Alley Urchin (21 page)

‘They’re not for sale. They’re Sal’s . . . and she’s keeping them!’ Molly had paid little heed to most of the woman’s rantings, but the mention of Sal and her clothes had caught her attention.

‘All right,’ the woman was keen to pacify the agitated girl, ‘let her be buried in ’em . . . though it seems a terrible shame to let good boots go to rot in a pauper’s grave. And what about you, eh? You come and stay with me . . . you’ll have plenty of friends, I promise . . . and a chance to turn a pretty penny.’ Her pea-like eyes glistened, ‘What d’you say?’

Molly was past listening, ever since the woman had said ‘pauper’s grave’. Now she was on her feet, her black eyes blazing. ‘Sal ain’t going in no
pauper’s
grave!’ she yelled, beginning to run in the direction of the hut and calling behind her. ‘If that’s what you think, you’re
wrong
. I won’t let her go in no pauper’s grave!’

‘Huh!’ Takes hard brass to pay for a proper funeral, you little fool,’ returned the woman. ‘If you come with me, I’ll see you earn it. Then you can pay for a proper funeral . . . I’ll even be so good as to
lend
you the money, and take it back out of your earnings. What d’you say?’

Molly said nothing as she sped away into Blackburn town to make sure the parish officials didn’t put Sal in a pauper’s plot.

The fat bearded man was not altogether unsympathetic. The small dingy office fronted the parish yard where in one small corner stood a red-brick building with long narrow windows and a big black painted door. It was in there that they kept all the ‘vagrants’ and ‘vagabonds’ who had departed this world.

‘No, I’ve told you before, you’re not allowed in there. Tomorrow though, it won’t matter anyway . . . because she’ll be in the communal plot behind the churchyard. You’ll be able to go and see her there.’ He felt sorry for the pretty dark-haired girl, but rules were rules, and it was more than his job was worth to let her in. ‘Go on, off you go,’ he told her.

Molly stood her ground, her dark eyes beseeching as they looked up over the desk, her fingers clutched tight to its edge. ‘Sal
ain’t
going in no pauper’s grave!’ she declared, with such firmness that the fat bearded man put down his pen, and reached forward to look at Molly more closely. ‘I want Sal to have a proper burial,’ she told him, her gaze unflinching beneath his intense and curious stare.

‘Oh I see, young lady,’ he said with a patronising smile, ‘and how do you propose to pay for this “proper burial”? Got plenty of money, have you? . . . Come into a tidy sum?’

Only then did Molly realise the enormity of the task she had set herself. Fleetingly her small fingers toyed with the tiny watch secreted beneath her dress. But the thought of Sal, and the recollection of a promise she had only recently made caused her to feel ashamed. Yet somehow she would see that Sal was not thrown into the ground like some dead dog. She and Sal had come across such a pauper’s burial once, and Molly had never forgotten it. She was determined it would not happen to her beloved Sal.

Molly told all of this to the man with the friendly eyes, and though he argued that she was looking to do the impossible, he did agree to delay Sal’s departure from the yard until Monday next. ‘Today being Wednesday, that gives you a good four days. After that, she’ll have to be put down with the rest of them . . . or stink to high heaven, and nobody will want to touch her. And we can’t have that, can we?’

Molly thought it unnecessary to say such a cruel thing, but she went away with a lighter heart. All the same, she was desperate as to how she might find the money. ‘Two guineas, he said,’ she muttered as she made her way back towards the canal, ‘and Sal would get a proper church burial.’ She hoped that the shrew-like woman was still there on the canal bank because, much as she didn’t like the idea of going to live with that one and doing whatever work she was offering, Molly felt she had no choice. Not if she was to get two whole guineas in such a short time. It was true that Molly could pick a few pockets at Blackburn market on Saturday, but there weren’t always gentry about, and it would be a miracle if she made
two
guineas.
No, she daren’t risk it. The woman’s offer was her best bet. Once she’d repaid the two guineas, she would be free to go her own way again. But without her Sal. What a frightening thought. Yet her grief was eased by the intention of doing the very best she could for her darling Sal.

There was no sign of the shrew-like creature. So, armed with a vague notion that the woman lived somewhere down George Street, Molly set off again, thinking to look in the window of the Navigation on the way in case she had gone there. She was desperate to find her and she was prepared to do anything to see that Sal wasn’t given a pauper’s farewell.

