The Girl From Penny Lane (3 page)

But Mrs O’Rourke had died more than two years ago, and Kitty had grown resigned to the loss of her friend. She still went to the library and borrowed books, but she had to hide them well or her mother would have sold them. She had never told Sary, or any other member of the family, about her ability with a needle, for if her mother knew she would force Kitty to help with the trimmings. Life was hard enough, Kitty concluded, without taking on more unpaid and unappreciated work. When Sary could catch her she made Kitty light fires, chop wood, cook whatever food was available and keep an eye on the kids. Kitty had no desire to add sewing to the long list.

So now, peering over the top of the box as she crossed the Scotland Road to make sure there was no traffic about to mow her down, Kitty considered her lot. Twelve years old, thin as a lath and generally dirty and unattractive, she had almost no chance of a job, yet work would be her only escape from Paradise Court. She was happy enough in school, mixing with other kids and finding the work well within her capabilities, but there were always those embarrassing occasions when a parent was summoned to come to the school, or an outing was planned, or a group photograph taken. It went without saying that Mr and Mrs Drinkwater would not turn up and would not cough up, either. Whilst Mrs O’Rourke was alive she had slipped Kitty oddments of money for errands run or small tasks performed, but now she was dead it was steal or go without, and though Kitty was by no means averse to a spot of thievery, she knew that her friend had disapproved and did her best to stay on the straight and narrow. Besides, though her brothers stole and her father brought things home from sea which Kitty doubted he had acquired honestly, she knew without any doubt that if she was
caught
pinching, her parents would kill her. Not half kill, but finish her off once and for all.

Any excuse, in fact. Kitty’s left eardrum had been perforated when her father had punched her in the side of the head, she had had ribs fractured and a broken wrist after an encounter with her mother when drunk, and her skinny arms were always black and blue from the automatic, almost casual, blows which were the result, it seemed, of a parental eye lighting upon her.

One day I’ll go, she told herself now, clutching the increasingly heavy box of trimmings. One day I’ll just up and off, and they won’t even pretend to be sorry!

But right now she was on her way to Upper Frederick Street, where the small milliner’s shop run by Miss Hughes and Miss Morton was situated. The two spinster ladies ran a very successful small business and they would give Kitty the money for the trimmings in a small brown envelope, a new bundle of ribbon and lace for embroidering and finishing, and, if she was lucky, a piece of cake, an apple or even, as had happened on one momentous occasion, a meat and potato pie.

Kitty never thought about the money in the envelope because it had no significance for her. Her father’s allotment was paid to her mother monthly, she believed, and so far as Kitty could make out the extra earned from the needlework enabled Sary Drinkwater to lift her elbow more frequently than she would otherwise have done. That was its only significance for Kitty, though her mother frequently told friends and neighbours that without her earnings the kids would have starved. Kitty, getting by on the scraps her mother allowed her and the odds and ends she picked up, usually made herself scarce when the family were having their evening dinner, the only significant meal of the day. What was the point in getting too near her mother’s strong right arm just in the hope of a chunk of bread and a cup of weak tea? She could go in late and get anything left over, then go to bed.

Not that she would be able to do that today, because she would have the money and a new bundle of trimmings to take back for Sary to work on. So she would have to go straight home today . . . but she would be safe enough, this time. She had noticed that she was always safe when she had been performing an errand for her mother, so perhaps she should regard that as payment enough.

On a tram the journey between Paradise Court and Upper Frederick Street would have been long and slightly tedious but perfectly possible. On foot it was as long as a route march. Kitty went right the way along the Scotland Road, never noticing or caring as it became first Byrom Street and then the Old Haymarket. Trams passed her, ringing their bells, but since she had no pennies for her fare they, too, meant nothing but an added hazard should she want to cross the road. Pedestrians dodged the small girl with the big box – some smiled, others frowned – but no one offered to give her a hand and indeed, had they done so Kitty would have been highly suspicious. The box might look like nothing much but the trimmings were worth a lot of money, she wouldn’t hand them to anyone, not she.

