve brought yer own supper,’ she answered with a smile. ‘D’ye want a cup o’ tea? The kettle’s just boiled.’

‘That’d be very nice, er, Miss Court.’

‘And you’re – Mr Drover?’

‘Call ’im ‘Arry – ovverwise known as ‘Oly ‘Arry, ’cause ’e don’t drink, don’t swear and don’t go wiv wimmin!’ chortled Albert.

Harry looked embarrassed and Mabel quickly cut in. ‘Take no notice o’ my brother, ye’ll only make him worse if yer do. Er, would yer like to sit down,
Mr Drover? Over there with my brother George – Alice, put out the salt an’ vinegar, and fetch some glasses down for the other, er, boys.’

‘Can I have beer an’ all?’ begged George.

‘No, yer can’t. Tea for you, Mother?’

Annie nodded and Harry, who was still standing, handed round the cups as Mabel poured them out.

‘Is there any bread an’ butter?’ demanded Alice.

‘Margarine, an’ cut it yerself if yer want it. Now, has everybody got what they want? Good, so let’s all sit down.’ Mabel passed a hand across her forehead to push back a stray lock of hair and was again aware of Harry Drover’s brown eyes upon her. He immediately looked away, and she noticed that as he sat at the table he briefly bowed his head and lowered his eyes. She remembered how her mother had said grace before meals when they had all been children, though the custom had lapsed in recent years. On an impulse she decided to revive it now. ‘Would yer mind sayin’ grace for us, Mr Drover?’ she asked.

His face lit up with pleasure at the request, though Albert gave a splutter and Mabel quelled him with a glance, looking swiftly round the table with a wordless command for silence. They all folded their hands and bowed their heads. Harry Drover cleared his throat. ‘Heavenly Father, we thank Thee for this food, an’ commend ourselves to Thy service,’ he recited quickly and they all responded with ‘Amen’.

Albert winked at Sam but made no comment; Mabel seldom insisted on her authority, but when she did she had to be obeyed.

Over the meal the talk was about the problems of the unskilled younger men who like Albert had gone
straight from school to work on the rapidly expanding railways which now criss-crossed the whole country.

‘Nothin’s gonna be done about poor Tom, the boy ’oo was killed when an engine backed into ’im, up against the buffers in that sidin’,’ said Albert grimly. ‘’Is mum ain’t gettin’ a penny off the company, they’re tryin’ to make out it was ’is own fault, an’ ’im only just started, poor little blighter. Bloody murderers, that’s what they are – sorry, Mum, but if I ’ad my way I’d string the buggers up first thing Monday mornin’.’

‘Albert, your language is terrible,’ said his mother, ‘though of course I understand how you feel. Can’t your unions do anything to help the poor woman?’

‘What union?’ muttered Albert angrily. ‘No good lookin’ to ASLEF to do anythin’.’

‘The fact is, Mrs Court, unions can’t do much for a young unskilled lad who isn’t – er, wasn’t – eligible to join,’ Harry tried to explain, stumbling over the unfamiliar word.