The Liverpool Rose (22 page)

Burning with indignation, for the contents of the sack, when pawned, could have kept her in food for a month, Chinky had made her way to the cemetery. She urgently desired revenge on whichever of her foster brothers had prigged her sack and intended to beg Mrs Muggeridge to haunt the thievin’ bugger and make him regret his dishonesty. But somehow, when she reached the cemetery, revenge seemed a petty and unworthy thing. Instead, she reached the grave and settled herself on the grass next to it and began to chat to Mrs Muggeridge as though the older woman
were still alive and listening. She told her how kind Cuthbert and Mrs McTavish had been, and how someone had stolen her sack, and she drew from the bosom of her blouse the ship in a bottle, the only thing she had managed to save from the thief. And because it was quiet and peaceful in the cemetery, with the sun shining and a little breeze caressing her cheek, the burning anger which had brought her here faded away and she was only aware that folk other than Mrs Muggeridge had been kind to her, that neighbours at the wake had told her she might pop in and share a meal with them, now that her old friend was dead, and that, though she would miss Mrs Muggeridge horribly, life was not as bad as it might have been. She was growing up, and once she was fully grown and no longer in fear of the schools’ inspectors, she could get a proper job and earn proper money and perhaps even have a room of her own, far away from her thieving foster family.

She was musing thus when a hand fell on her shoulder and a voice said in her ear: ‘And why aren’t you in school, chuck?’

Chinky twisted round, ready for flight, and saw above her the rubicund face and dark helmet of a policeman. The scuffer was not looking at her unkindly but the grip on her shoulder was so firm that his fingers dug into her flesh and she knew, instinctively, that he did not intend to let her go. She would have to talk her way out of this one, and talk pretty cleverly too. His grey eyes were sharply intelligent and she had a horrid feeling that he would not be easily fooled.

‘Well? Why aren’t you in school, young lady?’

A number of good excuses flashed through Chinky’s mind. A recent bereavement – her presence
at the newly dug grave lent authority to such a statement – a bad stomach upset, a sick mother? She took a deep breath and began to talk.

A week later, a very different Chinky sat on a small iron bedstead in the orphan asylum of Our Lady of the Immaculate Heart, gloomily contemplating the neat brown lace-up shoes upon her feet, the brown cotton stockings which were attached to her brand new liberty bodice, and the hem of her mauve gingham dress. The scuffer had been every bit as difficult to fool as she had feared. He had listened politely to her story of a recent bereavement, had nodded comprehension when she indicated the newly dug grave and the black riband around her arm which she now wore instead of her borrowed funeral attire, and had then asked her which school she attended – so that he might check up on her story, of course.

Chinky, long prepared for some such question, had answered glibly that she attended St Anthony’s on Newsham Street. Indeed, so far as it went, it was truer than most of the things she had told him, since she had attended that school for almost a month when her foster mother had got her some boots and had sent her off in the care of an older child each day. But then hard times had come again, the boots had been pawned, and Chinky’s school days had ceased as abruptly as they had started. She also gave him her real address, secure in the knowldege that this, at least, was provable. If he hauled her off to St Anthony’s, as seemed likely, she would have to rely on her native wit and considerable turn of speed to get away from him before their destination was reached.

The scuffer, however, must have divined her
intention, for he took her wrist in a kindly, but firm grip, and did not give her the slightest opportunity to escape. The teachers at St Anthony’s declared she had not attended school there for at least three years, but the final and worst blow came when Constable Perkins took her home to the court. Her foster mother, forced to accompany the policeman up the stairs and to show him where Chinky and the other children slept, leapt to the conclusion that the girl had grassed regarding the theft of her sack. Seeing that this could mean real trouble, she told the policeman shrilly that the child was no relative of hers, had been dumped on her when her prostitute mother had got sick of her, and demanded that the policeman take her away. ‘I oughta have purrer in one of them orphan places years ago ’cos I got kids of me own what I’m hard pressed to feed, wi’out adding a half-Chinese brat to me string,’ she said, with a vicious glance at Chinky. ‘And don’t you go believing a word she said, hofficer, because she’s one as lies as easily as she breathes. If she says we ain’t done right by her then she’s lyin’ again, same as always.’

