Darkest Before Dawn (14 page)

And now I'm reaping the benefit, Martha thought, squeezing Seraphina's slim fingers. Fee is willing to give up her place at college; Angie, who is so shy and timid, is prepared to work in a busy factory amongst people she does not know; and even little Evie, bless her, is working away selling mustard and cress, and wants us to do something to help her friend Percy, even though his father . . . his father . . .

‘Ma?' Seraphina's voice was gentle. ‘What do you think? If I work for a year – well, nearly a year – and then apply for a grant, would I be able to complete my course? Or would you rather I concentrated on bringing in some money for a few years . . . just until Evie reaches fourteen, say.'

‘I think we might try Angie's solution,' Martha said thoughtfully. ‘Or have I got it wrong? Can you apply for this grant right now?'

Seraphina shook her head. ‘No, I think it's only possible at the beginning of the college year. That's why Mr Quennell made his suggestion.'

‘Well, in that case . . .' Martha was beginning when she was interrupted by Angela, her face alight.

‘Oh, Ma, then if I go for a job in the factory when Fee does, we'll both be earning good money and that should make it easier – if we save up, I mean – when Fee starts at college again next year. What a blessing it is that we've got this flat.'

Evie, who had scarcely spoken for the last few minutes, nodded her head emphatically. ‘Yes, it is a good thing, because all the kids at school say rents is awful high,' she said wisely. ‘Only you're not very well paid, are you, Mam? Could you do a factory job, or are you too old?' She looked hopeful. ‘If you'd let me, I'd like working in the shop for Mr Wilmslow, even if he didn't pay too well, because it would mean we could keep the flat, and you could earn even more money.'

Martha and the older girls laughed. ‘What about school, little monkey face?' Seraphina said mockingly. ‘You don't know how lucky you are, young lady! When Angie and I were your age . . .'

‘Oh, when Angie and you were my age, you walked a hundred miles to school each day, and only had bread and water for your dinners when you got home,' Evie said sarcastically. ‘And the
Mary Jane
was made out of cardboard and leaked at night, and the fishes swam in and nibbled your toes. Anyway, what's the use of school? Half the kids on the canal hardly ever went because it were too awkward. And Mam could teach me evenings, or one of you two could.' She stared defiantly round the table. ‘I don't see why I should be the only one not helping my family just because I shan't be eleven till March.'

Angela jumped up from her place and went round the table to give Evie a hug. ‘How can you be so daft, queen?' she said. ‘Why, look at the money you've earned with your mustard and cress. And you do so much for Ma – you get the messages, find some wonderful bargains amongst the market stalls, earn pennies from the neighbours by taking care of the younger kids when their mams are busy. If it weren't for you, our ma wouldn't be able to work every hour God sends for Mr Wilmslow, because Fee and I will be working a good way from home and shan't get back till late. As it is, you lay the table, peel the spuds, make up the fire . . .'

Martha looked at Evie's face, which was glowing pink. ‘Angie's right, my love,' she said, smiling down at her youngest daughter. ‘We'd all be lost without you, but even if I was allowed to keep you away from school, I wouldn't do it. Remember, your pa always said education was terribly important, so the last thing I would do is to keep you off school.' A sudden thought assailed her. ‘And I don't want you sagging off to do odd jobs to earn a bit extra,' she finished warningly. ‘Understand?'

Evie nodded, though her lower lip stuck out. ‘All right, Mam,' she muttered. ‘But wharrabout Percy? He says he'd work if he could, same as his mam. Only no one won't give him a chance. I thought if there were anything we could do to help . . .'

Martha sighed. She knew what Harry would have said but had to struggle with herself before she spoke. Reg Baldwin was in prison with a charge of murder hanging over his head, though everyone knew it might be reduced to manslaughter if a jury considered that the tragedy was unintentional; an accident, in fact. ‘I'll go round and visit Mrs Baldwin, see if there is anything I can do to help,' she said resignedly. After all, Martha knew very well that both his wife and Baldwin's children had suffered grievously from the man's violence. The words had come reluctantly but she was glad she had uttered them when she saw Evie's face light up.

‘Oh, Mam, I knew you'd help them if you could,' Evie breathed. ‘I told Percy that my mam would do her best. You are good; they'll be so pleased.'

