Orphan of Angel Street (6 page)

‘No,’ Mabel snapped. A woman approached them and tried to push a posy of lavender through Mabel’s buttonhole.

‘Bugger off, will yer!’ She slapped the woman’s hand away. They hurried past a big statue behind some railings, and the church. The clock made it well after five.

Soon after they were hurrying up a long, very steep road called Bradford Street. It was dark and the buildings felt high and close together. From every side came the most amazing din Mercy had ever heard. Banging and clanking sounds met them not only from the openings of buildings on the street but from under the ground through the gratings. In some places jets of steam unfurled through holes from down there and drifted raggedly into the air. The hammering and rattling, the sudden scream of metal and tearing crashes of noise met them all the way along.

‘What’s that?’ Mercy yelled, her throat rasping.

Mabel gave her a look which implied the question was almost too stupid to answer. ‘Factories. Brass works and that. Don’t you know anything?’

‘Is this still Birmingham?

‘No, it’s bloody Timbuctoo.’

Mercy took this to mean yes. Birmingham really was a big place then. They turned off Bradford Street and there were more factories, and then houses too. Now they’d got out of the bustle of the market Mercy’s excitement was beginning to wear off. It was fast getting dark, the air felt damp and harsh and when they crossed the road the cobbles were slippery underfoot. She felt the throb of her chilblains in the pinching boots, her raw throat and empty belly, and her head was starting to hurt. She wondered again when she was going to see Dorothy, now she was in this strange, dark place. Her dream of a green paradise was dissolving fast.

‘I don’t like you,’ she said, still clinging to her parcel as the one thing she had left of the home. ‘I want you to take me back to Matron. She said you could.’

‘Oh no,’ Mabel Gaskin sniggered spitefully, ‘you won’t be seeing them again in a hurry. See, they think we’re in my old ’ouse in Winson Green – near enough to ’Andsworth. Me husband’s ’ouse, that is – when I had a husband. They ain’t going to find you again where we’re going, so yer’d better get used to the idea. Least I got that ten bob off of them while I had the chance, ’cos they won’t be seeing us no more. I’ve got plans for you, and you ain’t going anywhere without my say-so. Down ’ere—’

She elbowed Mercy down another side street even darker than the last. Soon, pausing by a drunken-looking street lamp she said, ‘Up the entry,’ and pushed her into one of the pitch black alleys between the houses, which quickly opened up into a court of back houses. As they walked in, the gas lamp in the middle of the court flared into life and Mercy saw a man standing under it with a long pole.

‘Bit late, aren’t yer?’ Mabel said to him in passing.

‘And a very good evening to you too,’ he quipped.

A gaggle of children was playing up at the far end. There were three houses parallel with the road, and what looked like two smaller cottages to one side of the yard, but Mercy had barely had a look when Mabel swept her at high speed through the door of the house on one side of the entry.

Inside it was completely black.

‘Stand still or you’ll only go and break summat.’

Mercy stood just inside the door clutching her parcel. Her head throbbed and she felt very small and frightened. There was just her and this nasty woman and she didn’t know where she was and it was so dark and smelly in this house. There was a nasty mouldy stench which she didn’t recognize as damp, a stale odour of cabbage and onions. And yet another smell which took her with a shudder right back to the dormitory at the home: urine. She really felt like crying again now.

There came the scratch of a match and Mabel lit the gas mantle at one side of the room. She also lit a tiny stub of candle and abruptly disappeared upstairs. Mercy stared round her. The Joseph Hanley Home had been austere and unadorned, but never had she been in a place like this before.

The feeble light from the gas lamp only just reached the walls even though the room was tiny, and all the surfaces gave off a weird yellowish tinge. The ceiling seemed very low and in one corner was a big hole with rough bits of wood sticking out of it and in other parts it sagged and bulged. The room had been distempered long ago but now the paint had flaked away in large bare patches and the dirty plaster showed underneath. With a shudder she saw something scuttle along the wall.

The floor was of rough, uneven bricks, worn down in some parts where there had been the greatest passage over them, and holes where bricks were missing in others. In the middle of the room was a table and two rickety chairs, one with Mabel’s coat and hat flung over it, and in one corner stood the range. A broom stood propped against one wall and beside it a couple of old tea chests with a few things sticking out. One looked like a picture frame. Apart from that the place was empty.

