THE RAG NYMPH

CATHERINE COOKSON

Catherine Cookson was born in Tyne Dock, the illegitimate
daughter of a poverty-stricken woman, Kate, whom
she believed to be her older sister. She began work in
service but eventually moved south to Hastings where
she met and married a local grammar-school master.
At the age of forty she began writing bout the lives of
the working-class people with whom she had grown up,
using the place of her birth as the background to many
of her novels.

Although originally acclaimed as a regional writer - her
novel The Round Tower won the Winifred Holtby award
for the best regional novel of 1968 - her readership
soon began to spread throughout the world. Her novels
have been translated into more than a dozen languages
and Corgi paperback editions have sold more than
40,000,000 copies. Three of her novels - The Fifteen
Streets, The Black Velvet Gown and The Black Candle - have been made into successful television dramas, and
more are planned.

Catherine Cookson's many bestselling novels have established
her as one of the most popular of contemporary
women novelists. She and her husband Tom now live
near Newcastle-upon-Tyne.
CORGI BOOKS
THE RAG NYMPH
A CORGI BOOK 552 13683 2

Originally published in Great Britain by Bantam Press,
a division of Transworld Publishers Ltd

PRINTING HISTORY
Bantam Press edition published 1991
Corgi edition published 1992

Copyright © Catherine Cookson 1991

The right of Catherine Cookson to be identified as the author of
this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and
78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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2. This book is sold subject to the Standard Conditions of
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below the net price fixed by the publishers for the book.

Set in 1 lpt Sabon by Phoenix Typesetting,
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Corgi Books are published by Transworld Publishers
Ltd., 61-63 Uxbridge Road, Ealing, London W5 5SA, in
Australia by Transworld Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.,
15-23 Helles Avenue, Moorebank, NSW 2170, and in New
Zealand by Transworld Publishers (N.Z.) Ltd., 3 William
Pickering Drive, Albany, Auckland.

Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Cox & Wyman Ltd., Reading, Berks.
PART ONE The Child