Chinky had been outraged and hurt by these dreadful remarks, calculated to get her into trouble even deeper than she was already, but Constable Perkins was a sensible man and as he escorted Chinky from the house, told her that he was too old a hand to believe half of what her foster mother had said. ‘Why, apart from them clothes you’re wearin’, which you say were given you by a neighbour after her own daughter died, there weren’t a stitch of clothing, nor so much as a clog, in that house which would have fitted you,’ he said, looking kindly down at her. ‘I doubt that woman ever gave you a square meal in the whole of your life, so I’m not likely to believe
anything
she
says either. But you can’t go on like this, queen. Your foster mam don’t want you. If you try to go back there, she’ll send you off with a flea in your ear and you’ll be walkin’ the streets or beggin’ on the docks and end up with your throat cut, like as not. But there’s folk in Liverpool with hearts as big as your foster mother’s is small. The sisters at the convent of Our Lady of the Immaculate Heart have a home for girls like you. You may know it as the Mackie Orphan Asylum because that’s what most folk call it, it being less of a mouthful than the full title. The sisters aren’t rich, but they’re real good to the children in their care. You’ll be happy there, I promise you.’

Chinky agreed to go to the orphanage, fully intending to stay a day or so and then to flit, but it seemed the nuns knew very well that new girls would try and do just that and Chinky was never alone for a moment. An older girl, Rosemary O’Reilly, took care of her and when Rosemary was unable to be with her, Sister Theresa, who was the house sister and in charge of the girls when they were not in school, made sure Chinky was kept under her eye.

Not that she was known as Chinky here – that was one advantage of the Mackie. When Mother Superior had asked her her name on that first terrifying day, Chinky had looked down at the faded blue skirt and the much-patched white blouse which had belonged to Evie Muggeridge and had said instinctively: ‘Evie. Evie Evans.’

Mother Superior had not questioned the name – why should she, indeed? She had simply entered ‘Evie Evans’ on her roll, and now it was the name which was written, in indelible ink, on all her new clothes. The staff called them her ‘nice new clothes’ but to Chinky – only she was really Evie now, even
thought of herself as that – they were no better than prison gear. They marked you out as an orphan as clearly as though the word had been written across your forehead, and since nobody at the Mackie possessed any ordinary clothing at all, escape became impossible.

Gazing gloomily down at her shoes now, however, Evie knew that no matter how much she disliked the thought of being held here, she was unlikely even to try to get away. Humiliating though it might be to admit it, three good meals a day and a proper bed of one’s own, with clean sheets and blankets, had already softened her attitude to the Mackie. She might tell herself that life on the streets was freedom, but what sort of freedom was it really? The freedom to feel freezing cold in winter or to have one’s stomach constantly growling a reproach because it was seldom comfortably full, was scarcely worthy of the name. What was more, although she had only been at the Mackie for a week, Evie was learning. The nuns were not rich, as the scuffer had implied, so the girls had to do their share of domestic tasks. Evie dusted and polished, cleared tables after their meals, washed dishes and made beds. She also attended classes and was learning both to read and write, and finding, to her pleased surprise, that the lessons she had been taught at St Anthony’s so long ago were still in her head. The teacher had taught her her letters and it was remarkable how quickly she learned to string these together and to read the resultant words. ‘You are going to be reading and writing by the end of a month,’ Sister Catherine had told her, only the previous day. ‘How come you’re so quick, my child, when you’ve been – well – somewhat neglected?’

‘I were friendly wi’ a neighbour, a Mrs
Muggeridge. She used to read to me from the papers and she read slow, usin’ her finger to point out each word. I reckon I took in more than I knowed,’ Evie said, having given the matter some thought. ‘And I want to learn to read awful bad – does that help, Sister?’

The nun agreed that she was sure it did, so that now, sitting fully dressed on her bed while around her the five other girls who shared the room got themselves ready for the walk to the park, Evie told herself that she would stay for a bit. She would learn to read and write, to keep house and do sums. She had little understanding of money but each orphan was given tuppence on a Saturday morning and allowed to spend it as they wished. What was more, arithmetic lessons were practical affairs since the main aim of the Mackie was to send their girls out into the wide world, when they were sixteen, able to fend for themselves. Arithmetic lessons therefore dealt with practical matters such as marketing, the costing of various household jobs, budgeting on a small income and the like.

