The Long Walk Home (5 page)

He had felt quite relieved and had looked forward to being outside rather than in the dust-laden room, but on the first day the rain had poured down and he was soaked to the skin in minutes. When the rain stopped, the heat from his body and the sheer exertion of lifting the hammer and smashing it down on the boulders had dried out his clothes, leaving them stiff and scratchy and very uncomfortable.

'I'll get you off, if you like,' Tully whispered. 'Get you put in 'kitchens.'

Mikey glanced round before answering. 'So how come you're not in there?'

'I shall be,' was the answer. 'But I've got to be seen breaking stones first. Then I'll hurt me leg and won't be able to work.'

Mikey looked at him. Tully gave a crooked grin and a sly wink.

'You've got to know 'system,' Tully said. 'Know what you can get away with. I know some of 'warders, you see, and I can get stuff brought in.'

'What sort o' stuff?' Mikey murmured. 'I'd give owt for a slice o' meat pie.' His mouth watered when he thought of the pie that Bridget had brought for him.

'Don't want much, do you?' Tully muttered as the guard came closer. 'Shut your mouth now. This one's a stickler.'

When the guard drew away once more, Tully moved nearer to Mikey. 'I wasn't talking o' food,' he mouthed. 'I was talking o' poppy. Opium. I get it brought in and sell it. Then I give 'warders a cut of 'profit. They're allus glad of a backhander.'

'But where do 'prisoners get the money from?' As he looked at his fellow labourers, Mikey thought they all had an appearance of poverty and wretchedness, with their thin scraggy faces and whiskery chins. They looked even poorer than he was.

'They'll allus find money for poppy. It's 'onny thing that keeps 'em alive.' Tully gave a chortle. 'If it doesn't kill 'em off!'

'I don't need it.' Mikey raised the hammer to strike again. 'Never tekken it.'

'What? Never?'

'No,' Mikey said breathlessly. 'My ma'd skin me alive if I did.'

'Mammy's bairn, are you?' Tully sneered. 'Little milksop!'

'Yeh, if you like.' Mikey wasn't bothered about taunts. He'd been offered a chew of opium or a sip of loddy before by some of his pals, but had always refused, knowing full well that his mother would find out and he'd never hear the end of it. Besides, he'd seen others under the influence of the stuff and he preferred to be in command of his senses.

'See that fellow over there?' Tully hissed, nodding towards a muscular man wielding a hammer. 'He buys it off me. Swears by it. Says he can break up twice as many stones because of it.'

Mikey wasn't convinced. 'And does he get his sentence cut in half then?'

Tully frowned. 'No, course he doesn't.'

'So what's 'point? Is he trying to please 'guard?'

'No!' Tully put down his hammer and glared at Mikey. 'Point is he's stronger cos of it.'

'Aye? Well, I shouldn't think he's got a ma who'd mek his life a misery if she found out.'

Tully grunted. 'Like I said. Milksop!'

I'm not, Mikey thought. But my ma would be disappointed in me.
Is
disappointed, I expect, now that I'm in jail. Hope she's managing without me.

He felt downhearted and even a little tearful, and hoped that if any of the other prisoners saw his wet eyes they would think it was because of the physical exertion and not because he was weeping.

A week later he was sent to the kitchens. The work wasn't as arduous as breaking stones, just very boring. He was set on to peel bucketloads of potatoes for soup, and after hours with his hands in cold water he could barely feel his fingers or grip the blunt knife. Never again, he thought. Never again will I do anything wrong and come back to prison.

Being in the kitchens meant that he could help himself to a larger portion of gruel for breakfast and an extra piece of bread, and occasionally he chewed on a piece of raw carrot, though he never ate raw potatoes, his mother's warning ringing in his ears that some of his father's Irish relations had died of potato poisoning during the famine.

'Did Tully get you this job?' one of the prison warders asked him one morning. Mikey was filling a bucket with water from the pump.

'Tully?' Mikey feigned surprise. 'How could he do that?'

The guard surveyed him thoughtfully. 'We all know what Tully can do.'

Mikey shook his head and heaved a breath as he lifted the overflowing bucket. 'I don't. I've onny just met him. Why would he want to do owt for me?'

The officer followed him back to the kitchen. 'He'd have a reason, it's true. If he did get you this soft job, then he'll have summat lined up for you to do for him. When you get out, I mean.'

