Alley Urchin (11 page)

‘You just keep your nose clean, and work towards your ticket-of-leave,’ Emma told Nelly, ‘that’s all I ask of you.’ She sat down on the edge of the bed, her clear grey eyes roving over that bright, impish face which she loved dearly. ‘I’ll help you all I can, Nelly . . . you know that, don’t you? When I go to England, I want to take you with me. We’ve been through so much together, Nelly . . . you and I.’

Of a sudden Emma fell into a deep silence and Nelly suspected that she was thinking of a particular night when the two of them had been bundled into a prisoners’ waggon, and Emma’s newborn daughter had been left behind. Now, when the tears began tumbling down Emma’s sad face, Nelly was quickly beside her, her arms about her friend and the tears moist in her own eyes. ‘Aw, Emma darlin’ . . . let the past go, why don’t yer? Please . . . let it go, or it’ll tear yer apart.’

Emma was crying softly, and when she turned to look at Nelly, the pain was heavy in her anguished eyes. ‘Oh Nelly, she was so beautiful . . . mine and Marlow’s daughter.’ A faint smile passed over her lovely face as she said, ‘How like Marlow she was with that rich, black hair . . . so tiny she was, so very lovely. Oh, Nelly,
why
did she have to die? How could the Lord be so cruel as to punish an innocent babe for
my
sins?’

Emma was sobbing now, and as Nelly held her fast in her arms, she was smitten with guilt. All these years she had let Emma believe, beyond a shadow of doubt, that the child had been lifeless when it had rolled into the gutter. How could she tell Emma otherwise, when even the slightest hope that the child was alive would have made her exile even more of a nightmare!

Nelly was not certain. She could never be certain, because the lamplight had thrown strange shadows on the cobbles that night, and the darkness had been filled with all manner of sounds. But Nelly recalled that, as the waggon sped away to the ship which would take them to the other side of the world, an old tramp seemed to collect Emma’s child into her shawl. The child made the crying sound of all newborns. She hadn’t told Emma then, and she was afraid to tell her now, for fear Emma would never forgive her. And, anyway, it was far too late now. Far too late! Too much water had gone under the bridge, and there was no turning back. Besides which, it was more than likely that, even if Emma’s child had lived on that night, she wouldn’t have survived long. It was a sorry thing, but a true one nevertheless.

Part Two

England 1874

Old Hatreds

Chapter Four

‘Stop thief!’ The shrill cry of alarm rang through Blackburn Market Place and, instantly, all eyes were turned in one direction. What they saw was a well-built young woman bedecked in a burgundy outfit of ribbons and velvet, with a fur-trimmed cape and extravagant bonnet, and beside her a boy of some ten years old, both shocked and the one attempting to console the other. From their dress, their manner, and the way in which the woman tenderly sobbed into her silken handkerchief, it was obvious to one and all that they were gentry-folk. ‘See!’ cried the woman, waving her handkerchief in the direction of a small, dark-haired waif who was making good her escape. ‘
There
she is! Stop her, somebody . . . she stole my purse!’

‘Why! That’s Molly!’ one stall-holder cried. ‘’Er as belongs ter the tramp!’

‘You
know
the thief?’ Martha Trent was sufficiently recovered to confront the burly fellow, her expression one of disbelief and outrage. ‘Then you must inform the authorities at once. The ragamuffin must be brought before them . . . put away until she learns her lesson! She had my purse, I tell you!’

‘That don’t surprise me none,’ replied the burly stall-holder, grinning through the gaps in his blackened teeth. ‘What
do
surprise me, lady . . . is that you knew about it. What! I’ve known that little bugger steal the baccy from a gentleman’s pipe when it were still in ’is mouth!’ He flashed a proud and merry glance into the crowd of gawping onlookers and, knowing the little thief as well as he did and having seen the very event he described, began roaring with laughter. ‘Aye!’ rejoined another. ‘There ain’t a pickpocket anywhere as can show
that
scallywag a thing or two . . . why, I do believe she could dodge a’tween a unsuspecting gentleman’s legs an’ steal the very breeches from ’is arse!’

At this the crowd erupted into tumultuous laughter, which in turn sent Martha Trent into a fit. ‘Fetch a policeman, Edward!’ she instructed the dark-haired boy at her side. Then, when he hesitated, she nudged him between the shoulder-blades and sent him forward a pace or two. ‘Hurry up, child!’ she snapped and, lifting her arm above her head, she daintily touched her fingertips over her brow. ‘Oh! . . . It’s all too much!’ she cried, calling the boy back. ‘Get me a carriage . . . take me home, quickly!’ As the boy turned back and came towards his mother, an older woman in a ragged shawl appeared on the scene. She had a peculiar hopping gait as she made her way to where the boy’s mother was feigning a swooning fit. At the sight of the old woman, there were a few soft remarks and a series of little sniggers.