Mabel was soon down again. She stooped to stoke the range, saying defensively, ‘I’ve only been in ’ere a few days,’ as if sensing Mercy’s horrified gaze lighting on the place.

‘Oh Lor’!’ she exclaimed suddenly, leaping up. To Mercy’s astonishment she started unfastening her clothes and stripping them off, first the tight green jacket, then the skirt, wriggled down over her meaty hips. She made grunting sounds of relief.

‘That’s better. Can’t go shovelling coal in this get-up – that’s going to Chubb’s tomorrow.’

Mrs Chubb, as Mercy would soon know well, ran the local pawnshop round the corner.

‘Got ’em off a lady sells second-hand rags in Balsall Heath.’ Mabel grinned in satisfaction at her own trickery. ‘Got your gaffer believing you’re living with a proper lady, din’it?’ She laid the skirt over her chair, standing in a grey corset and torn petticoat. ‘Shame ’aving to ’ock it, but there we are.’

‘You got anything to eat?’ Mercy dared ask. The room was so cold she hadn’t even taken her coat off yet.

‘Eat?’ Mabel was struggling into a shapeless brown dress. I’ve only just got the fire going, what d’you think I am? I’m hungry as well, yer know. Just sit down and shurrup for a bit.’

Mercy sat on the spare chair. She felt overwhelmingly tired, and shivery as if she was getting a fever. All the day’s changes had taken it out of her and though she was used to a meagre diet she was starving. Mabel though, did seem to be making an effort to get some dinner ready.

‘You going to open that package then?’ she said from by the range, giving Mercy a sly look. ‘Let’s see if it’s anything worth ’aving.’

Mercy pulled the loose string away from the parcel and slowly tore off the paper as Mabel breathed heavily over her shoulder.

The first thing to fall out was a small white handkerchief. On the corner Mercy saw that her name had been embroidered neatly in mauve silk. A parting gift from the home? She wondered if Dorothy had sewn it for her. With it was a book with a pale brown cover, designs of black and orange flowers printed on it, the title embossed into a panel of gold. It was by a Dr J.W. Kirton.
Cheerful Homes
, the title read.
How to Get and Keep Them
.

Mabel heated up a meagre amount of scrag-end. When it was ready, she fished around in the scullery at the back and came out with a new candle which she lit and fixed on a saucer. Taking a plate of stew and a spoon she said, ‘Back in a tick,’ and climbed the stairs.

A moment later Mercy heard her voice, apparently talking to someone. Mercy frowned. She was sure it was Mabel. But then the walls of these houses were wafer-thin. From next door she could hear plates rattling and people talking. Someone was snoring. Then a woman’s voice, ‘Get in there. I said get in there, will yer!’ very loud and angry. Whoever it was didn’t ‘get in there’ and this was followed up by more yells. A man’s voice snapped, ‘Oh leave off, yer nagging bitch . . .’

‘Who’s that up there?’ Mercy asked when Mrs Gaskin reappeared, minus the plate and spoon.

‘You’ll see soon enough.’

They sat at the table together. The sight of the stew was disgusting, the grey meat nearly all fat and bone but it tasted better than it looked and Mercy ate everything she could actually chew, despite her sore throat. She had an uneasy feeling though, about this unseen person upstairs, and strained her ears to hear any sound.

Mrs Gaskin made tea and gave her a cup and she began to feel warmer.

‘Where will I sleep?’

‘Upstairs, where d’yer think?’

‘Have you got a bed?’

‘Don’t you worry about it, there’s beds all right.’ The woman seemed a fraction mellower now she was home and fed. Mercy looked up into her blunt-featured face and felt herself shudder.

‘You my mom now then?’ she asked doubtfully. She had a beautiful fantasy in her mind about what real moms should be like and Mabel didn’t fit the bill at all.

Mabel stared across the room and her mouth twisted suddenly, her face taking on an odd, melancholy expression. ‘You don’t want me as yer mom. You’d better call me Mabel. Can’t stand you calling me Mrs Gaskin.’ She stood up abruptly. ‘Come on – up yer go.’

She picked up Mercy’s bag and led the way up the creaking stairs.

‘Watch that one!’ Half of one of the treads was missing, broken and splintered. ‘Proper ’ell ’ole this is,’ Mabel muttered to herself.