‘I may not be able to do anything at all,' Martha said hurriedly. ‘We don't have any spare money ourselves, chuck, though I'll take her a bag of potatoes and a slab of my Madeira cake. Then we'll put our heads together, me and Mrs Baldwin, and see if we can come up with something.'

‘What about a job in one of these new factories?' Seraphina said. ‘Only . . . I hope it isn't one of the factories where Angie and myself mean to try for jobs.' She caught her mother's reproachful eye and coloured. ‘Sorry, Ma, that was a nasty thing to say,' she said humbly. ‘I didn't really mean it. I'm sure we shall all be pleased if Percy's mother gets any sort of job.'

Martha was as good as her word. She worked in the shop as usual all day Monday and then, after tea, she set off to walk to Cavendish Court. Evie had offered to accompany her, but she decided the child's presence might be rather awkward, so she set off alone. She wore her old black coat and the dark purple cloche hat she had worn for years on the canal boat, since its head-hugging shape meant that it was unlikely to blow off, and she carried a huge black umbrella because it had rained, intermittently, all day, and clearly intended to do so all evening.

Martha walked briskly, dodging the puddles. Evie had given her explicit directions so she had no fear of missing her destination and she walked purposefully, eager to get her errand performed so that she might return to her own fireside.

It had been a funny sort of day, she reflected as she walked along the darkened street. Mr Wilmslow had sent her through to the back to help his wife a couple of times, something he never did normally. However, the nurse who looked after Mrs Wilmslow had contracted a heavy cold – possibly influenza – which she did not wish to pass on to her patients, so anyone with a moment to spare had been pressed into service. Because Mr Wilmslow was such a disagreeable sort of man, his customers resented being asked to pop into the back for a word with Mrs Wilmslow, though most of them complied. Mrs Symonds, a cheerful, redheaded woman, who seemed to get along well with everyone, had confided in Martha that long ago, before she became ill, Mrs Wilmslow had been a cheerful, chatty little body, who loved working in the shop and took a keen interest in her customers. ‘Which is more than the old feller does, miserable old git,' she said. She spoke rather too loudly for comfort and Martha had hushed her involuntarily. Mrs Symonds had laughed, revealing several broken and blackened teeth. ‘Don't you worrit yourself, Miz Todd,' she had said. ‘He'll be in that little scullery place of theirs, mashin' the tea. But as I were sayin', old customers, like meself, remember Ruby when she were fit 'n' well, so wharrever we does, we does for her.' She had been gazing at Martha with frank curiosity, her head a little tilted to one side, like a thrush listening for worms, Martha thought, amused. ‘Miz Todd, wharrever have you done to your hair?'

‘I haven't done anything; it just happened,' Martha had said uncomfortably. She had never believed the stories she had heard of men and women whose hair turned white overnight after some shocking or terrible experience, and indeed, it had not happened to her quite that precipitately. But in the three months since Harry's death two wings of white had appeared, one on each side of her auburn head.

‘Well, if you ask me, working for that old bugger back there is enough to turn anyone's hair white,' Mrs Symonds said, with all her usual frankness. She had caught Martha's eye and the already bright colour had deepened in her round cheeks. ‘Sorry, queen; I weren't thinkin'. You've had a deal more to bear than a stingy boss. We looks in the
Echo
every night, Mr Symonds and meself, but they've not brought him to trial yet. Eh, I hope they top the evil bugger.'

Martha had opened her mouth to make some soothing, Christian reply, and had heard, with horror, her voice saying, emphatically: ‘So do I.' So she was glad when Mr Wilmslow came through from behind the shop, remarking tartly as he did so that if Mrs Todd had nothing better to do than gossip with the customers, she might fetch a box of tinned peas through from the storeroom and begin restacking the shelves.

