Mary's Child (19 page)

The new maid proved too good to be true. Emily Prewett was forty, gaunt and gloomy. She did her share of the work, was even more resistant to Chrissie’s ‘newfangled’ ideas but willingly embraced her offer to exchange duties. ‘I don’t know what a lass like you wants with learning figures. I’d ha’ thought you knew all you wanted now. But it’ll mean I’ll be able to pop over to see me married sister. So, aye, I’ll change with you whenever you like.’

Chrissie continued her evening classes.

But Emily was not the temptation that the buxom Ruby had been. A week after Emily arrived, Max Forthrop returned from his office and was met in the hall by Chrissie. As she took his overcoat from him he looked her over and asked, ‘How old are you now?’

Chrissie, eyes cast down, answered, ‘Fifteen, sir.’

He still held on to the coat. In the stillness of the hall she could hear his breathing and her own. She knew he was watching the rise and fall of her breasts. He lifted his hand and said hoarsely, ‘You’re a woman now.’

But then Sylvia Forthrop called, ‘Did you have a tiring day, dear?’

He lowered his hand, released the coat and answered, ‘Busy. And I’ve brought a pile of work home. I’ll be burning the midnight oil later.’

His wife came out into the hall as Chrissie hung up the coat and made her escape.

That night as she lay in her bed, trying to study but failing to concentrate, she heard the creak of the stairs as they gave under the weight of a climber. She snuffed out the candle and the room darkened. The boards of the landing outside squeaked softly and the handle of her door turned. But the wedge she had contrived months ago held firm and the door stayed fast shut. She held her breath, trembling as the handle turned this way and that. Then it was still and the boards squeaked again, the stairs creaked. All was quiet.

She had seen a newspaper advertisement for cheap passages to Australia. The cost was only three pounds but she did not have that sum or anything like it – it was not easy to save from twelve pounds a year. But now she resolved that she would save something from her meagre pay in the future, no matter how frugally she had to live. Her dresses would have to be altered because she was filling out now, but she was good with a needle and she could do that work herself. When she went into the town she would walk and save the tram fare. She had to save some money. She had to get out. Now.

Frank Ward demanded, ‘What’s the matter?’

He and Ted were walking into town on either side of Chrissie Carter, on her way to her evening class. They were still in the quiet, ill-lit roads, treading in the darkness under the trees.

Chrissie answered, ‘Nothing. I just want a change.’

Ted argued, ‘But you said only last week that you liked that place.’

Chrissie shrugged. ‘I did. Now I don’t.’

Frank pressed her: ‘So what’s happened to change your mind?’

‘Nothing has happened.’ She could not tell them, was embarrassed by the thought. Her face felt on fire now and she was glad of the gloom that hid it from the boys. She insisted, ‘I changed my mind. I can change my mind if I want to, and I have. I want to get out and go somewhere else.’

Ted asked, ‘Where?’

There was the problem. Chrissie answered, ‘I don’t know.’

Frank asked, ‘Have you looked in the paper? To see if any “places” are advertised in there?’

Chrissie shook her head. ‘I’ve looked and there are “places”, but not for me, not for anybody my age. They all want maids of twenty-two years old or thereabouts.’

Ted said, ‘Well, wait a bit and something is sure to turn up.’

‘No.’ Chrissie was definite about that. ‘I’m handing in my notice tomorrow and leaving in a week’s time.’ She could not face any longer delay, lying every night with breath held, listening for the step on the stair.

They both stared at her and Ted pleaded, ‘You
can’t
, Chrissie! Where would you go?’

She admitted, ‘I don’t know.’

But all of them were thinking of the awful alternative of the workhouse, cold, bare and soulless.

They walked in silence for a while, coming to the town with its lights and noise, the shops with their flaring gas lamps, market stalls surrounded by swarming crowds, swaying trams and cabs bouncing along on their iron-shod wheels, here and there an occasional motor car chased by gangs of boys shrieking for pennies.

