The Girl From Penny Lane (4 page)

‘Ah, tea,’ Miss Hughes said, half-closing her eyes and smiling fondly at her niece. She turned to Kitty. ‘Here you are, child. Carry them carefully, there are a lot of expensive materials in there. How far have you to go?’

‘Paradise Court, off Burlington Street,’ Kitty said. She usually put the envelope containing the money inside the box, but decided that it might be safer slipped down inside the neck of her shirt-dress, where it would lodge against the rope which spanned her middle. ‘It’s a helluva walk.’

Miss Hughes’s eyebrows rose almost into her thinning grey hair but the fat Sophia giggled. Kitty gave her a cold glance. You could see that Sophia hadn’t done much walking, not with a belly on her like a woman six months gone! She would have liked to tell Sophia so, but prudence demanded that her good manners remain with her for a little longer. Miss Hughes usually came up with something.

And today was no exception.

‘Burlington Street! That must be several miles . . . but of course it’s on a direct tram route.’

‘I walked,’ Kitty said bluntly. ‘Me Mam don’t ’ave no gelt to spare for leccy-rides.’

‘You
walked
?’ Miss Hughes stared at Kitty for a moment as though doubting her own ears, then she gave a quick little nod and reached under the counter. ‘Well, here’s a penny, catch a tram home. And – wait a moment.’

Whilst she was gone, labouring up the stairs, Sophia came and leaned over the counter the better to see Kitty, apparently, for presently she remarked, ‘Where’s your boots?’

‘Ain’t got none,’ Kitty said at once. ‘Me feet’s ’ard, I don’t need no boots in summer.’

‘And in winter?’

Kitty shrugged.

‘None in winter, either? Nor clogs? And that ain’t a dress, it’s a man’s old shirt. You aren’t ’alf dirty, an’ all.’

‘I might ’ave boots, next winter,’ Kitty said, ignoring the slur on her apparel and her cleanliness. There was little she could say, since her dress was indeed a shirt and she knew herself to be very dirty. Curiosity getting the better of her, however, she added, ‘What’s it like up there, above the shop? What does you do? Are you learnin’ to mek ’ats? Ow d’you get a job like that, eh?’

But Sophia, whilst apparently thinking her own nosiness justified, drew back in offended astonishment at Kitty’s questions.

‘That’s none of your business,’ she said sharply. ‘You need brains and a good ’pearance to work in a nice shop like this. And boots.’

Kitty had filled her lungs for a quick – and insulting – retort when Miss Hughes came thumping down the stairs again. She had a thick slice of bread and jam in one hand and a tin mug of milk in the other. She put them down on the counter, breathing hard.

‘Lord, but it’s hot,’ she remarked. ‘Drink that, child, then eat the butty as you go. You want to get home before dusk.’

Kitty was thirsty and drank the milk at a draught, with murmured thanks, but had only just sunk her teeth into the bread when the shop door opened once more and Miss Hughes made violent shooing motions and began to brush the crumbs Kitty was making off the counter. She drew herself up and smiled brightly across the top of Kitty’s head whilst hissing, ‘Off with you!’ under her breath.

Kitty glanced at the handsome old lady with crimped grey hair, and at her companion, a stringy girl in her twenties, and then made for the door, with the bread and jam resting on top of the enormous box. She would get herself to the tram stop with all possible speed and eat her food in comfort once she was there.

She might not have caught a tram from here before, but she had often wished she could, watching enviously as the huge Oceanics whisked by full of rich people. That girl, the one from Penny Lane, would undoubtedly have caught a tram, lucky thing, and would be home by now. But Kitty was lucky too, with a penny in her hand for a ride and food to eat.

Kitty reached the tram stop just after a vehicle had picked up the waiting passengers, so she put her box down on the pavement, sat on top of it, and began to eat the bread and jam. Presently one or two other people came up, and Kitty thought gleefully that the tram would soon be here and then she could get rid of the heavy box. She felt no curiosity over the contents; trimmings were trimmings, after all, but for the first time in her life she wondered just how much money her mother was paid for all that close work. After all, if the girl from Penny Lane was right, when she left home she would have a vested interest in how much one could earn for sewing work.