One


The road was narrow. It could be measured by the
width of a coach with a man walking at each side,
but even so it was wider than the streets and alleys
leading off from both sides of it.
It was the last Wednesday in June, 854. The day
had been hot; in fact, the previous week had been
very hot and so the roads and streets were paved
with ridged flags of mud, hardbaked, but not so hard
as to prevent their surfaces being skimmed off into
dust which, in some streets of the town, seemed to be
floating waist high like a mist rising from water.
But Felix Road wasn't in the main town, nor yet
on the outskirts; it was situated to the north of the
city and gave its name to the acres of housing that
was home to the poor, the destitute, and the dregs
of humanity. It also housed countless bars and gin
shops, as well as a number of churches, chapels,
and temperance halls, the latter set up, as it were,
in opposition to as many brothels.
The members of the various denominations fought
hard against the evils and wickedness of drink and
immorality, and in this they were aided by the
Constabulary. However, the law, it would seem,
was not so much concerned with those who drank
as with those who sold their bodies for gain.
It was five-thirty in the evening, and there were
still very few people to be seen on Felix Road. It
would be different at six o'clock when the surrounding
mills spewed out their weary and gin-thirsty
humanity. But now, along the middle of it came
an old woman pushing a hand-cart on which was
a pile of rags. She and the cart were half-covered by
the shadow of the buildings on her left; but further
back up the road, walking deep in the shadow, was
a young woman holding a child by the hand. Yet
so striking was the colour of the child's hair and of
that which showed beneath the flat straw hat of the
woman as to appear like distorted jogging lights in
the dimness.
Then an odd thing happened. At the sight of
a man approaching from a distance the woman
seemed about to thrust the child against the wall
but, changing her mind, she walked forward again,
and she spoke to the man.
From the way he gesticulated the man was apparently
upbraiding her, and when he lifted his arm and
signalled to someone behind her she gripped the child
by the hand and ran.
The rag woman was turning her hand-cart into a
narrow alley when the child was almost flung against
it, the young woman crying, 'Go home! Go home!'
even as she continued to run.
Agnes Winkowski turned from the frightened
child clinging on to the side of her hand-cart and looked back to watch two men of the law speeding
after the woman. The sight was not an unusual one.
Hardly a day went by but she saw some lass or
other picked up by them snots. However, what she
couldn't understand was why any lass on the make
would be lugging a child around with her.
She now looked at the child, saying, 'Was that
your ma?'
The little girl made a movement with her head but
did not speak.
'D'you know your way home?'
Again the same movement, but now the voice
came out in squeaks, saying, 'But Mama has the
key.'
Mama, she called her mother. Not Ma, but Mama ... 'Where d'you live?'
'Nelson Close ... the bottom.'
Nelson Close? Well, there were worse places than
Nelson Close. But still, it was on the fringe of The Courts, with only the railway line separating it
from Salford.
She took up the handles of the hand-cart and
began to push it, and now there was room only for
the child to walk by the side of it. And this she did,
holding on for support to the iron rail that rimmed
the wooden edge of the cart and which helped to
keep the rags in place.
The alley opened out into a large square courtyard
from which, on all sides, reared five-storey buildings,
all in a state of dilapidation, and outside of each
was a mound of filth and rubbish, some giving off
a stench which left nothing to the imagination as
from what it was derived.
As the old woman pushed the hand-cart across the
yard a number of children scampered from various
heaps to gather around her, gabbling. But the gabble
was such that the child couldn't distinguish what it
was they wanted, until the old woman cried, 'No
candy rock today! 'Tis all gone, all gone,' at which,
one after the other, the children, as if at a signal,
stopped gabbling and took up the chant: 'Raggie
Aggie! Raggie Aggie! Baggie Aggie! Baggie Aggie!
Lousy Loppy Aggie! Narrow old bugger Aggie!'
The old woman seemed not to hear the children,
yet on leaving The Courts to pass through another
narrow alleyway, she bitterly emitted one word:
'Scum!' Then as they emerged into a street she
looked down at the child, and nodding backwards,
she said, 'It saves ten minutes of pushing that
way.'
She now pulled the hand-cart to a halt and,
looking at the child, said, 'Well, what you gonna
do, love?'
'I don't know.' The child's voice had a tremor in
it.
'Got any neighbours ... I mean, that you could
go to?'
'No. Mama doesn't have neighbours, not there. It ... it was in the cellar.'
