Down Weaver's Lane (6 page)

Martin swallowed and seemed to be having difficulty speaking, so Isaac said brusquely, ‘Spit it out, man!’

‘I thought I’d better come and warn you, lad. Your Madge is back in Northby.’

Isaac could not move for a moment or two, so shocked was he. ‘Are you - sure it’s her?’

‘Aye. My sister thought she saw her in town, so I asked round, quiet-like. When I heard there was a new barmaid at the Horse and Rider, I went to see for myself. And there’s no doubt about it. It is your Madge.’ He’d been shocked at how raddled she looked, though, she who had once been the most beautiful girl in Northby.

Isaac didn’t doubt his friend because in his youth Martin had come courting Madge for a time. ‘What was she doing there? Serving?’

‘Serving, singing and - eh, lad, I’m sorry to have to tell you, but she’s whoring too.’

Isaac spoke in a tight voice. ‘She turned into a whore a long time ago, after that fellow she was living with died. His family paid her off, but you know Madge. She never could manage her money. She wrote to Father for help, but he wouldn’t have anything to do with her.’

Martin gaped at his friend. ‘You never said!’

‘Is it likely I’d tell folk? Especially you, lad. I thought at least she’d have the sense to stay away from Northby. I ... he stared down at his clenched fists for a moment, remembering, ‘... I went to see her after Father died, when I heard she was in need. She had a child, a bonny little lass. I gave her some money on condition she never came back to Northby and she promised faithfully she wouldn’t. But our Madge never could keep a promise - as you know better than most.’

Martin’s voice softened for a moment. ‘I was sorry to lose her, she was such a pretty little thing. But Emerick Reynolds was besotted with her and his family had money, so I thought she was set for life.’ He sighed. ‘She looks old now, Isaac, old and worn.’

‘Shop-soiled, you mean!’ Isaac snapped, and it was a minute or two before he could rein in his anger and pull himself together. ‘Thank you for letting me know, lad. I’ll have to warn Lena tonight and hope the girls don’t find out. Maybe I can persuade Madge to leave.’ Though Lena would go mad if he gave his sister any money. She was going through a funny time of life, his wife was, and could fly off the handle for nothing. Well, she’d always had a nasty temper and it’d only got worse as the years passed.

‘I doubt your Madge could leave town, even if she wanted to. She’s one of George Duckworth’s girls now. And she still has the daughter with her. I saw them on the street together one evening. The lass looks very like Madge used to.’ Martin sighed. ‘It put me in mind of when we were all young. They’re staying down the end of Weavers Lane, at Old Jen Miggs’ place.’

‘They would be. And the lass is probably working with her mother!’ Isaac said bitterly.

Martin frowned and pictured the little girl. ‘Nay, I don’t think so, lad. She looked nobbut a child an’ - well, fresh and unspoiled.’

‘So did Madge, even after she ran away.’ Isaac felt bitterness flood through him. George Duckworth was making a name for himself in town as a bully and procurer. If he was Madge’s protector and was benefiting from her immorality, they’d have little chance of persuading her to leave quietly.

When Martin had left, Isaac buried his head in his hands, humiliation scalding through him. Then he straightened his shoulders and picked up his quill again. He mustn’t let this get him down. People might not find out, and even if they did, Mr Samuel would never blame him for his sister’s sins.

But it was a while before he started writing and then he found he’d broken the quill by jabbing it into the inkwell too hard, so had to get out a new one. Adjusting the quill cutter and making sure he had a good point calmed him down, so when his employer poked his head into the office and said, ‘I’m going out for a bit, Isaac lad,’ he was able to nod calmly.

There’s got to be something I can do about this, he thought when he was alone again, then gave his head an angry little shake and forced himself to concentrate on his work. His elderly assistant would be back soon with the reply to an important message because old Mr Rishmore didn’t trust the mails. And Isaac wasn’t paid to sit here and worry about family matters.

But he’d keep his wife and daughters well away from his sister and niece, he definitely would.

 

A few weeks after her arrival in Northby Emmy walked slowly up Weavers Lane. She loved the part near the town centre, where the nicer houses began, and especially the area beyond the church where the rich people’s houses were. Here lived the lawyer, the owner of the bank and some of the owners of various businesses, though the shopkeepers, of course, lived over their shops. The largest house of all, Mr Rishmore’s Mill House, was set a little beyond the others where the road sloped upwards, commanding an excellent view of the long narrow valley that sloped down from east to west.