‘I sleep in there,’ she nodded to the left when they reached the tiny divide at the top of the stairs. It was a two-up house, with no attic. Two bedrooms upstairs and only the living room and scullery downstairs. ‘You’ll ’ave to bunk up in there.’

As the door opened, there was already an unsteady circle of candlelight in the room but for a moment Mercy couldn’t make out anything. The smell of urine though, was almost overpowering and made her stomach lurch. She saw that most of the space in the tiny room was taken up with a double bed and its dark, heavy bedstead, the footboard so high that from where she was standing she couldn’t see over it.

Mabel marched over to the bed and said, ‘Finished then, ’ave yer?’

There was no reply that Mercy could hear. Very slowly, even more full of dread, she moved round the end of the bed. For a moment as she looked in the poor light she could see nothing but a jumble of ragged bedding. But as Mabel moved with the candle nearer the head of the bed she saw the light reflect in two dark eyes, and heard herself give a gasp. Could there really be someone under there, in all that mess, making this awful smell?

The head turned and Mercy saw dark hair, and the eyes, set in a small, delicate face, were now fixed on her.

‘This is Susan,’ Mabel said harshly. ‘My daughter. One of my daughters, I should say. This one’s the only one I got left and she’s a cripple. That’s my luck with mother’ood. You’ll be sleeping in ’ere with ’er. ’Er’s got no feeling in ’er legs so if she needs to go—’ – Mabel’s gaze rested on the chamber pot down on the floor by the bed – ‘you’ll have to give ’er a hand. Anyroad, there’s ample room for the both of you.’

She picked up the plate from which Susan had evidently managed to eat her tea and went out.

Mercy found her legs were trembling. She went round and sat numbly on the other side of the bed, elbows resting on her knees and hands cupping her cheeks. I won’t start blarting in front of her, she thought, I won’t! I should have run, when we were in the Bull Ring, while I had the chance! Mrs Gaskin would never have caught up with me . . .

‘’Ello.’ She heard the girl’s soft voice.

Mercy didn’t answer. She didn’t turn round. For a time she just sat there, but she could feel the girl watching her as if her eyes were burning into her back. Eventually she stood up and started to unbutton her frock which she left hanging over the foot of the bed. The room was perishing cold. She knew, despairingly, that she was going to have to get into that foul, stinking bed. The thought made her want to heave but what choice did she have?

The bedclothes, such as they had, were a mixture of old scraps of torn blanket and a couple of old coats. As she pulled them back the smell got worse.

‘Oh my God.’

‘Sorry – only she’s hardly been ’ere for days to help me. Only first thing. I can’t move, see.’

The bed was in a terrible state. Where Susan was lying, helpless, it was drenched. Mercy’s side was not so absolutely soaked, but definitely damp. There were tears in Susan’s eyes and Mercy saw they were tears of shame.

‘You cold?’

Susan nodded. Mercy was shivering convulsively now, and when she touched Susan’s arm she, too, was icy cold.

‘You’d best come over this way a bit,’ she said abruptly. ‘D’you need to go now?’

‘No – she lifted me when she got in.’

Susan was all skin and bone, quite easy even for Mercy to shift a little way across the bed. The two of them didn’t speak any more.

Mercy blew out the candle and crawled into her little space at the edge of the bed, careful not to touch Susan who lay silently beside her. The ammonia smell of urine burned in her nostrils. Bugs scurried along the walls. She felt so ill, her head throbbed and she was shivering hard, unable to stop. Finally, in exhaustion, fear and bewilderment, she let the tears come, wretchedly sobbing and shaking. She tried to be quiet but her emotion flooded out.

It was only after she’d begun to quieten a little, snuffling now and gulping, that she felt a little touch on her shoulder and furiously shook it off. But after a few moments the hand was back, stroking her at first, and then a small, bony arm crept round her body, holding her tight. She felt Susan’s face against her back and finally the two of them slept, their bodies giving each other warmth.

‘Mercy – can you give us a hand?’

The room was still almost dark. A dull light was just attempting to seep through the filthy window. Mercy turned quickly on to her back, completely confused for a moment, thinking it was one of the girls in the home she could hear. Then she took in the sodden coldness of the bed and the crumbling, filthy walls. She was also scratching: there were bugs in the bed.

Susan was trying to sit up. ‘You’ll ’ave to cop ’olt of me . . .’

‘Why should I?’ She was rigid with cold and anger.