Ruby McBride (15 page)

The men glanced at each other, sheepish expressions on their weary faces. ‘We haven’t joined no union, not us unskilled workers. We leave that to the seamen and the craftsmen. We dockers are a casual labour force, with no rights to call us own.’

‘Rubbish! It’s time you did join. For God’s sake, unions are for all, skilled and unskilled alike.’

There were mumbles of agreement, while others put forward excuses, names of employers who had strong objections to union activity among their workers, no matter what the law of the land might allow, and then one name emerged above all the rest: Giles Pickering.

Sparky said, ‘He owns a whole fleet of barges, tugs, ships. You name it, it bears his name on the ticket somewhere. And I’ve a family to feed. It’s more’n my life’s worth to stand up to him. You tried it once, Tom, didn’t ya?’

‘Aye, and he made sure I got no work for weeks because I’d complained about the haphazard way some hessian bags were stacked. I kept me mouth shut after that.’

Then they all leaned closer, putting their heads together to plot and plan. Ruby paid no attention. She was far too busy eating her custard tart.

As Christmas approached, Bart grew increasingly restless, sometimes sitting for long hours staring at Ruby in reflective silence, at others endlessly fidgeting, almost nervous in his demeanour. She observed this strange behaviour with covert interest. What might he be planning?

This was what she feared most of all: the fact that even after months of living under the same roof, she was no nearer to understanding him. Who knew what he was chewing over in that overactive brain of his, perhaps with one of his cronies down town. He was as much a mystery to her as ever and Ruby worried where his agile mind might lead them.

But then she’d long since decided that Barthram Stobbs was a strange character: the kind of man who gave no indication of what he was thinking or feeling. A man who liked to be in complete control which was perhaps why he’d wed her, to be sure that he had a woman firmly in his grasp. Even so, Ruby believed that she could deal with his idiosyncrasies. There was no evidence of violence in him, and for that she was grateful. He’d never struck her, nor yet attempted to interfere with her in any way despite his having the right, in theory, as her husband.

Not that she expected this state of affairs to go on indefinitely. There were times when he lapsed into a brooding silence, watching her with a raw intensity, openly appraising her. Just as if she were a piece of merchandise and he were assessing her value, Ruby thought, outraged. This ‘stripping-me-off look’, as she termed it, worried her a good deal, but she’d learned to make herself scarce when he was in one of his moods. She’d also insisted on being given the key to her cabin door which, to be fair, he’d agreed to, albeit with an amused, rakish smile. ‘Don’t you trust me, Ruby?’

‘I don’t think about you at all.’

‘I suspect you do. I believe you think about me a good deal more than you care to admit.’

Night after night Ruby’s sleep was indeed disturbed by dark imaginings, quite certain that this would be the night he’d come to claim his rights. In her dreams she would see his handsome face loom close, sense his warm breath against her cheek, imagine that she felt the brush of his lips touching hers ... then she would wake in a lather of hot emotion. Or she would be quite unable to get to sleep at all, listening for his step upon the wooden boards, a tap on her door and the soft echo of his voice calling her name.

‘Ruby. Aren’t you ready for me yet?’

She would bury her head under the pillow, her heart pounding in her ears as she tried to quench the images that flooded in. What would it feel like to have a man make love to her? To have Barthram Stobbs love her? Would he be tender or passionate? Caring or brutal? Could he ever touch her heart? How could that be possible when she had given it to another? Didn’t it already belong to Kit Jarvis?

Exhaustion would finally claim her and Ruby would wake to the bright sunlight of another day and the knowledge that she was safe for a while longer. But from his expression at breakfast, Ruby would recognise the very real pleasure he derived from playing this game of cat and mouse. The twisted smile proclaimed all too clearly that he would have her in the end, but in his own good time.

Chapter Eleven

On 22 January 1901, Queen Victoria died, and on a cold, clear day in February her son Edward VII opened his first Parliament, thus ushering in a new age. Sad as the people were to lose their treasured monarch, yet the change represented a new beginning for a new century. For Pearl, the coming of spring that year brought little change in her own circumstances, nor offered any hope of rejoicing. She knew herself to be an outcast, an untouchable, just one among countless others who had spent their childhood in an institution and was now somehow tainted by it.

But she’d discovered ways of making life bearable, even exciting.

Her first position as scullery maid had not worked out. She’d been returned to the reformatory on a charge of ‘impudent conduct’, simply because she’d told her employer to keep his hands to himself when he’d attempted to fondle her breasts. Pearl was very proud of her figure and certainly no prude, but being mauled about by a whiskery old man with bad breath was not her idea of a good time.

Dallying in a grassy meadow behind the cabbage patch with Sam, the gardener’s boy, at this, her second position out on licence, was another matter entirely. He was a good few years older than herself at twenty-two but quite a looker with those dark brooding eyes of his. Pearl had no objection to him fondling her any time he liked. Rather as he was doing now as she lay sprawled beneath him with her blouse all unbuttoned,
her plump breasts spilling out and his young mouth suckling her like a babe, sending thrills of desire rippling through her. Like hot wine, she thought, rather fancifully for one who’d never tasted it.

Today was a perfect day for loving. The sky was a pale blue streaked with smudges of white cloud that looked as if they’d been painted by some artist’s brush. The smell of damp, loamy soil mingled with the more cloying scent of May blossom in the hedgerow behind them and somewhere, not too far off, she could hear chickens cackling and scratching. She really should be getting back. The housekeeper was a dragon who didn’t take kindly to scullery maids who skived off. Oh, but she didn’t want to go, not just yet.

‘Lift up your frock, Pearl. Let me have a feel. I won’t hurt you, honest.’

