The Urchin's Song Read online

  And now she found herself feeling a slight thread of excitement. She shouldn’t be looking forward to tomorrow and she wasn’t, not really, at least not about leaving her mam, but - and here she put her hand to her heart as it began to thump in her chest - this was her chance to make something happen for herself. Perhaps her only chance.

  Twice she’d been approached in the last year, and a couple of times before that too, by touts who’d assured her they could get her a slot in one of the local music halls. One had been really persistent, coming back night after night and claiming he knew the proprietor of the Wear Music Hall and saying that she was just the sort of new act he was looking for. But Josie knew that to get anywhere in the halls you had to be prepared to travel and move around. You needed nice clothes and fancy costumes too, and all her money went the minute she had it in her hand, what with paying the rent and feeding and clothing them all. And she couldn’t have left Gertie at the mercy of their father, not the way he knocked her about. That had always been at the back of her mind too. But now . . .

  She hugged her knees hard. She’d find some work in the day; she didn’t care what it was. A laundry, a factory, a shop, anything, and then at night she’d sing. She could ask around a bit, find out the best places for someone to notice her. Perhaps Vera’s sister would know? She slid down under the blankets again, willing her mind to stop its racing. She had to go to sleep; tomorrow was going to be a full day.

  She must have fallen asleep eventually because early in the morning she awoke to the double chime of a tugboat sounding on the still frozen air outside. The sound was a familiar one; many a time in the kitchen at home she and Gertie had fallen asleep listening to the tugboats on the river and, on a very quiet night, the rhythmic churning of the big paddles.

  For a moment she remained still, the events of the previous day crowding into her mind, and then she roused herself, throwing back the blankets and reaching for her stockings and garters. Once her boots were on she busied herself stoking up the fire in the range and putting some more coal on, after which she lifted the kettle - already full with water - on to boil. The kettle, like everything else in Vera’s kitchen, was beautifully clean, and unlike their range at home which had one oven with a circular door, this one had two ovens, one for baking and one for roasting. It was a canny kitchen. She glanced round the room which was still in deep shadows, the small patch of sky outside the narrow window charcoal grey with only the hint of daybreak.

  She would have a kitchen like this one day, and her own house with an upstairs and a downstairs that she shared with no one but her family. And a garden. Not a back yard, not even one like Vera’s that boasted its own privy and washhouse, but a real garden with grass and trees and high walls so no one could see inside. One of the girls she had gone to school with had got set on as a kitchen maid at one of the big houses near Mowbray Park, and she’d been full of what she had seen when she’d had her interview with the housekeeper. But of all Miriam had said - and she had said plenty - it was her description of the Havelocks’ garden that had captured Josie’s imagination. She would have a garden like that one day. Somewhere where the air was filled with the soft scent of flowers and where she could hear the birds sing. She loved birds. One of the best compliments she’d ever been given was when a woman in one of the pubs had said she thought she sang as sweetly as a bird.

  ‘Ee, lass! You’re up bright an’ early, an’ I see you’ve got the kettle on for a brew. I could do with keepin’ you on; always fancied meself with a parlour maid.’

  Vera’s voice was overbright and Josie knew why. Vera was worried her da was going to arrive on the doorstep before they could get away, or that he’d got the lads watching the house. And he might, he might. But something strange had happened when she had brought that poker down on the arm of the man she had hated and feared all her life. It hadn’t just broken the bones in his arm; it had broken something in her, something that had been afraid and cowed under the threat of the physical pain he inflicted with so little conscience. She meant what she had said to Jimmy the night before: she would use the poker again if she had to. Not on her brother, not that, but if her da tried to stop Gertie leaving . . . The poker was going to accompany them to Newcastle anyway. She glanced at it, propped against the range. It was better than a big burly docker for protection, her poker.

  ‘What?’ She must have smiled because Vera’s voice was surprised and curious, and when she told the older woman the nature of her thoughts, Vera laughed out loud. ‘Well, it don’t eat so much, that’s for sure, an’ I dare say it’s cleaner in its habits an’ all, lass.’