'What was in the cellar?'
'Where... where we lived. It's... it's down the
steps.'
Aggie looked closely at the child. Her hair was
hanging almost to her small waist and it was of a
colour she had never seen before, not around these
quarters anyway. Fair-headed little 'uns, but none
like this one. Then there were the child's eyes, grey,
clear, large and at this moment expressing fear, if
she had ever seen it. The rest of the face matched
the eyes and the cream blush-tinted skin. She was a
bonny young 'un, right enough, and from a bonny
mother, from what she had glimpsed of that lass as
she skidded down the road with the polis after her.
She must be on the game, all right. But why take
the child with her? That would put any bloke off,
surely. Or did she use her an' all? Oh, no, no; she
wouldn't want to think that. And yet, look at all the
old buggers that would sell their souls for a little bit
of humanity like this one. Kit's brothel down there
was noted for it; and the dirty old customers, and
not so old, some of them, came in their carriages,
but after dark, of course. Why didn't the bloody
polis get on to him and clear his place out? They
had cleared Paper Meg's out last week. But then,
that was nothing; they all knew she would start
up some place else. But the churchmen had to be
satisfied; hoodwinked would be a better word...
'Please... '
'Yes, love?'
'Can I come with you?'
'Come with me?' Aggie looked from the child to the heap of rags, then down at the mountain
of clothes covering her own body. She smelt; the
contents of the cart smelt; the cart itself was impregnated
with stench; and here was this gleaming
child, yes, aye, that was a word to describe her,
she gleamed, and she was asking to come along
with her. Well, if she said no, what would happen
to her? Oh, she had a pretty good idea: she only
needed to go back to Felix Road or even Nelson
Close, where she said she lived, to find out. Poor
little bugger.
'Don't you know anybody else you can go to?
Haven't you any relations?'
'No.' The head was shaking again.
'Nobody?'
Aggie watched the child thinking, and then she
said, 'Well, there are the uncles.'
'Uncles? You've got uncles?'
'I called them uncle. They came to the house two
or three times, but.., but that was last week. I don't
know where they live.'
'Jesus in heaven!' Abruptly Aggie picked up the
handles of the flat-cart, then almost growling 'Come
on!' she pushed it along the road, the child trotting
beside her now.
It was a good ten minutes later when they seemed
to come to the last of The Courts, for the houses
dropped down to two-storey, then one-storey; and
then they were confronted by an iron open-work gate
set in a brick wall all of seven feet high. Aggie did
not rest the hand-cart and open the gate but, giving
it a hard thrust, she pushed it against the iron work
and the gate swung open and into a large yard all of forty feet square, the further half of which was
surprisingly paved with flags. And where the flags
ended there rose three large stone arches, forming a
sort of veranda to the front of a house, a real house
with six windows visible, three above the flat roof
of the stone veranda and three above that again.
As they entered the yard a figure rose from the
side of a pile of tins lying on the unpaved part of the
ground, in his hand what looked like a piece of iron
guttering. This he threw with a flicking movement
on to a pile of scrap iron before making his way
towards them, kicking out of his path and on to
yet another pile the remnants of what had been a
pair of trousers.
His eyes were fast on the child and hers wide on
him and his odd shape as he said, 'What's this then?
What's this?'
'Wait and you'll find out.' Aggie answered sharply.
'Get this lot sorted.' She thumbed towards the rags
on the cart.
'Aye, I will. Will I sort her out an' all?'
'There'll be somebody else sorted out if you're not
careful... Sold anything?'
'Aye, three bob's-worth out of the basket. And
Arthur Keeley popped in. He'll take the scrap tomorrow,
but I think he wanted to have a word with you.
His wife's scarpered. D'you know where she is?'
'No. D'you?' She had turned and was holding her
hand out towards the child.
'The kettle's boilin'.'
'I'd have somethin' to say if it wasn't.'
The child followed Aggie through the middle arch
and towards a heavy, paintless oak door, then into
a room dimly lit by a window that looked on to
the covered way. The room was filled with an
assortment of clothes, some in wash-baskets, some
hanging over clothes-lines, others attached to nails
driven into a wooden frame fixed to the walls like a
chairback panel. The smell wasn't as strong as that
which permeated the yard, but nevertheless it was
heavy with the odour of ageless sweat.
Now they were going through another door and
into a different kind of room, and this room caused
the child to stop and slowly look about her. A fire
was burning in a black grate which had an oven to