‘Give over. What do you think I am?’ She was burning up inside with the need for him to touch her but didn’t want him to think her cheap. That would never do. This sensation of power to reduce a man to a quivering wreck with one tantalising glance, one kiss from her luscious mouth, was utterly intoxicating.

It had been drummed into them all at the reformatory not to respond to a wink or a whistle, nor to embark upon even the mildest of flirtations. Admirable advice, Pearl had to admit, although sadly not the sort which she could abide by. Up until now there’d been no opportunity for any fun. It had been nothing but work, work, work the whole time, with not a man in sight.

Once out in the big wide world, however, it was a different story. The chance for a bit of slap and tickle, as it was fondly called, seemed to be available at every corner, and Pearl found that she simply couldn’t resist a handsome face, a strong arm, or a teasing word of love, however insincere it might be.

She knew Sam didn’t love her, any more than she loved him.
Pearl adored the pungent aroma of male sweat on him, the scent of warm sunshine in his fair hair, the muscles that rippled through his young, lithe body, but not for a moment did she allow these distractions to lower her guard one inch. She had every intention of falling in love with someone who had pockets full of brass, not with a poor gardener’s apprentice on five bob a week. But until a suitable candidate chanced along, there was no reason why she shouldn’t enjoy herself in the meantime.

She drew up her skirt slowly, inch by tantalising inch, to just above her knees, giggling deliciously as he ran his hands up her long, smooth limbs. Then he was eagerly pushing them apart, groaning as if he were in some sort of agony.

‘Oh, Pearl, yer that beautiful, I can hardly believe yer letting me do this.’

Pearl wished he would stop talking and get on with it. Within seconds, her flannel drawers were somewhere around her ankles. He’d unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his trousers but she wasn’t paying the slightest attention to any of this because she was far too intent on wanting his fingers to go on sending small explosions of delicious sensation through her body. Once she’d redirected his attention to satisfying that need she lay back unresisting, her hair a sunburst of colour in the sweet-scented grass, eyes closed and her arms flung out, wanting it to go on and on, until the burning need in her was finally quenched.
 

‘You’re a naughty girl, Pearl. Did no one ever tell you that?’
 

She giggled. ‘That’s why they sent me to the reformatory, I suppose. Don’t you like naughty girls, Sam?’

‘Oh, yes, Pearl. I certainly like you,’ he said, his breathing ragged with excitement.

Something warm and hard was being pushed against her private parts, seeking entry, and Pearl gave a little startled squeal, as if she hadn’t intended him to go so far. But then she began to help him, drawing him into her, all pretence aban
doned as she succumbed to that driving need. ‘Oh, and I like you, Sam. Give us a kiss.’

As she reached up to put her arms about his neck, mouth parted to receive his kiss, he pushed her back, pinning her arms down while he thrust into her with long, hard strokes, quickening to a powerful surge of energy as he came swiftly to a climax. The sensation of pleasure that cascaded through her brought that pitch of excitement Pearl had come to crave, almost as a daily necessity, to prove that she was alive. It was, in her estimation, the only joy she had in life, and surely everyone deserved a little pleasure? But it was over far too quickly, leaving her with an ache of disappointment, a sensation of being slightly cheated. She was the kind of girl, Pearl decided, who needed a lot of loving.

‘Ooh, please don’t stop. I want more,’ she groaned as he slumped upon her, all energy spent. Now it was his turn to chuckle. ‘Give a lad a minute to draw breath, and then you’ll get more, love. By heck, you will.’

By late summer it became apparent to Pearl that she was pregnant. It amazed her that such a thing could happen so quickly, after only four months in service. It must be because she was so young and fertile, she thought, with some degree of pride. Not that she’d bargained on getting caught. She’d certainly no wish for the encumbrance of a child.

Terrified of being found out, she dosed herself daily with castor oil and essence of peppermint, hoping to rid herself of the problem, so far to no effect.

Pearl knew only too well that were she discovered, she’d be in dead trouble. Immoral girls were a great trial to the reformers, who considered them to be filled with wickedness and moral corruption. They certainly wouldn’t be in the least interested in her tales of romance: of how she’d been abandoned by the traitorous Sam in favour of an upstairs maid. And how she’d found consolation in the arms of a handsome young groom who’d promised undying devotion, but had turned out to be married already.

In the short time she’d been free, Pearl had taken every path she could in the pursuit of pleasure and had enjoyed herself hugely. Now it seemed she must face the consequences.

Summing up the possibilities, she surmised that she very likely faced incarceration in the workhouse, if she was lucky, for it could be somewhere far worse. She’d even heard of a girl being sent to a mental home with the lunatics. She might still be there so far as anyone knew. Another had been forced to spend hours in solitary confinement on her knees in penitence for her ‘crime’. When the poor creature had been considered sufficiently remorseful for her promiscuity she’d been thrown out into the streets, still not having given birth and with little hope of help or even adoption for the baby as the church did not approve of her behaviour. The child was apparently her responsibility and she must take care of it, come what may. Pearl knew only too well that once out on the streets, if the girl didn’t die giving birth, the child certainly would, of starvation, cold or sickness.

Every one of these prospects filled her with terror.

‘Thank your lucky stars you haven’t got the clap.’ Her new friend Elsie broke into her gloomy thoughts with these few comforting words, having been thoroughly put in the picture and asked if she knew of some other remedy worth trying. ‘Then they’d send you to hospital, all dressed up in a purple frock, so everyone would know why.’

Pearl shuddered. ‘How can you tell if you have it?’

‘Yer bits and pieces drop off.’

‘Oh, crikey! Blast you, our Ruby, for getting me into this mess.’

‘Why were it your Ruby’s fault?’ Elsie wanted to know, eyes wide with wonder.