‘What’s the matter, dearie?’ The woman sidled up to where Martha Trent was precariously perched on an upturned orange-box. ‘Been robbed, ’ave yer? By! There’s some bad rascals about an’ that’s a fact!’ She cooed, becoming agitated when there was a series of giggles from the onlookers. ‘Be orf with yer!’ she shouted, rounding on them and making a good show of castigating them. ‘Yer should be ashamed o’ yerselves . . . ’Ere’s a fine lady robbed, and there’s not
one
o’ yer fetched a bobby!’ She shook her fist. She also winked her eye. In a moment, the crowd had dispersed, everybody going in separate directions and each one quietly smiling at the old woman’s antics. But though she was a scoundrel, they knew that Sal Tanner was harmless enough. Since her brother Marlow had been gone these past nine years and more, the poor soul had had a hard and hungry life. Then there was another mouth to feed! One which didn’t rightly belong to Sal, but which she had found in the gutter nigh on nine years back. Right outside the prison gates, or so it was said. Old Sal had called the girl by the name of Molly, and together they haunted the alleyways of Blackburn town, foraging a living where they could and occasionally ‘relieving’ the gentry of their fripperies and fineries. Oh yes, canny Sal had taught the girl well, until it was hard to tell who was the better thief! Often though, when the work was about, the girl loved to toil along the canal, helping to load and offload the goods ferried about on the barges. She had a deep, natural love of the sea, and often stowed away, or scrounged a ride along the Leeds and Liverpool Canal into the big docks at Liverpool. Old Sal though would go into a frenzy, because she was fearful that Molly would be taken by the sea . . . as she truly believed her brother Marlow had been.

‘Now then, dearie . . . let’s get yer a carriage, eh?’ Sal made to take hold of Martha Trent’s arm. ‘We’ll ’ave yer back ’ome safe an’ sound in no time at all.’ She stepped closer, and as she stretched out one arm as though to assist the shocked and outraged woman, her other arm came up in a crafty move to pluck the cameo brooch from the lapel of Martha Trent’s fur-trimmed cape.

‘I’ll see my mother home, thank you.’ The boy Edward had stepped between old Sal and his mother. He had seen her intention, but made no hue or cry. Instead he smiled into her wrinkled face, met her bloodshot and boozy gaze with firm, dark green eyes, and in a decisive voice that caused her to step back a pace, he said, ‘The authorities can’t be too far away, for they do patrol the area. Don’t worry, my mother will be fine.’

‘Of
course
I’ll be fine!’ rejoined his mother, who, at the sight of old Sal creeping up on her, had made a remarkable recovery. ‘Go away, you!’ she told the old woman, at the same time holding her silken handkerchief to her nose and wearing an expression of disgust. ‘Get away from me!’

‘Be on your way, old woman.’ Of a sudden, old Sal was confronted by an elderly gentleman dressed in a dark suit and topper, and carrying a walking-stick with a horse’s head handle. When he spoke, he waved the stick in the air, ‘Unless you want me to summon a policeman?’ he asked with a threatening air.

‘Not at all, sir!’ exclaimed old Sal, being cheeky enough to pat him on the arm. ‘I’ll be on my way this very instant!’ In a minute she was hurrying away. As she went, her ears caught the gentleman’s remark to the lady. ‘It’s Mrs Trent, isn’t it . . . daughter of Caleb Crowther? You remember I was introduced to you when I visited Breckleton House last December, for business discussions with your father. Your husband was away at sea, and you were staying with your parents.’

On hearing this, old Sal was stopped in her tracks. ‘Caleb Crowther,’ she muttered, turning about to look again. ‘Caleb Crowther . . . hated Justice o’ the Peace, eh?’ And this hoity-toity lady, with her fine clothes and plump bodice . . . this was his spoiled brat of a daughter, Martha! Old Sal had no liking for the Caleb Crowthers of this world, not when they took delight at throwing her in prison so reg’lar! Oh, yes, Justice Crowther was a bad one, and no matter how many times old Sal warned little Molly against him, it could never be enough, because it was well known how he had vowed to clear the alleys and streets of ‘these undesirable vagrants’.