Now, Martha, who had been glancing up at the street names as she passed them, turned left into Lawrence Street and then almost immediately left again into Cavendish Court. She saw with some dismay that the houses were both tiny and tumbledown, though they were three storeys high which meant, she supposed, that despite the narrowness of the façade they could hold a family. Some courts, she knew, had rear yards which were reached via a narrow jigger, but these houses were known as back-to-backs and visitors had no alternative but to use the front door. Accordingly, she mounted the three grimy steps in front of No. 9, searched for a knocker and, failing to find one, rapped sharply on the door panel with her knuckles. There was a long pause, during which she could hear the mutter of subdued voices and guessed that the only people who came calling on the Baldwins were unwelcome tradesmen requiring payment, or the landlord wanting his rent. Martha hesitated. She was about to try the door handle when a face appeared at the window on her left; a face she knew. She stepped towards the window, then realised that the boy would be unlikely to recognise her beneath the canopy of the black umbrella and lowered it, snapping it shut and feeling raindrops dribbling down the back of her neck. ‘It's me, Percy, Mrs Todd,' she said, leaning close to the glass. ‘Let me in before I'm soaked to the skin.'

There was a scuffle and then the door opened a cautious inch. ‘Me mam's took off,' Percy said hoarsely. ‘She thinks you're a-goin' to tell her it's all her fault that Mr Todd's dead. She's rare sorry but she's so skeered that there's no talkin' sense to her.'

He would had closed the door again, was beginning to do so, but Martha was having none of it. If the canal did nothing else for a woman, it gave her strength, she told herself grimly, putting her shoulder to the closing door. ‘Oh no you don't, young feller-me-lad,' she said cheerfully. ‘I'm coming in and you can just fetch out your ma from wherever she's hiding because there's no way out of a back-to-back save through the front door, and I've not walked all this way, in the rain and the wind, just to turn round and go home again.'

Percy sighed deeply. ‘She's in the parlour . . . in there,' he whispered, pointing to the door, firmly closed, on Martha's right. ‘Don't be cross. Things is bad for us, and me mam's norra strong woman. Meself, I think we're all a deal better off without me dad, but . . .'

He stopped speaking as the knob of the parlour door began to turn. Slowly, creakingly, the door opened a short way and a tuft of faded fair hair and the tip of a pink and trembling nose appeared round it. ‘Has she gone?' a nervous voice enquired in a husky whisper. ‘Oh, I'm near dead of fright. I'm sorry to run off, chuck, but I just couldn't face the reproaches.'

Percy's eyes rolled wildly but before he could speak Martha had stepped forward and pushed the door wide, inserting herself into the gap so that it could not be slammed again. ‘Don't you worry yourself, Mrs Baldwin,' she said gently. ‘I don't deny that what happened was a terrible, terrible thing, but I reckon it was no fault of yours.' She smiled encouragingly at the other woman. Mrs Baldwin was tiny and skinny with a thin, weaselly face, fair hair going grey and a look of permanent anxiety. She was wearing down-at-heel slippers and her skimpy brown dress was almost hidden beneath a huge and filthy calico apron. ‘Why don't we go into your kitchen where, no doubt, there's a nice fire burning and you can make us a cup of tea while we have a chat?'

Two hours later, Martha waved goodbye to Mrs Baldwin and set off across the court. As soon as she had entered the kitchen, she had seen that things were in a bad way. The room was filthy, the sink full of dirty dishes and the fire almost out. A line of wet washing was slung, precariously, across the room, the clothing dripping sullenly. And on the hearthrug, a boy of about six and a tiny girl played with some sticks of kindling wood. She had glanced, hopefully, at her hostess, who had gazed back with lacklustre eyes, so Martha had taken it upon herself to get things moving.

She took off her hat and coat and rolled up her sleeves. ‘Percy, fetch some coal in, and a bucket of water,' she said briskly. ‘Ron – I take it you must be Ron – find a brush and dustpan so I can sweep this floor while I wait for the kettle to boil.' She turned to her hostess. ‘You sit in the chair, my dear, and nurse the little girl, whilst Percy, Ron and myself get things sorted out. Have you eaten yet? No? Then as soon as I've got things straightened out here, we'll settle down for a talk over a nice cup of tea and the Madeira cake which I've brought with me.'

Mrs Baldwin had uttered a feeble protest but had been glad enough to hand over to Martha, and surprisingly quickly a fire was roaring in the grate, the kettle was beginning to steam and the room, if not spotless, was at least a good deal cleaner than it had been upon her arrival. The two women had seated themselves at the table whilst Percy got the younger ones into bed. Then they had settled down to talk; Martha had been sure the other woman would find it much easier to discuss her situation if her children were out of the way.