Molly was just on the point of stepping from the canal bank and over the short wall – beyond which was the road and the Navigation – when the merest flicker of movement caught her eye and made her turn her head. In that split second she saw a boy on the bank, moving slowly at first, then staggering clumsily until, even as Molly looked, he lost his footing altogether. With a pitiful, weak cry he fell sideways and down, slithering into the water and disappeared out of sight, his small white hand grasping at the air in an effort to save himself. By the time Molly had sprinted the few yards to where he had vanished into the water, there was no sign of him at all, save for an odd bubble here and there, and the scuff mark along the bank where he had fallen in.

In a minute Molly had slipped out of her frock and was launching herself into the air, towards the spot where she had seen the boy go down. Surprisingly the water struck cold as she sliced into it, but the deeper she went, the warmer it seemed. Molly was a strong swimmer, having learned the skill as naturally as she had learned to walk, and often she had scoured the canal bottom in search of the odd coin which might have rolled from a drunk’s pocket. Yet in the murky depths a coin might sparkle and catch the daylight from above, whereas there was nothing Molly thought as she swam this way and that, that might sparkle on a drowning boy. Except perhaps the terror in his eyes.

Molly would not give up though. She would go on searching until her lungs came near to bursting. Straining her eyes, she noticed a patch of unusually thick reeds where the fish had been disturbed. Quickly, she kicked her strong legs and swam the short distance, and in a minute she had caught sight of the boy. Thank God, she thought, his lungs were not yet swamped, seeing a thin spasmodic trail of bubbles escaping from within the tangle of reeds. Quickly she had him freed and in her grasp, a rush of relief flooding her heart. At the same time, Molly was aware of the desperate urgency to get him to the surface.

On the bank, Molly pummelled and squeezed him, until he began coughing and spluttering. ‘Good!’ she told the wet and bedraggled boy, yanking him to a sitting position, before pulling on her frock, and hoisting him to his feet. ‘Now, lean on me, because we’ve a fair way to go afore we come to the hut.’

Later, when his clothes were dried and he was full of Molly’s hot tea and jam butties, the boy sat by the rusty stove which Molly had lit to thaw his bones. ‘You’re a silly bugger!’ she chided him. ‘What were you doing . . . wandering along the bank like that? Don’t you know better?’ She had little patience with such foolishness.

The boy gave no answer. He just kept his eyes fixed on the stove and began shivering again. He wasn’t sure
how
to react. In fact, he had no idea
how
he came to be ‘wandering along the bank’. He didn’t even know his own name. All he knew was that he had found himself in an alley, then he had walked and walked until he came to the canal. It was all a nightmare to him, and he knew above all else that if it had not been for this scruffy girl with the big black eyes and sharp temper he would surely have drowned. But he did not want to speak to her, because he hurt all over, and he was afraid.

‘Oh, I see . . . cat got your tongue, has it?’ teased Molly. Then, as he bent his head away from her, she saw the deep gash and the hair still matted round it. ‘When did
that
happen?’ she asked, reaching forward on her stool to take a closer look. ‘That’s bad!’ In a minute, she had gone to fill the pan and, while it boiled, she searched about for a clean piece of cloth with which to bathe the wound. Tearing a strip from the pillow-slip, she tested the water in the pan. Finding it warm enough, she drew the pan away and stood it on the stool. ‘Keep still now. I don’t want you struggling,’ she instructed the boy. He did not move though, and nor did he protest because he felt lost and confused, but he had no intention of betraying his fears to a girl.

‘Me and Sal . . . we never light this old stove, because it smokes like the billows and burns up more wood than we can find.’ Molly kept up a banter of talk as she swabbed the gash on his head. She wished he would talk back, but she respected the way he must feel. He had suffered a nasty shock, she knew. But what puzzled her most was that the boy couldn’t swim. Most children in these parts could swim before their legs were properly grown. That was another thing: Molly didn’t think the boy came from here, or she would have remembered him. Yet she hadn’t seen his face, not properly, because he kept avoiding her, turning his head away so she wouldn’t get a good look at him. She supposed he must feel embarrassed at being rescued by a girl. Boys were like that, she knew. Strange though, how he couldn’t swim. And he wasn’t the usual sort of scruff because, although his clothes were tatty and probably smelt to high heaven before they got a ducking in the canal, his
hair
was properly cut, and his nails were
clean
. Strangest of all though, were his hands: so small and lily-white, it was plain he had never done any coal shovelling or hard work of any kind!