Necessity and fear were the spurs that prodded Ted’s memory. He burst out, ‘Here! What about Lance Morgan? Him that keeps the Frigate?’ The Frigate was a public house in Monkwearmouth on the other side of the river. Ted explained, ‘I get in there for a pint now and then.’ He was still only seventeen, but his height and uniform made him look older. ‘I was in there tonight before I came along here. He was saying he wanted somebody to live in and help his missus in the house and look after the bairns. He’s going to put an advert in the paper for a lass.’

Chrissie stopped dead. ‘How many bairns has he got?’ Though that was an idle question, and she went on, ‘Mind, he can have a dozen for all I care; I’ll manage them.’

Ted shook his head. ‘No. There’s only the two.’

‘How old?’

Frank put in, ‘One crawling, one walking.’

Chrissie eyed him. ‘Have you started going in the pubs now, then?’

Frank grinned. ‘Not me. I could, but I’m in training for the boxing.’

‘You know this Lance Morgan, though?’

‘Oh, aye,’ Frank agreed. ‘He’s a canny feller.’

Ted added, ‘They say he keeps a good house, does a lot of trade. He’s not all that well, suffers wi’ rheumatism and a bad chest but he has a barman to do the heavy work.’

Chrissie asked, ‘What about his wife? Why can’t she cope?’

Frank laughed and Ted shook his head. Frank said, ‘God knows where he got her from. She’s a hopeless case. A bonny woman, mind, little and lively. I’ve seen her out.’

Ted said, ‘But she never goes in the bar. She stays upstairs, tries to look after that and the bairns. But as I hear it – from folks that’s been up there – it’s all upside down and her always running around and getting nowt done. Nobody knows how Lance puts up with it.’

Chrissie thought that it sounded as though Lance did not want to put up with it any longer. There was hope for her. She asked Frank, ‘Will you take me down to see him?’

‘When?’

Lance Morgan had said he was going to put an advert in the paper. That might be as soon as tomorrow. Chrissie said, ‘Tonight.’

Frank met her after she finished her night-school class. He told her as she came running down the steps of the College, ‘I’ve been to the Frigate with Ted and had a word wi’ Lance. He said he’d see you tonight. Ted’s had to get his train back to Newcastle but I’ll walk round with you.’

Chrissie said eagerly, ‘Come on, then.’

The pub was within sight and sound of the river. It drew its custom from the men who worked in the yards and the seamen from the ships discharging in the docks or lying in the river. Standing on a corner where two streets met, it consisted of a big bar and a smaller sitting-room. On the floor above were the rooms where Lance Morgan and his wife lived. Lance was the licensee and the Frigate was a free house, not tied to any brewer.

Frank led Chrissie up the passage that ran to the stairs at the back of the house. On the way they passed doors that looked through to the bar and sitting-room. Chrissie caught a glimpse of the gleaming, brass-topped pump handles mounted on the scrubbed top of the counter, the kegs holding spirits, sherry and port ranked behind it. The public bar was crowded with men smoking, drinking, arguing. Some sat on the benches set around the walls but most stood at the bar, feet set apart on the sawdust-scattered wooden floor.

Two men stood behind the counter, pulling on the pump handles and filling trays of pint glasses. One was young, burly and in his shirt-sleeves, the other was a man in his fifties wearing a suit and tie.

Frank called to the older man: ‘Mr  Morgan!’ When the man in the suit glanced his way, ‘I’ve brought the lass.’

‘Be out in a minute.’ Morgan turned to slide pints on to the bar and collect payment as hard hands seized them.

Chrissie waited, nervous now, fearing rejection. But she was determined. She would leave the Forthrop house in a week’s time. And that week would drag.

Morgan came at last, a man of middle height, pallid and walking quickly but stiffly. Chrissie thought that would be the rheumatics, but also that he looked brisk and businesslike. He looked down at her and asked, ‘You’re the one that wants the job?’

‘Yes, please, Mr  Morgan.’

He said doubtfully, ‘You’re a bit on the small side.’

Chrissie tried to stand taller and started, ‘I’m—’ she was about to say fifteen but changed it to ‘  —  nearly sixteen.’

‘Have you any experience?’

‘I’ve been doing housework for as long as I can remember.’