'Not me,' Mikey insisted. 'He's a criminal, isn't he? I made a mistake. I was hungry,' he added. 'And so were my ma and our bairns.'

'You shouldn't be in here,' the warder said. Mikey started to protest, thinking he meant in the kitchens. 'No, I mean in this lock-up with all 'hardened villains who'll learn you how to thieve. Men like Tully.'

'Where else is there? I wouldn't have wanted to be shipped to Australia.'

'That's coming to an end.' The guard allowed himself a thin smile. 'No. Reform schools for boys. That's what they're building in some parts of the country. Strict regime. Regular birching for young criminals who misbehave. That's what's needed round here. In my opinion,' he added as he moved away. 'Now get on with those spuds and no talking.'

Mikey hadn't seen Tully since coming to the kitchens and didn't know whether or not he had been influential in the move. If he had been, then Mikey was grateful to him, for it made his life less hard and he could think of the end of his sentence as only a short time away. When he was breaking stones it had seemed as if he was suffering a lifetime of penance and would never see the end of it.

Three days to go. He could hardly wait. He was thorough in the kitchens, clearing up the spilt water and peelings and washing down the floor assiduously with the mop.

'What 'you up to?' one of the guards asked suspiciously. 'Nobody ever moves 'chairs and tables when they're cleaning.'

Mikey grinned. 'I want you to remember me,' he said. 'Cos I shan't be coming back!'

'Hah.' The officer folded his arms in front of him. 'That's what all you young 'uns say. Then a couple o' weeks away from here and you forget all about how it is; temptation is put in your way and you think nobody'll catch you and afore you know it you're back inside again.' He stared Mikey in the eyes. 'Onny next time is allus longer.'

Mikey dipped the mop into the pail. 'Not me,' he muttered. 'I want to go home.'

At the end of the third day he was let out of the prison gate. He was back in his own clothes again, which oddly felt smaller and shabbier. I must have grown, he thought, gazing down at his shirt cuffs, which now finished halfway up his arms. He shivered. Summer was well over and the smell and chill of autumn overlay the familiar aromas of fish and seed oil which always permeated the town. Usually he didn't notice them, but after a month spent incarcerated within the prison walls they were very obvious.

Hope Ma is all right, he thought. I wonder if Rosie managed to get a job? She'd been trying, though at just twelve she hadn't found many positions available to her, except in the cotton mills and they already had waiting lists of women and girls eager for work.

'Mikey!' A girl's voice called to him. It was Bridget, and she was waving. 'I've been waiting for ages,' she reproached him. 'They said you'd be out at four o'clock and it's nearly five.'

'Why're you here?' he asked. 'There was no need. I'm going straight home.'

She bit on her lip. 'Erm! That's why I've come to meet you. Your ma's not there.'

He stopped walking and faced her. 'What do you mean? Has she got work? I know where 'key is.' It would have been better if his mother had been at home when he arrived, so he could have listened to a long lecture on his wrongdoing and bringing shame on her and got it over with. Now he'd have to wait until later and his guilt would build up even further.

'No.' Bridget seemed furtive and shifted about from one foot to the other. 'None of them are there. Sorry, Mikey.' She stared at him for a second and then dropped her eyes. 'Landlord's tekken 'house back. Somebody else is living in it.'

'What?' He grabbed her arm. 'What do you mean, somebody else is living in it? We weren't far behind wi' rent. Onny a week or two.'

'That was then, Mikey. Afore you went to prison. 'Rent hasn't been paid since then cos your ma couldn't find work.'

His mouth dropped open. 'So where've they gone?' This is my fault, he thought. If I hadn't done what I did I might have found a job, some kind of work to pay the rent.

Bridget lifted her eyes to his and put her hand over the one which was still on her arm. 'Rosie came round to see me. She said would I tell you when you got out.'

He shook her hand off his. 'Tell me what, Bridget? Spit it out. Have they found another room?'

She emitted a deep sigh. 'No. They've gone to 'workhouse, Mikey. Your ma is poorly; they've put her in 'workhouse infirmary and I don't know what'll happen to Rosie and 'lads.'

Mikey gasped. Never! Never to the workhouse! His mother would be appalled. She was so proud. She would never be able to lift her head again. He must get her out. I'll do anything, he vowed. Anything at all.

