Farewell to Lancashire (12 page)

‘No. But then, they don’t believe anything else we say, either. Don’t tell anyone what we’re doing, though. Better we keep this to ourselves.’

So they set off well before dawn to tramp the dozen miles into Manchester, because they didn’t have enough money for train fares. They hoped to get a ride or two, and to their relief, succeeded, travelling for about three miles in the back of a farmer’s cart, though that meant picking bits of straw off each other afterwards. The rest of the time they simply walked, hungry and cold, but determined.

As they approached the city a carter bringing vegetables in from the country stopped. ‘Cotton lasses?’ he called.

They nodded. They’d deliberately chosen to wear their shawls and working aprons, knowing they’d be recognised for their trade, that some people at least would understand why they were doing this.

‘We’re going to sing for our supper,’ Cassandra said as he told the horses to walk on.

‘How about you sing to me now, for your breakfast? I’ll buy you a cup of tea and a piece of bread and butter each when we get there.’

‘We’ll sing a few songs, but we have to save our voices.’

‘Aye, lass. I know. Just a few to cheer us all up.’

So they sang, letting their voices echo out. He joined in after the first couple of songs.

‘You sing well,’ he said with a smile when they finished.

‘So do you.’

‘Aye, I love a good song. Have you ever been to a music hall?’

They shook their heads. ‘Outham’s too small to have one,’ Cassandra said. And anyway, the Town Council seemed determined to keep the modern world at bay for as long as it could. It was run by people like the Vicar, who didn’t want to better the lot of the poorer inhabitants. Their father said there had been a huge fuss over the coming of the railway in the early days, and the council had refused to allow a co-operative store to be set up because the shopkeepers thought it’d take away their trade.

The city was covered by a dark haze of smoke and looked anything but welcoming. They fell silent as the horses clopped in through street after street of dwellings, manufactories, warehouses. Some of the buildings were so grand they took the sisters’ breath away. Others were so tumbledown, you wondered whether they even kept the rain off their occupants.

Their driver drew up next to a street stall and called out, ‘Feed my three friends, will you, Nell? I’ll pay you when I come for my breakfast. Give them the same as me.’ As the girls got down, he pointed to the next turning. ‘After you’ve eaten, go down to the end of that street, turn right and that’ll bring you to Deansgate.’

The food was a wonderful boost to their spirits. As they took up their stand on the corner of Deansgate, one of Manchester’s major thoroughfares, Cassandra pulled out a sign she’d painted on a piece of white material torn from an old sheet, saying
Cotton Workers grateful for your help
.

Xanthe clutched her twin’s hand. ‘I don’t think I can do it.’

Maia surprised them by saying firmly, ‘You have to. Think of father. It’s for him.’

So they began to sing tunes everyone knew well. They started with ‘Home Sweet Home’, easily slipping into the harmonies they’d practised over the years, then went on to ‘Jeanie with the Light-Brown Hair’, a favourite of their father’s, and then ‘O for the Wings of a Dove!’

When people stopped to listen, Cassandra watched them anxiously. Would they give anything? Or would they simply walk on?

Relief shuddered through her when some dropped coins into her father’s cap. That gave her the confidence to sing better and she sent her voice echoing down the street, wanting to give good value for the money that continued to clink into the cap.

Suddenly a boy darted out from a doorway, snatched up the cap and its contents and ran off with it.

They stopped singing abruptly and Xanthe was the first to run after him, skirts flying, yelling, ‘Stop, thief! Stop him!’

No one moved and the lad began to increase his lead. Then suddenly a young man further down the street stuck out his foot and tripped up the thief, grabbing him by the back of his shirt and causing him to drop the cap.

As coins rolled everywhere, the lad’s shirt tore and he jerked out of the man’s grasp, haring off again.

Desperate not to lose the coins, they didn’t try to chase him but plumped down on their knees and began to pick the money up in frantic haste.

When passers-by who’d seen what happened also began to pick them up, Cassandra worried that they might pocket the coins. But they dropped them into the cap, sometimes adding another and wishing the girls luck.

Not until every single coin had been picked up did Xanthe turn to the young man and thank him properly.

‘I was glad to help, miss. I’ve seen other groups like yours singing in the street and pitied them, knowing why they were so desperate.’

She flushed, because it was embarrassing to be pitied.

‘There’s a pie stand on the next street,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’d let me buy you all something to eat?’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ Xanthe said. ‘We’re grateful.’

It worried Cassandra to see how admiringly the young man was looking at Xanthe.

‘I’m Harry Needley.’ He looked at them expectantly.

She could see no way of avoiding giving him their names, not when he was going to buy them pies. This was a problem she hadn’t thought about when planning to go out singing. Pandora might be the prettiest but Xanthe was also lovely.

‘We can only stay for a few minutes,’ she said abruptly. ‘We need to earn as much money as we can before we start walking back.’

‘Where do you come from?’

Xanthe told him before Cassandra could stop her.

They could smell the pie stall before they got there and all three of them fell silent because it was a long time since they’d tasted meat. ‘Eat slowly,’ she warned the others.

He looked at her in puzzlement.

‘We’re not used to such rich food and a drayman bought us breakfast. We only usually eat once or twice a day at the moment.’

‘I’d heard people were starving, but I didn’t realise it was literally true.’

‘They’re starving to
death
, those who’re too proud to accept charity.’ She wondered what other meaning there was to the word ‘starving’. Perhaps people simply didn’t want to believe it was happening in Britain, that many thousands of people could be lacking food. ‘We’ve managed so far, but our father’s ill, so we’re not too proud to accept any help that’s offered.’