  Once Horace and Ruby had departed for work, Josie and Vera took stock. The fact that the two girls had escaped the house the night before with just the clothes they stood up in presented an immediate problem, and one which Vera was determined to assist with, despite Josie’s protestations that they would manage until she could get work and buy more. It was only when Vera put her hand on Josie’s arm and said, her voice soft, ‘Please, lass. Please let me help you in this,’ that the girl became silent. ‘We’ll call in the Old Market an’ pick up a few things. Stamp’s stall is a good one, he don’t have so much rubbish as some, an’ once you’ve washed ’em through at our Bett’s they’ll come up as good as new.’

  Josie glanced at Gertie, whose eyes were bright with anticipation at the thought of new clothes. Never mind they were second- even probably third-hand; they weren’t her big sister’s outgrown things and were therefore possessed of their own magic. ‘Thank you, Vera.’ She spoke with deep gratitude as she pressed the hand on her arm, knowing she would miss Vera’s solid presence in her life more than any other apart from her mam.

  Josie always thought the Old Market had a smell unlike anything else. It came from the second-hand clothes stalls, the bacon and meat stalls, the fruit, confectionery, fish, tripe, grocery, and numerous other stalls jostling together under the high roof. There was no one particular odour which was predominant, but as she stepped through the entrance in Coronation Street the smell assailed her nostrils - neither pleasant nor unpleasant, just the unmistakable aura of the market.

  The building was a beacon to many folk looking to make a subsistence income stretch a little further, and it wasn’t unusual to see harassed pitmen’s wives wheeling pillow cases or sacks containing two or three stones of flour from the market, along with bundles of second-hand clothes and all manner of goods. These would be transported to the station, or to a horse and cart waiting in a side street, and taken back to the pit villages. It was safe to say that there was nothing you couldn’t buy from some stall or other within the Aladdin’s cave that was the Old Market.

  Vera now made her way to Stamp’s stall down the aisle left clear in the middle of the stone-flagged floor, nodding to Joe the Bacon Man - as he was generally known - who had the reputation of being something of a character among folk who were all characters in their own way. Stamp was another one. ‘’Tis the fair Vera.’ Cyril Stamp was a little roly-poly figure of a man, his shape made the more incongruous by the ancient swallow-tail coat and pork-pie hat he wore on all occasions. ‘Never mind the bitter chill of an unkind winter outside, it is summer in me heart now I’ve set eyes on the fair Vera.’

  ‘Oh, stop your blatherin’.’ Vera sniffed loudly, but Josie knew her friend was trying to keep a straight face. ‘I’m lookin’ for a few things for these two.’ She indicated Josie and a wide-eyed Gertie. ‘An’ none of your rubbish mind, I want decent stuff.’

  ‘Vera, Vera, Vera.’ The little man put his hand to his heart, his expression pained. ‘You cut me to the quick, lass. Aye, you do. Have you ever known me sell rubbish in me life?’

  ‘Aye, I have, to them as are daft enough,’ Vera returned smartly as she began to rootle amongst the heaped clothing after motioning with her hand for Josie to do the same.

  ‘Do good to them as despitefully use you, as the Good Book says.’ Cyril wasn’t about to let Vera have the last word, winking at Gertie
as he spoke and making the child giggle. ‘Here, cast your lovely eyes, eyes that would make a man leave hearth an’ home for sure, on this little lot.’ From beneath the stall he drew out an orange box. ‘Come from a nice place near West Park, an’ if I remember rightly, the bonny wife had a couple of bairns about these ones’ ages.’

  He did remember rightly, and Josie had to stifle a gasp of delight as numerous items of underwear - all seemingly as new - and several plain but good frocks were revealed, along with a thick coat in a dove-grey tweedy material that looked to be her size and was just beautiful.

  ‘Hmm.’ Vera flicked at the items with a critical finger. ‘Not bad, but a bit shabby round the edges.’ She was playing the game, and Josie, Cyril and Vera were all aware of it, but protocol had to be maintained before serious haggling commenced. ‘Is that the best you can do, then?’

  ‘The best?’ Cyril raised his eyes heavenwards, apparently wounded beyond words, and then he smiled as Gertie, shyly stroking one of the dresses with the tip of her finger, said, ‘I think they’re bonny.’

