The Girl From Penny Lane (30 page)

They went into the Court itself. It was very much smaller than Kitty remembered, and unbelievably shabby. The flags were layered in filth, the one gas-light sputtered fitfully, showing leaning doors, cracked window panes, a broken chair and an abandoned mattress with the stuffing leaking out. As though Kitty’s horror was palpable, Patch pressed harder against her leg and gave a small whine. Kitty automatically fondled the dog’s smooth head, then stared around her once more.

‘Gawd,’ she said in an awed whisper. ‘Gawd, it’s wuss’n I remembered, an’ that’s sayin’ suffin’!’

‘Yeah, the welfare lady said it were run-down,’ Betty murmured. ‘There’s almost no one ’ere in work, though, our Kit. It ain’t just our Da an’ Mam, there’s others an’ all.’

‘What about the Hallorans? An’ the Percivals?’

‘They left. Moved, I means. It’s bad ’ere now, our Kitty. It’s the Fletchers what done it.’

‘Done what?’

‘Oh, brung it low. They’re allus in trouble an’ they’re a big fambly. Mam, Da, a couple o’ aunts, an uncle, three big gels, a dozen kids . . . Mam says the gels ’ave sailors in.’

‘Oh,’ Kitty said, following Betty’s example and keeping her voice low. ‘It’s quiet now, though.’

‘Oh ah; they’ll be at the boozer,’ Betty explained. ‘Better come in, our Kitty; that’s our Eth cryin’. Poor bitch, she’s ’ungry. Ruthie don’t holler much; younger, see. Used to it, I dessay.’

Betty stumped up the step and pushed open the creaking door.

‘Mind the Drop,’ she said. ‘They’re in the front.’

They were. Two small girls, all thin and ragged, though neither quite as thin as Betty. Eldest always gets it hardest, Kitty thought, then moved forward, doing her best to smile. The lamp was lit but it was sending out some pretty fierce fumes; she wondered if the children could see who she was or could recognise her if they did. Four years is a long time when you’re only eight or nine.

Betty took hold of her hand and led her forward; Kitty could feel Betty’s pride in her, as though by producing their big sister she had done everyone a big favour.

‘Here’s Kitty come ’ome,’ she said softly. ‘Eth, stop snivellin’, she’s brung food, an’ a dawg! Did you ’ear that, Ruthie – we got grub!’

Two ragged heads swung towards her; two pairs of dull eyes brightened. Kitty produced the loaf, the tins, the cheese. The smallest girl, a child no more than two years old, held out her hands, cupped, in a gesture of begging so painfully eloquent that Kitty had to swallow a lump in her throat.

‘Bread an’ milk,’ she said to Betty. ‘I’ll open the tin, you crumble some bread into – into somethin’. I don’t remember Ruthie, she must’ve been born after I left.’

‘I ’member you, Kitty,’ Eth said.

She must be nine, it stood to reason she was nine, but you could have thought her five or six. And there had been others, there was Phyllis, and Mo . . .

‘Where’s Phyllis and Mo?’

‘The Welfare took ’em, just after you left; never seed ’em since,’ Betty said briefly. ‘Mam said they’d be better off.’

‘I remember when you was ’ome, Kitty,’ Eth said suddenly. ‘Mam were allus . . .’

Her voice died away. She looked avidly at the chunk of loaf which Betty was crumbling into three empty bully-beef tins.

‘Can someone fetch water?’ Kitty said.

Eth got to her feet. Her nose was running and she staggered as she tried to walk. Quickly, Kitty caught hold of her and sat her down again, on the bundle of old newspapers and rags which dominated the room.

‘S’awright, queen, I’ll go meself. You’ll feel better presently, when you’ve ate.’

She went out to the yard, the kettle in one hand, and filled it at the communal tap. Returning to the front room, she looked hopefully at the grate. No wood, no coal, nothing but long-dead ashes. And it was a chilly evening.

‘No fire? Oh well, I daresay it’ll go down just as well cold,’ she said cheerfully, hacking a hole in the can with a rusty tin opener and mixing the milk with water until it was of a pouring consistency. She made the bread and milk and handed the children the tins. They ate with their fingers, lacking spoons, and with feverish haste. Then they looked at her; they said nothing, just looked.

‘Bite o’ bread an’ cheese?’ Kitty said. ‘Ain’t much else, but I’ll go round next door presently, get ’em to boil us a kettle. Then we can ’ave a drink o’ tea.’

‘Oh Gawd, I forgot! Mam . . . come up an’ see Mam, there’s a dear, Kitty,’ Betty coaxed. ‘She’s poorly . . . you might know wha’s wrong.’