‘How come you’re ready so long before us, Evie Evans?’ The remark came from Sarah, a bouncy, freckled red head whose bed was next to Evie’s. ‘We walk to the park in what they call a crocodile, you know, that means walking in pairs. We have to choose partners, so will you walk wi’ me? They don’t mind if we talk, so long as we do it quietly, only we mustn’t run or shout – not until we get to the park, that is. D’you know Princes Park? It’s a fair old walk, but it’s a grand place, so it is. If we are really good, Sister lets us go round the aviary and if you’ve any pocket money left, there’s ices for sale at the kiosk. You can get a cone for a ha’penny.’

‘Yes, I’ll walk with you,’ Evie said, trying for a nonchalance she was far from feeling. The other girls had been pleasant enough, but this was the first real overture of friendship which had been made. Evie had watched the other girl covertly and realised Sarah was popular with both children and staff; it was nice to think the other girl had chosen her of her own accord.

Somewhere below them a bell tinkled. Sarah jumped off her bed and grabbed Evie’s hand. ‘Come on, gerra move on,’ she said, hauling her out of the dormitory. ‘We’ll make straight for the cloakroom ’cos though it’s a nice day we’ll have to wear our hats and coats. Wonder which Sister’s in charge today? I hope it’s Sister Edna. She’s me favourite ’cos she’s young and jolly.’

Chattering and laughing, Sarah and Evie descended the stairs and headed for the cloakroom.

By the time Evie had been at the Mackie for two years, she had begun to realise what a very good turn Constable Perkins had done her. Looking at herself in the small mirror which hung at the end of the washroom, Evie saw that she was scarcely recognisable as the tattered little waif who had been admitted here. An ordered life, with good but plain food, regular bedtimes and, best of all, no worries concerning her personal safety, meant that Evie had blossomed. Her hair, which was black as night, was also glossy with daily brushings and weekly washing, and though the Mackie’s rules meant that she had to wear it braided, when it was loose it reached almost to her waist. Her skin was clear and creamy with a flush on her cheeks, and the long, liquid black eyes sparkled with health. Her figure, which had been of scarecrow-like thinness
when she had lived in the court, was burgeoning now, her small waist emphasising the curve of hips and tiny breasts.

I’m getting to be a woman, Evie told herself, flicking her braids back over her shoulders and setting off for the dining hall downstairs. If only we knew how old I really was, the nuns might let me start looking for a job. But then suppose I’m younger than I think, that’d hold me up for longer, so best stick to what they decided when I was brought in. Only sometimes it irks me being told what to do every moment of every day and never being able to please meself any more.

It was odd, she thought later that morning, that she should have been thinking about her old life on the very day that it caught up with her. For when she went to the music room – she was learning to play the piano, and had proved herself an apt pupil – she found that Miss Mather, the music teacher, had not arrived. Evie enjoyed her piano lessons so sat down at the instrument and began to tinkle out a little tune, only to stop in dismay after the first few notes for there was clearly something wrong with the instrument. When struck the keys seemed reluctant to rise again and the notes she knew she was playing sounded weird and off-key. She was staring down at her fingers, perplexed and startled, when the door of the music room opened and Sister Maria came in. ‘Ah, Evie! I searched for you upstairs but you must have come down before me,’ the nun said. ‘One of the girls was polishing the piano this morning and overturned a vase of flowers. The water got into the works and I understand the instrument can no longer be used, but Miss Mather has a pianoforte in her front room and says if you go along to her home, you may have your lesson there.’

Evie had thought the restriction of never being allowed outside the orphanage unless accompanied by a nun or some other member of staff irksome, but now she looked at Sister Maria with something akin to panic. ‘Go – go to her home?’ she quavered. ‘But I don’t know where she lives, Sister. Is it far? Is anyone else having a music lesson today as well, or are you coming with me yourself?’