She liked to linger outside the houses to watch what was happening: gardeners tending flowers and lawns, maids coming out of side doors to shake rugs, boys delivering things. Didn’t rich people have to go to the shops? she wondered. She had never lived so close to them before and envied the little girls from one house who wore pretty clothes and went out walking on fine afternoons accompanied by a lady dressed all in dark colours with a severe expression on her face. Imagine having clothes so nice, and dainty shoes that were all glossy with polish!

She was bored and wished she had more to do. For all his promises George hadn’t found her a job yet - well, not one that her mother approved of - and Emmy was finding time hanging heavy on her hands. In Manchester she had known their neighbours, done little errands for them, earning a penny or two most days, been able to walk for miles watching the world. Here, you could walk from one end of the town to the other in ten minutes and people regarded her with suspicion. Some women drew their skirts aside as she passed, so they must know who her mother was already.

She was feeling weary today because it was like the bad times when she was younger. Now she had to sit outside their room on the stairs at night while her mother had men in to visit her. Sometimes it was George himself, but other times it was strangers, some of them quite well dressed and very furtive, hiding their faces behind their hats as they passed her. Others were drunk, falling over their own feet and making a lot of noise.

Her mother said nothing about these men, but she looked unhappy most of the time now. Emmy had tried to persuade her to go back to Manchester, but all she would say was, ‘There’s no going back, lovie. There never is.’

As she walked home Emmy saw an older lady come out of one of the cottages, a funny little place that had been crammed in between two others and always looked slightly crooked. The lady looked pale, as if she had been ill, but she smiled at Emmy so the child slowed down and offered her a tentative smile in return.

‘It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?’ The lady turned her face up to the warmth of the sun.

Emmy stopped walking. ‘It is. An’ your garden’s lovely, too, missus.’ It was a tiny patch of ground, but it was crammed with flowers and Emmy often stopped to admire it. She had thought the lady old, but now realised she was only a bit older than her mother, but very frail-looking.

The lady nodded, her eyes lingering on the flowers, then she sighed. ‘It’s getting too much for me. I can’t bend down properly any more.’

‘I could help you with it if you’d show me how,’ Emmy offered. ‘I’ve got nothing else to do an’ I like flowers.’

‘Do you know anything about gardening?’

‘No, missus, but you could sit on the step and tell me what to do, couldn’t you?’

After a pause the lady nodded. ‘Why not? But you must let me pay you for your toil, child.’ She could see that the girl was poor, with much-mended clothes, so even the few pence she could spare would help, she was sure.

The woman next door looked over the low stone wall dividing the gardens from one another and clicked her tongue in annoyance at the sight of Emmy. ‘Get away from here, you!’ she shouted, flapping one hand.

Tears filled Emmy’s eyes and the little bubble of hope burst, but she turned away obediently.

‘No, wait a minute, child!’ the lady called.

The woman next door began to whisper to her, gesturing towards Emmy with many frowns and shakes of the head.

When she had finished speaking she scowled at the child while the kind lady stood thinking. Emmy waited, hardly daring to breathe. Would she be allowed to stay? To work in this pretty garden? To learn how to grow flowers?

‘I think I’ll make my own judgement, Hessie, thank you. The child isn’t to blame for what her mother does.’ Again the lady beckoned to Emmy. ‘Come in and tell me about yourself, dear.’

Hope began to bloom again as Emmy followed her inside. The door led straight into a little sitting room that was just like her best dreams. It had a wooden floor, shiny with polish, and a neat rug in front of the fireplace, though there was no fire lit on this warm spring day. There were curtains at the window and ornaments on the mantelpiece, with a rocking chair and a sofa set temptingly to either side.

‘Eeh, it’s lovely in here!’ Emmy exclaimed.

The lady looked round as if she’d never seen it before. ‘I suppose so. I’m used to bigger places, but this will have to do me now. Come into the kitchen and we’ll have a cup of tea together, shall we?’