‘I shan’t, an’ the sight of me is bound to mek ’er worse,’ Kitty said uneasily. ‘Oh, awright then, I’ll jest tek a look.’ She turned to Patch, sitting gnawing on an ancient bone she must have found somewhere. ’Stay ’ere, there’s a good gel.’

Betty lit a stub of candle and they left the two little girls single-mindedly chewing bread and cheese in total silence and climbed the rickety stairs. At the head of them was a tiny landing, with the children’s slope-roofed room to their left and the main bedroom to their right. Kitty peeped through the doorway, not venturing to enter, expecting either a storm of abuse or possibly even a missile. But there was nothing. Not even movement.

Encouraged, she ventured further.

Sary Drinkwater lay on her back on the old brass bedstead. She had a pile of rags over her and her hair hung over her face in a wild tangle. She heard the two girls in the doorway and slowly her big, untidy head swung towards them.

Her face was frightful. Her eyes were bloodshot and screwed up against the fitful candlelight, her skin was blotched and purplish, her toothless mouth hung open; saliva ran down her chin and puddled the rags beneath her head.

‘Mam, ’ow d’yer feel? We brung food, an’ there’ll be a cuppa presently.’

‘I could do wi’ a cup.’ Sary’s voice was slurred and her eyes seemed scarcely to move, but she had taken in something at least, as her next remark proved. ‘Who’s your pal?’

Kitty put out a warning hand but it was too late; Betty was in full flood.

‘Why, Mam, it’s our Kitty, come ’ome to look after us till you’re well agin! Doncher reckernise ’er?’

Sary peered, then half-closed her eyes.

‘Kitty?’ she said in a wondering voice. ‘Not Kitty Drinkwater?’

‘That’s right, Mam,’ Kitty said, preparing for flight. ‘I jest popped in to . . .’

‘Kitty! Me eldest . . . me best . . . Gawd, I thought you’d gone for good, thought you was dead . . . an’ you’ve come ’ome! Oh Kitty, love, things ’ave been that bad for us sinst you left, things ’ave gone cruel ’ard. Oh praise be, she’s come ’ome!’

Kitty said gruffly that she had indeed and backed carefully out of the room. Downstairs again she wondered, as she worked on the food, what she was to do. Betty had convinced her that the family were in dire straits, but the interview with her mother suggested to her that things were worse than even Betty knew. Sary Drinkwater was not ill; she was mad. And madwomen, Kitty suspected, didn’t get better. Did this mean that she would have to stay here in this vile and abominable place, rear her three sisters and feed them all by her own efforts
and
see to the great, creaking hulk of a madwoman in the bed upstairs?

I’d sooner die, Kitty thought desperately. I can’t do it, I’d much sooner die.

But she knew – none better – that death didn’t come for the asking, and that duty, that horrible word, had a way of forcing itself upon you. Could she leave Betty, Eth, and little Ruthie to starve? Could she leave them, even, to the mercy of the madwoman upstairs? I had Mrs O’Rourke for a bit, and I managed somehow, she told herself. They’ve got nothing, and they won’t manage, they aren’t strong enough.

But others as strong as she and with more reason to stay had just run off. First Da, then Bob. Why should she stay, when they’d deliberately driven her out all those years ago? Why couldn’t she give them the rest of her money, spend one night with them and then cut and run, back to Johnny, and the hope of the farm, the promise of the open road and good company?

I’ll see what Johnny says, she told herself much later that night, when she and Patch sneaked out of the house and set off across the city in the direction of their lodging house. He’ll advise me, tell me what to do for the best.

But Johnny wasn’t at the lodging house.

‘Seen neither ’ide nor ’air of ’im,’ the landlord said. ‘Still, you an’ the dawg’s welcome if you’ve got the dosh.’

‘Not tonight,’ Kitty said. She felt numb with fear. What she most dreaded had happened, she had lost touch with Johnny! Then she remembered that they could both read and write. ‘Look, can I leave a note for me brother? You’ll give it to ’im when ’e does come?’

‘Aye, I’ll give it ’im,’ the man agreed. ‘Want a bit o’ paper?’

He found Kitty a crumpled sheet and a stub of pencil and Kitty, after much thought, just told Johnny that she’d gone back home to help out and could be found at 8 Paradise Court.

‘’E’ll come for us,’ she told Patch as they walked back across the city. ‘Johnny’ll not leave us ’ere.’

She returned to the lodging house after a couple of days. The landlord said no one had been, no one had asked for her. Kitty could only think that Johnny must have found their witness and taken him back to Wrexham or the farm. After she’d gone, the landlord chucked her note on the fire. No use keeping it since he’d forgotten all about it when the lad had come looking. Best put the whole thing out of his mind. Cheeky mare, using him as a bloody notice-board!