His voice grew gentler. ‘You can’t be eating enough, though. You’re all very thin.’

She shrugged. She hated to see herself in a mirror these days. Her nose had always been prominent, but it seemed like a beak now, her cheeks and eyes sunken, her skin no longer rosy and her neck stringy, like an old woman’s.

He turned to order four pies and four cups of tea, standing eating his own food with every appearance of relish, though he was a gentleman by his dress and speech, not a working man.

When they’d finished, Cassandra said firmly, ‘Thank you, Mr Needley. We’ll get back to our singing now.’

He hesitated but with murmurs of thanks, they all walked away.

The next two hours gave them as much money again.

‘Could we catch a train back, do you think?’ Xanthe asked. ‘It looks like rain and I’m so tired, I don’t think I can walk all that way.’

Cassandra hesitated, then nodded. ‘It’ll save shoe leather. My shoes have a hole in them.’

‘Mine too.’

‘We’ll use some of this money to get them repaired.’

They were quiet as they sat in the train. They might have earned good money today, but they’d all hated singing in the street. Dress it up as you might, it was a form of begging.

What would Mrs Southerham have said? And Reece?

They’d never know. She’d probably never see either of them again. She had to resign herself to that possibility, stop hoping. With the best of wills, Reece probably wouldn’t be able to send for her.

It was dark when they got back but by the light of the street lamps, they could see some of their neighbours standing in front of their house, the way people usually did when there was trouble.

Cassandra immediately started running, thinking it must be her father. He couldn’t have died!
Please let him not be dead
, she prayed.
Let him stay with us a little longer.
She thought she’d have to push her way through the crowd, but they moved quickly aside, murmuring to one another.

Her neighbour from across the road thrust a lamp into her hand. ‘Here, lass. You’ll need this.’

‘Thank you.’

Inside the front door, she stopped in dismay, holding up the lamp to inspect gouge marks in the walls. The bottom of the banister was hanging loose and the door that led to the kitchen at the back was also battered. There were no marks on the door of the front room, though.

‘Dad! Pandora!’ she called as she ran up the stairs.

Someone was weeping in the front bedroom. Its door was unmarked but the door of the girls’ bedroom was hanging off its hinges.

The rear bedroom door looked as if it too had been attacked by an axe. It opened and Pandora appeared, her face bruised, her sleeve torn off her bodice.

‘What happened?’

‘Some men burst into the house just as it was getting dark. Luckily I was at the top of the stairs. They started smashing things, so I barricaded myself in Dad’s bedroom and called for help through the window. Only they broke the bedroom door down before anyone could come to our aid.’ She began sobbing. ‘They hit me and said if we didn’t leave town they’d hurt
him
next time. I thought he’d die, he was so upset at being powerless.’

Cassandra put her arm round her sister and moved into the bedroom. Her father was lying in bed, his expression dark and angry on the half of his face which still had flexibility. ‘Do you know who they were, Pandora?’

‘No. I’ve never seen them before.’

Her father shook his head when she looked at him.

‘I heard some of our neighbours come to the front door,’ Pandora went on. ‘They yelled at them to be off. The men threatened to hurt anyone who got in their way, so no one tried to stop them leaving. One was carrying an axe and the other a club.’

Maia went to sit on the bed, holding her father’s hand, tears running down her cheeks.

‘They haven’t touched the rooms where our lodgers live,’ Xanthe said. ‘There’s not a single mark on those doors.’

As the implications of this sank in, they looked at one another, then Cassandra put it into words. ‘There’s only one person in this town who wishes us ill and wants us to leave Outham.’

‘But how would our aunt find men to do something like this?’ Pandora asked. ‘And what does she think to gain by it? We’ve nowhere else to go.’

Anger was surging through Cassandra. ‘I’m going to see our uncle.’

Her father shook his head, but she went to his side and raised his hand to her cheek for a moment. ‘I have to tell him, Dad. It’s my guess he doesn’t know about it. He’s been sending us food, not trying to hurt us.’

His words were even more slurred than usual. ‘Don’t – beg.’

‘Dad, if we don’t stop her, she might do worse next time. I’m sure our uncle will help us if he can. He’s the only one with any chance of stopping her.’

A tear rolled down her father’s cheek, then another. She wiped them gently away, kissed him then left the bedroom without another word.

Pandora and Xanthe followed her down the stairs.

‘The men might still be waiting outside. They might attack you if you go out on your own,’ Pandora said.

‘Let them try!’ Cassandra was so furious that anyone would attack a sick, helpless man like this, she felt herself to be burning up. She’d been tired when she got off the train but energy was surging through her now.

Before she left, she went to check the kitchen, which had also received its share of attention, then turned to Pandora. ‘Will you come with me? You were here. You can describe exactly what happened.’

‘Yes, of course.’

T
hey stopped outside Blake’s Emporium, which stayed open until nine o’clock. It was brightly lit, with gas lights flaring outside, as well as illuminating the inside and the goods in the window.

‘There’s only one customer,’ Cassandra said. ‘We’ll wait till she leaves.’

When the lady came out of the shop, Cassandra led the way inside before the lad holding the door open had time to close it again.

Her uncle was standing behind the counter, talking to a rather short young man who was wearing the long white apron common to shop workers. A taller young man, with a plain but kindly face, was dusting some shelves.

As the door bell tinkled, her uncle stared at them in surprise.

She didn’t dare call him uncle. ‘Could we speak to you in private, please, Mr Blake? Something dreadful has happened.’

The door behind him banged open and his wife came out. ‘I saw them loitering outside the shop. Get those creatures out of here this minute, Joseph!
This minute
!’