On Old Haymarket the trams were lined up, nose to tail, waiting for departure time. Kitty glanced at them, but continued doggedly to walk, dodging the people hurrying for their homegoing trams. She had set off at a good pace, but it was late afternoon by now and women, shopping in the centre of the city, were turning their steps homeward in order to cook a hot meal for husbands and children. At least, so Kitty enviously surmised, for thanks to Mrs O’Rourke she knew what mothers were supposed to do, even though her own parent seemed to remain largely ignorant of her duties. Along Whitechapel she went, past the sailors’ home, into Paradise Street, and finally, when she had traversed Cleveland Square with its big houses and leafy trees, she dived left into Upper Frederick Street at last and knew she was almost halfway through her journey – for once she had handed over the box she would be given another and would begin the weary trek back.

Unfortunately, Upper Frederick Street was a very boring thoroughfare for someone of Kitty’s age. Warehouses, public houses and tradesmen’s properties jostled down either side of the road, with never a shop window to please the eye. Until you got to the milliner’s shop, of course.

Miss Hughes and Miss Morton had a lovely window, Kitty considered. Two or three wax heads with disdainful expressions displayed the most expensive hats, and the rest were laid out tastefully on swatches of material or beside a vase of artificial flowers. In spring, Miss Morton, who was the artistic one, always put a china hen and a clutch of china chicks amongst the hats. In summer, it was a bucket and spade and a cleverly constructed sandcastle made of cardboard, and in winter a Christmas tree dominated the window, all decorated with tinsel and toys. Kitty, who knew about the seaside only from books, stopped to look in the window and envy those children lucky enough to possess buckets, spades and sandcastles. She rather liked the hats, too – the big straw one with artificial poppies round the crown, the fluffy, feathery one, the one which had a brim so wide that Kitty doubted whether the wearer would know if it rained or shone – and anyway, looking in the window gave her a breather, which she needed before going inside.

She did take a look through the half-glazed door, though, because she knew that the Misses Hughes and Morton much preferred her to enter the shop to transact her business when they were not busy with customers. A severe-looking lady was at the counter, paying for a purchase, but as soon as she had left, with a rustle of unfashionably long skirts and a fearful glance at the blue sky overhead, as though she spent her life expecting a downpour, Kitty nipped inside and heaved her box up onto the counter.

‘Trimmings from Miz Drinkwater,’ she said breathlessly: the counter was high and the box heavy. ‘An’ can I tek the nex’ lot, please?’

Miss Hughes, who had been serving the severe-looking lady, had gone into the back of the shop as soon as her customer left, but a plain and spotty girl, not a lot older than Kitty herself, moved forward to take the box from her. ‘Drinkwater,’ she said heavily. ‘Wait on, I’ll git the new lot.’

She was about to disappear in her turn when the shop door rattled. Kitty turned automatically as it opened, intending to give just a quick glance behind her – and instead of glancing, stared. The newcomer was the most beautiful young lady she had ever imagined. Thick, softly shining red-gold hair was coiled into a bun at the nape of her neck, her skin was white and clear and her eyes large and violet blue. She wore a beautiful navy blue dress which fitted her slender figure to perfection and a little jacket made of the same material. She went towards the counter and the girl who had been talking to Kitty turned automatically towards her.

‘Yes, miss?’

‘Miss Hughes is making a hat for my sister to wear at a wedding. It’s white, with a wide blue ribbon – I wondered . . .’

The spotty one nodded violently, turned without a word and went to the door behind her, opening it to reveal the beginnings of a flight of stairs.

‘Miss ’Ughes!’ she shouted up the stairs. ‘It’s the gairl from Penny Lane, she’s called for th’ weddin’ ’at!’

A voice shouted a muffled reply which evidently made sense to the spotty one. She turned back to her customer.

‘She says it’s ready, Miss. I’ll jest go up an’ fetch it down for you.’

She disappeared and the beautiful young lady said, apparently to herself, ‘The girl from Penny Lane, indeed! What sauce!’

Kitty nodded earnestly and the movement caught the young lady’s eye. She swung round, looking properly at Kitty for the first time.

‘Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there – are you being served or did I push in ahead of you?’

‘S’orlright,’ Kitty said. ‘I ain’t a customer, I’s brung work in.’

The young lady nodded.

‘I see. Well, if the hat’s ready I shan’t be long, since Nellie – that’s my sister – paid the first instalment, and there’s only one shilling and sixpence owing, which I’ve got in my purse.’