The envelope, however, was comfortably wedged against her ribs; to get it out and start trying to open it, or even to feel for the size of the coins in front of the people gathered at the stop would be a silly sort of thing to do. Instead, she finished off her bread and jam with deep contentment, wiped her sticky hands on the dusty pavement and got to her feet just as the tram came whooshing down upon them.

‘Move along there,’ the conductor shouted jovially. ‘Want an ’and wi’ that thumpin’ great box, chuck?’

‘Sounds as if ’e’s ’ad a skinful, dinnertime,’ someone behind Kitty muttered as the conductor heaved the box aboard, but Kitty was just grateful for the man’s strong hand, and watched him stow the trimmings under the seat, wishing everyone was as kind. This was turning out to be a really good day, despite the long and tiring walk.

The tram was full and at every stop there seemed to be people jostling to get aboard, so it took longer than Kitty had anticipated to reach the Black Dog on the corner of Vauxhall Road and Burlington Street, but they got there at last and Kitty climbed down, hoping that someone who knew her was watching. It was not every day that she caught a tram. The conductor handed her down her box, Kitty shifted its weight onto her hip, and the Oceanic trundled off with its load whilst Kitty began the short walk home.

Halfway down the street, however, she remembered her curiosity over the contents of the little brown envelope. She slid her hand across her front. There were coins, she could feel them pressing into her ribs, but she thought she could feel a sort of rustling, too. Did that mean paper money? Good lor’, there might be a ten shilling note inside the scruffy little envelope! Mam never opened it in front of her, just snatched it and shoved it into her own capacious bosom, but . . . oh, she would simply have to get it out and see whether she could discover the contents without actually unsealing the flap.

Kitty looked around her. She was fast approaching a shop she hated because of the smell. A fishmongers, with white trays holding crabs and lobsters whilst the fish nestled in beds of ice. Down the side was an entry, where fishboxes, buzzing with bluebottles, awaited collection. It wasn’t a very pleasant place, what with the smell and the flies, but it struck Kitty that if she went down the strong smelling little back alley, at least she wasn’t likely to be disturbed. So, still lugging her heavy burden, Kitty stole past the fishboxes, past the big black delivery bicycle propped against the wall with the fishmonger’s name in white letters across the wrought iron basket on the front, and down to where the back of someone’s privy formed a conveniently private place to examine the envelope. She put the box down and delved into the front of her shirt, but she had scarcely got her fingers round the fascinating envelope when someone’s shadow fell across her. Startled, she looked up.

Two boys stood there, grinning at her. One of them wore the filthy, stained apron of a fishmonger’s apprentice, the other had a very large checked cap pulled down over one eye and pieces of string tied round his trouser-bottoms. Oh ’eck, Kitty thought, dismayed, I didn’t oughter be down here and them’s the lad what guts the fish and the lad what delivers. Now I’m in trouble!

She took her hand out of her shirt front and went to pick up the box of trimmings but one of the boys, the one with the string round his trouser-bottoms, put a foot down on the top, only just missing her fingers.

‘No you don’t, gal! Wharra you got in there, eh?’

‘Nothing! Well, only ribbons an’ that, for ladies’ ’ats,’ Kitty said nervously. They were large, well-nurtured boys of fourteen or fifteen, a clack from either of them would hurt! ‘Me box is that ’eavy, I stopped for a bit of a rest.’

‘Ribbins? What’s de user dat?’ The delivery boy went to turn away but the other stood his ground. It struck Kitty for the first time that they might rob her – thank heaven she hadn’t pulled the envelope out of her shirt, for money could always be spent but what use would a couple of lads have for a box of unworked trimmings?

‘Got any gelt? Dey pay you for what you brung ’em?’

Kitty cursed the perspicacity of fishmongers’ apprentices; the other turned back immediately, his narrow face menacing. He brushed impatiently at a bluebottle which seemed to have followed his rich smell down the entry.

‘That’s ri’, dey pay for t’ings like dat! Where’s de cash?’

‘They pay me Mam, not me,’ Kitty quavered. ‘I’s jest to fetch an’ carry. Come on, let me go ’ome.’

The delivery boy would have let her go, she was sure of it, but the other was altogether a nastier proposition. He stared at her hard for a moment, then bent and picked up the box.

‘Tell you what, you go ’ome an’ tell your Ma that she can ’ave ’er ribbins back for a coupla bob. ’Ow about dat?’