Lance was not impressed by that. He said, ‘I meant a job. Have you had a job?’

‘I have one now but I want to move.’

He demanded, ‘Got a reference?’

‘Not yet. I haven’t told them I’m leaving.’ She wondered if her mistress would give her a reference, and what kind it would be, because Max Forthrop would dictate it to his acquiescent wife. She added, ‘They might not be too pleased when I tell them I’m leaving.’

Morgan pursed his lips. ‘So it might not be much of a reference?’

‘That’s right.’

Lance Morgan shook his head doubtfully. ‘I don’t think  . . .’

Frank put in, ‘She’s a good worker, always has been.’

Lance said testily, ‘What does a lad like you know about it? Just hold your tongue.’

And Chrissie said, ‘Please, Frank.’ Then she waited, hope draining away, wanting to plead her cause but not knowing how to do it.

The yell of a child came down to them faintly from the floor above, then a woman’s voice, shrill and high, the words indistinguishable but the tone excited.

Morgan’s eyes lifted to the ceiling and he sighed. ‘I wanted somebody to look after the bairns. Do you know anything about that?’

Inspiration came and Chrissie said daringly, ‘Oh, yes. I used to be one.’

Morgan blinked at her for a moment, then guffawed.

Chrissie added quickly, ‘I know they should be in bed by now.’

Morgan hesitated, then said, ‘I’ll give you a try for a week. Just a week, mind, and if you don’t manage, then you’re out.’

Chrissie beamed at him. ‘Oh, thank you, Mr  Morgan.’

He asked, ‘When can you start?’

‘Will a week tomorrow be all right? I think it’s only fair for me to give a week’s notice.’ She had taken the job with Sylvia Forthrop on those terms and did not want to go back on her word, though she was not looking forward to that week.

Morgan agreed, ‘Aye, that’ll be fine.’

Chrissie asked, ‘What about the money, Mr  Morgan?’

He rubbed his jaw and answered, ‘I’ve put a bit in the “Staff Wanted” part of the paper for tomorrow, said I’d pay thirty bob a month and keep. But that was when I was thinking of a grown lass of twenty-odd.’

Thirty shillings! That was half as much again as Chrissie was getting as a maid at the Forthrops’. She said, ‘Suppose I start at a pound a month. And if I’m good enough to keep on, you put it up to the thirty bob.’

Morgan said reluctantly, ‘Well, I don’t know—’ The child yelled again, then another joined in the chorus. Lance Morgan winced and said, ‘All right. If you can do the job, you’ll get the money. I’ll take you on, Miss – what was your name again?’

‘Chrissie Carter.’

The next week started badly and limped along slowly. Chrissie faced Sylvia Forthrop on the first morning and told her, ‘I’m giving notice, ma’am. I’ve got another “place”. I want to leave a week today.’

Sylvia complained, ‘This is most inconvenient! I’ll not find a replacement in that time.’ But Chrissie refused to change her mind.

She endured seven days of Sylvia’s grumbling and sniping, Forthrop’s baleful glower. The problem of her replacement was solved by seeming chance. The day after Chrissie gave her notice, a tall, bold-eyed girl came to the kitchen door and told Emily Prewett, ‘I hear there’s a vacancy for a girl. Can I see the missus?’

Her name was Della Roberts and Sylvia Forthrop agreed to see her. Della had satisfactory references from ‘places’ in Yorkshire, the last ending some six months before. She said she had been looking after her ailing mother for those six months. Sylvia took her on for a trial period, but warned, ‘I’ll have to see what my husband says.’

Della answered with cheerful confidence, ‘That’s all right by me, ma’am.’

Sylvia rang the bell and Chrissie came to show Della out. As they passed through the hall, Max Forthrop came home. He glanced at the two girls and they both bobbed. Chrissie saw Della wink. And wondered.

At the end of the week, Chrissie worked her last day through until four in the afternoon. While she was changing quickly into her best dress, Frank came to the house pushing a barrow. As she arrived, breathless, in the kitchen, he said, ‘I got the loan of this from a feller down our street. He goes round with it selling taties.’