‘I’m fetchin’ trimmings,’ Kitty confided, delighted that this pretty, beautifully dressed young lady was disposed to chat. ‘Me Mam makes ’em for Miss ’Ughes an’ Miss Morton. They sends plain ribbons an’ she ’broiders ’em, an’ stitches lace an’ makes button-’oles an’ all sorts.’

‘She must be very clever with her needle,’ the young lady said. ‘My sister can sew, but I’m not very good. Can you embroider?’

‘Well, I can, me friend taught me, but I wouldn’t tell me Mam,’ Kitty confessed. ‘She’d make me do it all, else. ‘Sides, don’t suppose I could do all them fancy stitches an’ that.’

‘You should practise,’ Kitty’s new friend said kindly. ‘Then, one day, you’ll be able to help your mother, perhaps in the evenings, when you are home from your job of work. Fine needlework is always useful.’

At this point someone began descending the stairs heavily. Miss Hughes, who was carrying a huge, wide-brimmed hat with great reverence, began to speak almost as soon as she appeared in view.

‘Miss Larkin! I thought it must be you when my niece said . . . dear Sophia remembered you had been staying with Mrs Gallagher in Penny Lane, but that is really no excuse, as I told her, for rudeness! But there, she’s my elder sister’s only child and is new to our work, though determined to do well, quite determined, and as I said to Miss Morton, better to keep it in the family, with so many valuable materials, to say nothing of all the new lines we’re beginning to stock . . .’ She held the hat out to her customer. ‘Now what do you think? Will it not make madam quite the best-dressed lady at the wedding?’

‘It’s beautiful,’ the girl said, eyeing the hat admiringly. ‘I have the rest of the money here, and thank you very much, Miss Hughes, I’m sure my sister will be delighted with your work.’

‘I hope so, I hope so indeed. And should your employer ever desire something a little special, a little out of the ordinary, and should you feel able to recommend us, I should be most grateful . . . you would not regret such a recommendation, you may be sure.’

‘My employer has been ill and rarely leaves the house,’ the girl said sadly. ‘If you could put the hat in a box, Miss Hughes, and let me have a receipt . . .’

‘Of course, of course,’ Miss Hughes said. She frowned slightly at Kitty, who was leaning against the counter and drinking in every word. ‘Yes? What do you want, my dear?’

‘Me Mam’s money,’ Kitty said promptly. ‘An’ the new trimmin’s.’

‘Ah, yes, you’re the Drinkwater child,’ Miss Hughes said. ‘When I finish with this lady I’ll call Sophia; she’s fetching the box and your Mama’s wages.’ She turned back to the girl, gave her a practised smile and then dived under the counter, reappearing with her hands full of white tissue paper. ‘Now, I’ll just wrap the hat up for you.’

Kitty watched, fascinated, as the hat was swathed expertly in the tissue paper and plunged into the depths of a handsome hat-box only just big enough to contain it. Then the box was tied up with string and pink sealing wax and the string formed into a neat carrying handle.

‘There you are!’ Miss Hughes said triumphantly, handing the beautiful, light parcel over to her customer. ‘Good afternoon, Miss. Convey my respects to Mrs Gallagher.’

‘Good afternoon,’ echoed the girl. She then turned to Kitty and gave her the most brilliant and beautiful smile. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Drinkwater, and thank you for your company.’

Politeness costs nothing
, Mrs O’Rourke used to say, and
Good manners are a sign of good breeding
. So Kitty smiled and gave a little bob and said, ‘Same to you, Miss, I’m sure,’ and then watched as the beautiful young lady, the hatbox swinging from one hand, left the shop, closing the door gently behind her.

‘Well, well,’ Miss Hughes said vaguely, as Kitty turned reluctantly back to the counter. ‘Where were we . . . ah Sophia!’

There was a faint hail from up above, then a thundering of heavy feet descending the stairs which made Miss Hughes’s earlier progress sound positively fairylike.

‘Ere we are, Aunt,’ Sophia said, thumping down the last stairs. She had a box in her arms which looked, to Kitty’s despairing eyes, even bigger and heavier than the one she had just delivered. ‘Trimmin’s for Mrs Drinkwater an’ the money for the last lot.’ She waved a small brown envelope, then put it down on top of the box. ‘Miss Morton’s just mekin’ a cuppa. She says if you go up now, I can go up later.’