‘She’ll kill me,’ Kitty said fearfully. ‘She will, she’ll kill me. She ain’t overfond, me Mam. Come on, fellers, gi’s me box back.’

‘Where’s your money, then?’

‘I ain’t got none,’ Kitty squeaked desperately. ‘I ’ad a penny what the shop lady give me, but I caught a tram, the box is that ’eavy. C’mon, gi’s me box.’

‘No money, no box,’ the apprentice said. ‘And jest in case you’ve gorrit in mind to tattle . . .’

He put a hand into the long pocket in front of his filthy apron and pulled out a knife, a huge thing, sharp, wicked. He stepped forward, and whilst his companion tucked the box under his arm in a very final sort of way, pressed the knife against Kitty’s throat, so hard that she dared not even swallow, convinced that any movement would send the razor-edge deep into her flesh.

‘Understand, chuck?’ his whisper was more frightening than a shout or a cuff would have been. ‘One word from you, jest one word, an’ your Mam’ll find you up dis entry tomorrer wi’ your t’rottle cut from ear to ear. An’ don’t t’ink you can escape from me, ’cos I’ll git you, I swear on the face o’ God.’

Kitty, rigid with terror, said nothing. She could feel perspiration running down the sides of her face but she was deathly cold. He would kill her and get pleasure from it, she was sure. She could do nothing to save the trimmings, but if she said she’d come back later with the money perhaps . . .

‘Off wit’ you!’

A hand grabbed her shoulder and twisted her out of the corner into which she had shrunk as a pin twists a winkle from its shell. A violent push sent her staggering up the entry, and as she regained her equilibrium she simply flew, her feet scarcely touching the slippery, smelly cobbles.

Out on Burlington Street, with people about her, she dared not glance back. That knife – and the threat that went with it – had been all too real. She kept her head down, dodging passers-by, heading hopelessly for Paradise Court. She reached it and then shrank back, suddenly realising what a fix she was in.

If she went in without the trimmings her mother would kill her, even if she handed over the money. And would she be allowed to explain what had happened, how she could get the box back if she took a couple of bob to pay the boys’ blackmail demand? Her hand stole down across her shirt-front once more. She still had the money, but because she had lost the trimmings the money would mean nothing to Mam, who would have to pay it all back, and more, probably, to Miss Hughes to make up for the missing work.

Caught on the horns of a horrible dilemma, Kitty stood there, gazing into the tiny, cobbled court. If only Mrs O’Rourke had still been alive, she might have helped Kitty to explain her predicament to her mother before the blows began to fall. But she was not. This problem was Kitty’s and Kitty’s alone.

Tears began to form, to fill Kitty’s eyes, to trickle down her cheeks. Oh, God, what was she to do? She realised, suddenly, that if she took two shillings back to those boys they would think that she had a source of income and would probably give her back a few ribbons and demand more money. What was more, they had made no arrangements for the handing over of the cash, she could scarcely walk into the fishmonger’s shop, hand over money and expect to receive her box of trimmings in return! She could hang around the entry, she supposed doubtfully, then knew she would never dare. The boy with the knife was mad, he would probably take her money and then slit her throat, she never wanted to go down that entry again as long as she lived.

But what was her alternative, really? If she ran away then they would have the scuffers after her because she’d stolen money. If she went indoors without the trimmings then she was as good as dead. She wondered about going back to Miss Hughes’s shop and explaining, offering to run errands for a hundred years, if only Miss Hughes would replace the trimmings and say nowt to Mam. But the shop would be closed, it would be dusk soon, there was no hope there.

Kitty sat down, with her back to the side of the wine merchant’s shop, and began to sob.

Chapter Two

Lilac Larkin, with the new hat for her sister Nellie nestling in its tissue wrappings, had to catch two trams to get back to Penny Lane, so she decided, since the afternoon was sunny, to walk the first part of the way. She would enjoy the exercise and besides, she needed time to think.

The truth was, despite appearances, Lilac was not comfortably settled in a nice job with an employer to look after her. Not any more. She had said nothing to Miss Hughes, but her entire life had just been thrown into turmoil and she was still none too sure what course to take. Because for the first time in her working life Lilac was about to become unemployed. It was a bad time to job-hunt, too. Although the first Labour government was in power, and the British Empire Exhibition had been opened at some place called Wembley, up London, and everyone said that could mean more jobs, as yet there was little to show for either event.