After three days, she decided Kitty would have to leave the family to fend for themselves and actually go in search of Johnny. It was clear that their plan had failed in some way and she could not contemplate staying here in this dreadful house. That’s what I’ll do, tomorrow, she vowed to herself late that night, as she and Patch joined the little girls in the pile of rags and old newspaper which was their bed. Tomorrow I’ll give ’em what’s left of Johnny’s money and split. There’s so little I can do anyway . . . I’m only one, they need an army of helpers to get them right. Well, I’d better get a doctor to the old woman ’fore I go or she’ll pop her clogs and the kids’ll get sent to the workhouse or worse – what’s worse, come to think? And I’ll clean the place up or they’ll die of filth and vermin . . . I saw a rat in the back kitchen, scuttling across the floor bold as brass, good thing we finished up the bread and cheese!

So she promised herself an escape in the forefront of her mind, but in the back of her mind, where truth lies waiting, she knew she could never do it, never desert them. And when sleep claimed her she wept in her slumber and her sobs woke little Ruthie, who burrowed through the rags and curled up against Kitty’s chest and seemed to comfort her a little, for the weeping gradually slowed and stopped.

But Kitty’s dreams were dreadful.

Chapter Eleven

Lilac had always been a hard worker, even-tempered and patient, but once she had written to Art telling she was every bit as sorry as he – sorrier – and received a reply which could only be described as lyrical, she was so cheerful, so happy, that even Charlotte remarked on it.

‘And not only are you grinnin’ from ear to ear day and night,’ Charlotte said accusingly one morning, ‘but you’re singin’ and laughin’ and gettin’ through a huge amount of work . . . it ain’t natural, our Li!’

‘What’s unnatural about happiness?’ Lilac said, on her hands and knees polishing the dance floor. ‘Anyway, you should be grateful; Mrs Higgins never got a shine like this on it – you can see your face, just like in a mirror!’

‘That’s what I mean . . . who wants to see their face in a dance-floor? A quick mop-over would have done very well.’

‘It needs polishing,’ Lilac said, rubbing away. ‘To tell you the truth, Charlotte, I’ve got so much extra energy that I hardly need to sleep at night! I know Art and I won’t be able to get together at once, because he’s got to arrange for someone to take his place for a couple of weeks . . . that’s what we’ve decided, incidentally, that he’ll come here for a fortnight whilst we do our arranging and get ourselves wed, then we’ll go back to Gibraltar for a bit, just until Art can arrange something over here. And we’re going to have a little honeymoon in New Brighton, because when we were kids Art was always saying that one day we’d go there, and the day we fought and he went off we’d planned to spend the afternoon there. So a honeymoon there will be a long-delayed treat . . . oh, I’m looking forward to that little honeymoon just as much as if it were Venice or Rome we were visiting! After that we’ll go back to Gib and he’ll start trying for jobs over here.’

‘How can you get a good job in Liverpool from Gibraltar?’ Charlotte said doubtfully. ‘It’s hard enough when you’re actually livin’ here!’

Whilst her friend polished the floor she was rubbing up the window panes, plumping the cushions on the small chairs and dusting the skirting boards.

‘Yes, I know, but Art’s awful good at mathematics, a real genius. And he’s had all that experience now in running a small shipping line, so he hopes perhaps one of the big shipyards – Cammel Lairds or somewhere – will take him on.’

‘Yes, I suppose that’s possible,’ Charlotte admitted. ‘But things are pretty bad right now, they say even people in quite good positions are losing their jobs. And you’re doing so well, queen – the hotel can’t manage without you, the dancing academy needs you – why quit when you’re on top?’

‘I’ve already told you; because Art is also doing well, and making good money. And though I really enjoy reception work and I love the dancing school, for Art I’d – well, I’d give it all up.’

‘So that’s being in love, is it?’ Charlotte mused. She stood on one of the spindly chairs and reached up to dust the upper sash. ‘And all these months I’ve been wishing it would happen to me – I must have been mad!’

Lilac giggled.

‘I’ve decided I don’t know the first thing about love,’ she said frankly. She knelt up the better to consider the matter. ‘First I thought it had to be exciting, then I thought it had to be dangerous. Then I decided what I really wanted was security, and love would have to be accompanied by loads of money . . . and then I lost Art and I knew what I wanted. I wanted him, Charlotte, at any price, under any circumstances, I wanted him until I ached with it, until it was all I could think about. So now we’ve mended our quarrel and are planning a life together, I can’t help but be happy. But I don’t know whether it’s love, or whether it’s something quite different, I just know that without Art there isn’t much point to my life. Is that love? You tell me!’