  ‘A lady after me own heart. Here, hinny’ - he drew a small slab of hard toffee out of his pocket - ‘I was just wonderin’ what to do with this stickjaw afore you come.’

  Ten minutes later Josie and Gertie were the possessors of vests, drawers, petticoats and two dresses each, along with the grey coat for Josie and a smart hat to match it. The whole lot had come to twelve shillings, which seemed an inordinate amount to Josie, but which meant - Cyril had mournfully assured them - he wouldn’t be eating all week, the great loss he’d had to incur.

  ‘They’re good stuff, really good stuff, lass,’ Vera had murmured once they were making their way into High Street East, for the walk to Central Station further along in High Street West. ‘An’ kept real nice. You want to give the right idea when you’re lookin’ for work, now then, an’ these are a cut above.’

  Josie nodded, her arms tight round the brown-paper package containing the clothes. She would pay Vera back every penny but she knew better than to mention it now.

  Although the beautiful clock-tower and brick façade of the station on the High Street side was familiar to Josie, she had never ventured inside, and now, as she accompanied Vera and Gertie into the building, her first impression was of the height of the arched ceiling. It seemed to rise up and up, and it was when she was turning round in a circle to admire it fully that she became aware of a small figure darting out of view outside.

  Jimmy. She glanced at Vera who was pointing out the weighing machine to an entranced Gertie, and the other machine which apparently enabled the user to punch out their name and other details on to a tin strip. She had been keeping an eye open from the moment they had left Northumberland Place, but he must have been trailing them all along. Was her da with him?

  ‘Here.’ She handed the parcel of clothes to a taken-aback Vera, securing the poker from her friend who had been holding the instrument of protection since the market. ‘If you want to get the tickets I’ll be back in a minute. I’m just going to have a word with Jimmy.’

  ‘He’s here?’

  ‘Outside.’ Josie flicked her head towards the entrance.

  ‘Alone, lass?’

  There was a grim warning in Vera’s tone, but although Josie knew what she meant, she said quietly, ‘Stay with Gertie, Vera. Nothing can happen, even if he’s not alone.’

  Jimmy wasn’t alone. When she emerged from the entrance to the station she saw them immediately, the small boy and the big man standing on the pavement opposite. Her father had his arm in a sling but the sight aroused no emotion in Josie except to make her grip the poker more firmly. Nevertheless her stomach was trembling as she approached them, their faces reflecting a surliness which made them even more alike. Her father spoke before she reached them. ‘What the hell do y’think you’re doin’ gallivantin’ about?’ he growled. ‘Get your backside home where it belongs.’

  She did not answer him for a moment, and then she said in a voice even she recognised did not sound like her own, ‘We’re not coming back.’ And then, more loudly, ‘We’re not coming back ever.’

  ‘My belt says different.’

  Again she didn’t answer immediately, but as her hand instinctively flexed on the handle of the poker she saw his eyes flicker to it. ‘You won’t ever use your belt on me again, nor your fists either. And you’re not coming within six feet of Gertie. I meant what I said last night; if I have to I’ll go to the police and tell them everything.’

  ‘Everythin’?’ Her father gave a hic of a laugh, his eyes fixed hard on her pale face. It had started to snow again in the last minute or two, small light flakes that were without substance. ‘An’ what’s that - that me eldest two trollops took themselves off whorin’? “So what?” they’ll say. “Plenty do.” An’ you’ll report that I wanted to take me bairn for a walk one night, eh? They’ll think you’re doolally, lass. Ripe for the asylum.’

  ‘I’ll take my chance on that.’ Her head was up and her shoulders were back, and then as Jimmy chimed in with, ‘Da’s done nowt,’ she snapped back fiercely, ‘Oh, he’s done nothing, all right. He never does anything except sponge on the rest of us. He’s never done a day’s work in his life. No, he’s done nothing - but what he’s made Ada and Dora do is not going to happen to Gertie. No matter what - you hear me, our Jimmy?’