So Emmy sat down at the table while the lady fussed to and fro, brewing the tea in a pretty china teapot and serving it in china cups with matching saucers. She brought out some scones, too, and set butter and jam in front of Emmy with a simple, ‘You look hungry, child.’

Daintily, remembering the fancy table manners her mother sometimes insisted on and at other times forgot, Emmy ate a scone and drank some tea. When the lady crumbled her own scone and didn’t eat much, Emmy said earnestly, ‘You should eat it all up, missus. You look like you’ve been ill.’

‘I have, but I don’t have any appetite.’ She sighed and stared into the distance for a minute or two then looked back at her young visitor. ‘So, tell me about yourself, child. What’s your name?’

‘Emmy Carter.’ She took a deep breath, because it was better to be sent away now than to get used to coming to this lovely place and then have that treat suddenly taken away from her. ‘And your neighbour’s right, missus. My mother isn’t - she isn’t respectable. She works in the alehouse and - and men come to visit her.’ Emmy stared down at her plate, waiting for the harsh words that would send her out of this little paradise.

‘You poor child.’

Emmy raised her eyes, saw only kindness and burst into tears. She found herself gathered into her kind hostess’s arms, shushed and rocked as she wept out her frustration and unhappiness with her life in Northby. When the tears stopped flowing, she was presented with a white handkerchief, neatly folded.

‘I’ll dirty it.’

‘It doesn’t matter. It’ll wash.’

Emmy applied it to her eyes and cheeks, enjoyed the soft smooth feel of the fine cotton against her skin, then blew her nose on it. ‘I don’t usually cry. It doesn’t do no good.’

‘No. I don’t usually cry, either.’

‘What have you to cry about, missus?’

‘My name is Tibby Oswald. My family used to call me Matilda - you may call me Mrs Tibby. My husband lost most of our money and when he died I had to leave my pretty house near the church and come to live here. I miss James very much and I miss my big garden and house, too. I had servants then, but there’s just me now.’

Emmy stared at her. ‘Well, I think this house is lovely an’ if I lived somewhere like this I’d be happy as anything. Me and my mother only have one room and when the men come, I have to sit outside on the stairs till they’ve finished.’

‘Lord, I thank you for bringing me this child, to show me how lucky I am,’ Tibby murmured. She closed her eyes for a moment then looked at Emmy. ‘I’m in need of some help around the house as well as the garden. You’re right, I have been ill. Are you in need of regular work? I’ll pay you for it, though I can’t give you much, I’m afraid. How old are you?’

Emmy wriggled and looked over her shoulder before whispering, ‘I’m thirteen going on fourteen, but my mother says it’s better to tell people I’m only ten.’

Tibby considered this for a moment, eyes half-closed, then decided that if the mother was trying to protect the child, she could not be all bad. She smiled at Emmy, who was watching her anxiously. ‘So - would you like to come and work for me?’

‘Oh, I’d love to, Mrs Tibby. I’m a good worker. Everyone says so. But I’ll have to ask my mother.’

‘Ask her to come and see me, will you? Though she’d better use the back door or my neighbours will be scandalised.’

Emmy nodded and gave her a beaming smile. ‘I’d really like to work for you, Mrs Tibby.’

 

When her mother came home, George was with her, so Emmy grabbed her blanket and went to sit on the stairs. But her mother and George were quarrelling not going to bed together, so she crept closer to the door to listen to what they were saying.

‘I’m not having Emmy working at the alehouse, George, and that’s flat. I’d rather go back to Manchester.’

There was the dull sound of a thump and a cry of pain from Madge.

‘You’ll do as I tell you,’ he shouted.

Emmy bit her forefinger hard. She knew better than to interrupt. It’d do no good. But she hated it when anyone hurt her mother.

‘I’ll do as you say about everything else, but not about Emmy.
I mean it.’
The last words were shrieked and there was the sound of a chair falling over.

A thud and a yelp showed that George had hit her mother again. The girl put both hands in front of her mouth to hold back her sobs. George was a big man. But if he got his way about Emmy working for him in the alehouse, she’d run away, much as she’d hate to leave her mother. She was sure she could find her way back to Manchester and ask the ladies at the Mission to help her, but she didn’t really want to leave now that she’d had such a wonderful opportunity offered her. She set her ear to the door again.