‘Where do you come from?’ she asked him now. ‘And why were you stumbling along the bank, with such a terrible gash on your head?’ A thought suddenly came to her. ‘Did somebody
knock
you on the head?’ That would account for why he was staggering like he was drunk. ‘Is
that
it? Were you set on by somebody?’ She was sure of it now. ‘You ain’t from these parts, are you?’ Molly leaned forward as she spoke, hoping she might get a look at his face again, because she was growing more curious by the minute. But he deliberately turned his face from her. The things she was saying made him think, and the things that began creeping into his mind were too unpleasant to dwell on.

‘All right then. You lie on the bed and rest awhile. When you’re feeling stronger, just let yourself out and shut the door behind you. I’ve got to go and see about Sal’s funeral.’ She opened the door and threw out the remainder of the water from the pan. ‘You don’t have to tell me nothing,’ she called to him. When she came back into the hut, the boy was lying on his side, with his back to her. ‘You’re a strange one,’ she murmured, her gaze resting on his tousled dark hair, ‘and no mistake!’ For a long poignant moment, Molly kept her gaze fixed on him, thinking how she had found Sal in that very bed, not so long ago. Sal, who had always been there, drunk or sober, Molly’s best friend. Now she was gone, and the more Molly thought about it, the more desolate she felt. Without her being conscious of it, the tears began filling her eyes, then spilling over to run down her face.

It was then that the boy turned to look at Molly. When he saw her crying, she quickly looked away and pretended to busy herself clearing away the pan and other things. Of a sudden, she was aware that he was taking an interest in the tiny watch that hung forward from her neck as she stooped. ‘I’ll be on my way in a minute,’ she said in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘When I come back, I’ll expect you to be gone.’ When she straightened up to glance at him, he was still looking at her, his dark green eyes resting on her face, and Molly was riveted with shock. She
knew
him! How could she forget those emerald-green eyes and that particular way he had looked at her in the market place that day? Sal too had remarked on the boy’s eyes. ‘’E put me in mind o’ the little people . . . gave me a real nasty turn,’ she had told Molly afterwards. She had told Molly something else as well: the boy was none other than Justice Crowther’s
grandson!

Molly was mesmerised as her own dark puzzled gaze bore into the boy’s face. How could it be Justice Crowther’s grandson? Molly began vaguely to recall snippets of what the shrew-like woman had told her only this very day. ‘Justice Crowther’s own grandson . . . after the wheels and hooves had gone over him, there wasn’t much left, so they say.’ How could it be then? How was it possible that the boy she had saved from drowning could also be the same boy? The answer was that he could
not
. Molly looked at his quiet face; she saw how clean and decent it was; she saw those eyes and that rich dark hair, cut in the way of a gentry; she remembered how clean his nails were, then how soft and white his hands. And she knew! Knew without a doubt that somehow there had been a trick played on Justice Crowther. She couldn’t quite fathom it out, but she was certain of it.
This
boy was Justice Crowther’s grandson, not the boy in the fancy togs who was run over by a coach and four. Something else was triggered off in Molly’s mind. Something the shrew-like woman had said, to do with the undertaker remarking how the boy who was mangled ‘had big coarse feet for a young gentry’. Of course he did, thought Molly now. Of course he did, because he
wasn’t
a gentry, that was why!

‘How did you come to be wandering along the canal bank?’ she asked him now, coming closer to the bed. ‘Did you run away? Who knocked you on the head? Somebody did, I’m thinking . . . because there ain’t nothing in the water that could have done it.’

‘I don’t know . . . anything,’ Edward Trent replied, meeting Molly’s gaze and feeling certain he had seen her before. Of a sudden, he recalled disjointed images of himself sneaking out from a big house, and of running from the devil in a dark alley. But the more he tried to think, the more he became confused. ‘I know you though . . . I’m sure of it. I’ve seen you somewhere . . . somewhere.’ The pain in his eyes deepened as he struggled to remember.