the side of it; a large black kettle was sizzling on
the hob. And at the foot of the iron structure was
a high steel fender, suggesting from its dull surface
that it had never seen emery paper since the day it
left the foundry.
Set at right angles to one side of the fireplace was
a two-seat wooden settle, and at the other side a
much larger leather couch. In the middle of the
room was a round table covered with oilcloth, and
four high-backed carved chairs set around it. Along
one wall stood a plain sideboard. It was black, as
if once it had been varnished; and this gave it a
sheen of its own.
The room was evidently a kitchen, but holding
dining- and sitting-room furniture. Along each side
of the long window hung a heavy brocade curtain,
the colour having long since disappeared, but which still retained an air of quality. The curtains were not
drawn half across the window and so closing out
the light as most curtains were wont to do, but
were wide apart showing, of all things, a piece of
grassland parched by the sun but, nevertheless, still
giving evidence that it was grass by the strip in the shadow of the house.
The child stared towards it as if in recognition
of something held in memory; then she turned and
looked at the old woman, who was sitting on
the couch unlacing her boots, and she said, 'You
have a garden.'
'Huh!' Aggie turned and looked towards the window
and she repeated, 'Garden? A piece of grass. But
I've seen the time it was. Oh aye, I've seen the time it
was. Take your hat and coat off. Are you hungry?'
The child considered for a moment, then said, 'No.
No, thank you. But... but I'd like a drink, please.'
'Well, you'll have that in a minute once I've eased
me feet an' got some of these togs off.'
The child watched her now stand up in her stockinged
feet on what had once been a fine Persian rug
but was now worn in parts to its back, and unpin
her hat. After her coat was thrown down on to
the couch, to be followed by the long mud-fringed
skirt and tattered voluminous blouse, there appeared
before the child a fat woman, a very fat woman, in
what seemed to be a clean blue-striped blouse and
a long grey skirt with a fringe.
'Ah! that's better. One of these days I'll go out like
this and scare the whole population, 'cos they'll think
I'm in me bare pelt.' She now turned and, gathering
up the coat, the blouse and the skirt, and the black
hat, she threw them behind the couch, saying, 'See
you tomorrow, my dears;' then looking at the child,
she said, 'Well now, you're dry, you said,' and,
taking her hand, led her across the room and into
the original large, stone-floored kitchen, and from
there into an equally large pantry. Here, taking a
milk measure from a marble slab, she bent over a
big brown earthenware jar, took off the wooden
lid, dipped in the measure and scooped up some
clean water, which she handed to the child, saying,
'Drink that.'
The handle of the can pushed up by her right ear,
the child drank, and then, her mouth dripping, she
smiled at Aggie, saying, 'It's lovely, cold.'
'Aye, and it's clean. You can bet on that, it's
clean; the well sees to that.' After taking the measure
from the child, Aggie refilled it and then she herself
drained it, after which she put the lid on the brown
jar and hung the can on a nail. Then, from a shelf
in the pantry, she took down a large covered dish,
sniffed at the contents, and, smiling now on the child,
said, 'Nothing much goes rotten in here. Good as an
ice box, this.' Then taking a smaller dish from the
shelf she turned to the child, saying, 'You carry that
in; 'tis butter. Now all we want is some bread and
some onions an' we're set. Go on,' saying which, she
lifted her knee and pressed the child gently forward.
And so they returned to the kitchen again; and
after the meal was put on the table Aggie went through the other room and from the door yelled,
'Ben!' just the once before returning to the kitchen.
As she sat down at the table she said to the child,
'Sit up now.'
When the boy, as she had thought of the youth
but who was actually seventeen, came into the
room he needed no urging to sit at the table;
then grinning at the child, he said, 'What's your
name?'
'Millie. What's yours?'
The question was innocent but it brought a great
guffaw from the youth and he answered, 'Ben Smith,
Jones, or Robinson.' Then turning quickly to Aggie,
he added, 'Long time since I said that, isn't it?'
'You should know.'
'And you an' all.' He nodded at her. 'It was
to your dad in the yard out there.' He thumbed
behind his shoulder. 'Seven, comin' eight I was;
just like yesterday. I'd heard that Billy Steele had
died that mornin' from the fever and there I was
after his job. "What's your name?" your da said.
"Ben," I said. "Ben what?" he said. "Well, take
your choice," I said: "Smith, Jones, or Robinson."
And he cuffed me ear, an' not gently at that. But
he took me on. Aye.' He looked down now on to
the plate on which lay a pig's foot and two pieces