‘Yer bugger! Yer’ll ’ave ter
catch
us first!’ she chuckled now, quickly hobbling away. After turning a few more corners and making her way down an alley or two, old Sal stopped, leaning against the side of a house and taking time to catch her breath. ‘Let’s see what we fished from the old gent’s pocket,’ she murmured as, with a deep-throated chuckle, she pulled a long, thick chain of silver from the depths of her shawl. Attached to the end of the chain was a strikingly handsome silver watch, which she quickly bit against her two remaining teeth. ‘Solid!’ she remarked to the sky. ‘That’ll fetch a bob or two, an’ no mistake.’ Of a sudden, she gave a joyful little skip and began wending her way along the cobbles, hurrying as best she could. Her gait was markedly lopsided on account of the limp, which had been the legacy of a broken leg got from a warehouse fire some years before.

As she went on her way, old Sal Tanner could be heard muttering in that familiar manner for which she was known, ‘’E were a nice enough feller . . . but if ’e will go about tellin’ poor old folks like meself ter “Be orf! Else ’e’ll fetch a bobby”, well . . . the bugger
deserves
’is pocket-watch spirited away. She teks ’er chances where she finds ’em, do old Sal, an’ she don’t give a tinker’s cuss whether it’s a hoity-toity lady, a fine and dandy gentleman . . . or a dark-’aired little feller wi’ a cheeky smile, an’ eyes that green as they coulda’ been med by the little folks.’ Here she stopped and looked upwards to the cold January sky. For a moment she appeared to be turning something over in her mind. Then, having apparently reached a decision, she cocked her head to one side and laughed, ‘What d’yer want ter go and give that little feller such emerald-green eyes for, eh?’ Laughing louder, she shook her head from side to side and lowered her gaze to the ground. ‘Gi’ me a bloody shock, it did . . . ’avin’ them green eyes smilin’ at me . . . I thought it were the little folk come ter claim my Molly, so I did!’ The merriment suddenly went from her voice and her expression grew serious as she resumed her journey once more. ‘T’ain’t right that folks should ’ave such green eyes! Green’s the colour o’ the little people . . . yer ’ave ter get their sacred permission. Oh, but ’e
ain’t
one o’ the little people. I’m sure o’ that. No, ’e ain’t . . . ’cause all manner o’ folk ’ave green eyes. I’ve seen ’em, but I ain’t seen none so emerald-green an ’andsome as
that
little feller’s.’

In her peculiar and eccentric belief that the colour green was sacred to the ‘little people’ and must
never
be used or displayed without their permission, old Sal had been taken aback when young Edward Trent had smiled on her, yet, by the same token, dismissed her. She had been surprised also that, having surely seen her intention to make away with his mother’s cameo brooch, he had not swiftly raised the alarm. Now there was a strange kettle o’ fish, she thought . . . whoever heard of one o’ the gentry having a kind heart? Well, one thing was for sure . . . that green-eyed little feller hadn’t inherited his grandfather’s heart! No indeed, for Caleb Crowther’s black heart was unforgiving and wicked. ‘To Hell wi’ the bugger!’ old Sal shouted out at the top of her voice. ‘He’ll find ’is way there one o’ these fine days, an’ when ’e does . . . let ’im
rot
, for there’s nobody this side o’ Hell as would lift a finger ter save ’im!’ Not when he watched one of his own transported off to Australia as a convict; not when he didn’t lift a finger to help the poor lass; and not when he robbed her of every last penny left to her. ‘Oh, yer a bad divil, Caleb Crowther!’ old Sal cried out. Afterwards she broke into her hopping gait and moved a bit swifter when she feared her voice might have carried too far.

If young Edward Trent had set old Sal to thinking deeply, so had she left a strong impression on his mind. Yet not as strong as the one left by the dark-haired waif who had robbed his mother of her purse. As the carriage took him and Martha Trent back to Breckleton House, the boy couldn’t get the image of her pretty face and strikingly beautiful dark eyes out of his mind. Who was she? Why did she have to
steal?
Was the old tramp her mother . . . where did the girl live? All of these questions he might well have discussed with his mother had she been the kind of mother who was open to discussion. But she was not and though his father would have shown an interest, sadly he was away at sea. A quiet despair filled the boy’s eyes as he thought more deeply of his beloved father, Silas Trent. He was away too often these days, and he missed him so. Oh, but the minute he came home, Edward intended to tell him all about the incident at the market. He didn’t suppose they would go to the market again, not after today. So he might never see the girl again. Such a possibility made him sad, for he would like to talk to her, this dark-haired girl who cheekily winked at him as she fled away, clutching his mother’s purse. He remembered that the big man behind the stall had called her by the name of Molly, ‘’er that belongs ter the tramp’.