'I must go to her,' he told Bridget. 'I can't let her stay there.'

'I just told you, Mikey. She's sick. There was nowhere else she could go.'

'I'm still going,' he said determinedly. 'I have to see her and tell her I'll get her out of there.'

He left her and ran, leaving her trailing behind him. He ran to his old home in Winter's Alley, just to check in case Bridget had made a mistake, but she was right, someone else was living there. A man, his wife and their six children; three more in number than his own family. He wondered how they would all manage in the one small room.

He turned and ran back into Whitefriargate and towards the workhouse. He knew it well enough, having lived within a stone's throw of it for most of his life. He hammered on the locked gate and shouted.

'What do you want?' a man's voice called back. 'You can't come in till 'morning.'

Mikey put his eye to a crack in the wooden gate. 'My ma's been brought here and my brothers and sister. I want to see them.'

'Well you can't. Come back in 'morning.'

'No. She's sick. My ma, I mean. She's been put in 'infirmary ward.'

'Just a minute. I'll have to fetch somebody.'

Mikey watched the man shuffle away towards the building. He guessed he was one of the paupers. His clothes were in rags and he coughed as he walked.

A few minutes later a woman walked briskly to the gate. 'Yes?' she said. 'I'm in 'middle of supper. What do you want?'

'To see my ma. Please,' he added. 'She was brought in because she's sick. My brothers and sister were brought in as well. Name of Quinn.'

'Quinn? Just a minute.' The bolt on the door rattled as the woman opened it. 'Who are you, then?'

'Mikey Quinn. I've— I've been away. Just got word that my ma's been brought here.'

'Mm,' she said, as if pondering. 'Do you have a father?'

'No.' Mikey stared at her. Why the questions? 'Is she here or not?'

'She is here. In a manner of speaking, that is. But I'm afraid you're too late. Mrs Quinn died this morning.'

'But— but she can't have! There's been a mistake. Jeannie Quinn.' Mikey grew hot and then cold. She'd got the name wrong. It wasn't his ma. It was somebody else.

'Come in, lad.' The woman wasn't unkind, but she was impatient. 'There's no mistake. Mrs Quinn was brought in a week ago, with her bairns, two boys and a girl. Rose, is it?'

Mikey nodded, dumb. Rosie. What had happened to Rosie?

'Your sister's gone to work at 'cotton mill,' the woman was saying. 'They'll tek pauper bairns from here even when they won't tek other bairns that's waiting for work. They've got priority, you see. But your brothers are here. Do you want to see your ma? Funeral's tomorrow.'

'I— I don't know.' He felt his body growing cold and his legs weak.

'Are you feeling all right? Not going to pass out, are you?'

He knew he was and the woman seemed to know it too, for she ushered him into the building and pushed him towards a wooden chair. 'Sit there for a minute,' she said. 'I'll be back.'

She left him and hurried off down the corridor. He bent over, putting his head towards his knees. This wasn't happening. He felt sick with fright, his forehead beaded with sweat. He got up from the chair and dashed back outside where he retched and retched until his throat gagged.

He staggered back inside and fell on to the chair. There was no one about, though he could hear the clattering of crockery and rattle of pans coming from a room at the end of the corridor. The matron was having her supper, that's what she said, or maybe she meant she was giving the inmates their supper. What about Ben and Tom? Would he be able to see them? Did they know about Ma? He felt numb, as if all emotion, all life, had drained out of him.

He waited for what seemed like hours. A man came and lit a lamp which was standing on a shelf. It stank of old oil. He looked at Mikey but didn't speak and then went away again. The woman came back.

'You can have some supper if you like,' she said. 'I shouldn't really as you're not a resident but I'll mek an exception.'

'I'm not hungry,' he said weakly, 'but can I have a drink o' water, please?'

She nodded and led him into a small room containing a desk and two chairs and a fire in the grate. He went to the fire and put his hands towards the flames. He was shivering, and when he took the cup of water from her his hands shook so much that he spilt some of it down his shirt.

'Your ma said you'd come looking for her,' the matron said. 'She said you were away. Where've you been?'

His mother obviously hadn't said he'd been in prison. She wouldn't have wanted anyone to know. 'Out of town,' he muttered. 'Looking for work.' His ma was an honest, proud woman; he wasn't going to let her down now.

'And did you find it?' Her eyes were piercing as she gazed at him.