  ‘You’ve got it all wrong, lass.’ There was a faint wheedling note in Bart’s voice now; he could see his living slipping away from him in front of his eyes. And Patrick - he’d given the little Irishman his word and taken money on the deal. He felt fear tighten his stomach; he’d seen what Patrick arranged for folk who double-crossed him. He never dirtied his own hands, oh no, he was too wily a customer for that. Patrick always had a crowd of alibis when the deed was done. He’d already be more than a bit put out that Bart hadn’t shown last night with the bairn. ‘Look, I swear to you, on me own life, right?’ he said persuasively. ‘I had nowt to do with Ada an’ Dora goin’ down that road.’

  ‘You can swear all you like but it won’t make any difference.’

  ‘You’re upset, you’re not thinkin’ straight, lass, an’ that’s understandable after last night. But I don’t hold you no grudge for me arm. It was a misunderstandin’, that’s all.’

  She stared at him, wondering if he knew how much she hated him. She hated him so much it had swallowed all the fear and panic.

  ‘An’ there’s no need for you to be walkin’ about with that thing neither.’ He nodded at the poker. ‘What’ll people think?’

  ‘That I’ll use it if I have to.’ It was flat, but something in her manner must have conveyed he wasn’t going to manage to sweettalk her.

  His attitude changing, he snarled, ‘You’re a bit bairn an’ you’ll do what you’re told if I have to skin you alive.’

  ‘I’m not a bairn.’ Her voice was low and very bitter. ‘I’ve never been a bairn, none of us have, you’ve made sure of that, but I tell you one thing - me and Gertie are going and you can’t do anything about it.’ As she saw his hand rise as of old, hers holding the poker jerked aloft, and for a moment they stared at each other through the snowflakes which were now whirling more thickly. Whatever he read in her face made her father’s hand fall limply to his side, but now their mutual hate snaked between them like a live thing, and it was only a man who had been passing by, saying, ‘Here, what’s goin’ on? You all right, lass?’ as he paused at the side of them, that broke the contact.

  Josie didn’t answer. Her legs felt funny, weak, but she turned and walked quickly across the road and into the station without looking back. This was the end, really the end, but when would she ever see her mam again now? But she couldn’t think like that; she’d sort out something, she would. She had to see her mam. Oh, Mam, Mam. And then Gertie and Vera were there in front of her and it was all she could do to stop herself bursting into tears.

  Vera stared into the drawn little white face in front of her. Bart had been out there sure enough, i
t was written all over the lass’s face, but she wasn’t going to waste time asking her about it now. Once they were on the train to Newcastle she’d breathe a mite easier.

  The iron-framed glass roof covering the platforms gave a spacious, airy feeling in summer, but with thick snow blanketing out the light, the station was gloomy and grey. The 9.54 a.m. was steaming away and ready to leave as they boarded, but although Gertie was vocal in her excitement the final confrontation with her father had knocked all the stuffing out of Josie. It wasn’t until after they had stopped at Monkwearmouth, East Boldon and the following two stations that the colour came back to Josie’s cheeks, and Vera felt she could ask her what had happened.

  Josie briefly explained, finishing with a shrug of her shoulders and a glance at Gertie, who was oblivious to them both, her nose pressed up against the window and her eyes popping out of her head at the changing scene outside the train, which was occasionally shrouded in deep billows of smoke from the engine.

  ‘I’ll look out for your mam, hinny, you know that. There’ll always be room for her with us, young Hubert an’ all, if need be.’

  Josie smiled and nodded but said no more. She couldn’t explain to Vera that she felt the weight of her mother - and Hubert, to a lesser extent, and even their Jimmy, bad as he was - like a lead brick crushing down on her heart. Vera would brush such sentiment aside, saying Josie was doing the only thing she could in getting Gertie out of harm’s way. And Vera was right, she knew she was right, but . . . It didn’t make it any easier.

  The train chugged its way into Felling Station, and then Gateshead East, and by the time it stopped at Newcastle Central in a great exhalation of steam and puffs, it was exactly ten thirty-two.

  Nothing had prepared Josie for the size of the Newcastle station or, as they left by the main entrance in Neville Street, the different smell and feel of the town. The smell was due, in part, to the sheep- and pig-market and beyond that the huge cattle-market to the left of the station, which had the Royal Infirmary squeezed between them, but as they crossed over the road, Josie clutching the parcel containing their clothes and Gertie now in charge of the poker, everything seemed so much bigger and noisier than in Sunderland.