of streaky pork; and picking up the pig's foot in his
two hands, he gnawed at it for a moment before
looking at the child again and asking her, 'Well,
what's your other name?'
'Your hands are very dirty.'
There was the sound of a smothered chuckle from
Aggie. And now the child watched Ben slowly lay
down the half-eaten trotter and hold up both hands
before his large face. Looking first at one, then at
the other, he said, 'Aye, you're right, they are dirty.
But a speck of dirt never hurt anybody, as far as I've
learnt. And if you're goin' to stay here you'll get your
hands dirty an' all before long.'
There was a slight clatter as Aggie dropped her
trotter on to the plate, demanding, 'Who says she's
goin' to stay here? She'll be home tomorrow; her
mother'll be out.'
'Out of where?'
Aggie drew in a long breath and glanced at the
child before answering Ben. 'Out of where she'll
be spendin' the night,' she said. 'Now, no more
questions. And your hands are dirty, mucky's the
word I'd say.'
'What about your own?'
'I can have dirty hands if I like. You're here to take
orders, an' don't forget it. You're gettin' too big for
your boots.'
'No! Am I? Well, that's good to hear after ten
years, Aggie. Well, now that I'm too big for me
boots, d'you think me legs'll sprout?'
Aggie turned her head slightly away, took up the
knife that was lying to the side of her plate, cut a
piece of meat in two, then picked it up with her
fingers and ate it; then she turned to the child and
said, 'What's your second name?'
'Forester. It's spelt, F-o-r-e-ster.'
'My! my! we've got a learned one here.' Ben was
nodding his head towards Aggie now. 'And by the
look of her she hasn't seen six yet.'
'I'm seven.'
They both stared at the child.
'Seven, are you, me love? Well, as he says, you
don't look it.'
'Can I have a fork, please?'
Aggie again looked to the side as if to help check
the escape of some quick retort from her lips. Then,
without looking at Ben, she said, 'Get her a fork out
of the top drawer.'
When Ben came back to the table he placed the
fork with great ceremony to the side of Millie's plate,
saying, 'There you are, madam. Is there hanything
belse you would desire?' He was bowing over her,
and he was nonplussed when, smiling up into his
face, she said, 'You are teasing me now, aren't you?
But I always have a fork, a knife and fork; it's.., it's
bad manners to eat with your fingers.' Then looking
quickly from one to the other, she added, 'At least
for.., for children.'
Ben now straightened his back and returned to
his seat and, looking at Aggie, said, 'Besides which,
there is what is called a diplomat in our midst, Mrs
Winkowski.'
When Aggie sat back in her chair and her great
fat body began to wobble, slowly from her open
mouth there issued deep bellows of laughter. Ben,
too, joined in, and Millie, looking from one to the
other, smiled widely at them.
Of a sudden Aggie rose from the table and left
the room, and the smile slid slowly from Millie's
face and she looked at the funny young man, as she
thought of him, and said, 'Is she vexed?'
'No. No, she's not vexed. But you've done something
tonight, you know. It's the first time I've heard
her laugh in years.., years and years. Chuckle, aye,
smile now'n again, but never laugh like that... Have
you got a dad?'
She shook her head. 'No, not now. I had.'
'Is he' - he paused - 'is he dead, then?' 'I... I think so. Mama said he was dead.'
'You don't seem sure. Is he dead or is he not?'
'He... he went away.'
'Just recently.., like?'
She paused before answering him, her eyes blinking
as if she were thinking; and then she said, 'It was
last year.., or sometime longer, when.., when we
lived in Durham.'
'Oh! You lived in Durham, did you? All the way
up there? Durham's near Scotland, isn't it?'
She thought for a moment, then said, 'Not really.
It's... it's near Newcastle. That's the city.'
'Oh aye, Newcastle. And your dad.., did he work
in Durham?'
'Yes; sometimes I think, and Newcastle.'
'What was he?'
'Oh, he was a tall man.' Then she shook her head
and laughed. 'I thought you meant, what was Dada
like. I ... I don't rightly know but only that he
worked in a shop, a big shop, and he always wore a nice suit. It was black and he had a big shiny hat. And
sometimes--' She looked away from Ben towards the
corner of the room where a picture was hanging at a
slight angle, and her head moved to one side as if to
see it better. Then looking at him again she said, 'He
sometimes had a walking stick, and.., and on that
day he bought me a parasol.' Again her eyes were
blinking as if her memory were groping to recall the
special occasion when her father had a walking stick
and she had a parasol.
'How long have you been down here in Manchester?'
Neither
of them now took notice of Aggie's returning
to the room and seating herself down on the
leather couch. And when Millie answered him, 'It . .. it was before Easter, in March. Yes, in March,'
she was nodding her head.
Ben now sat back in his chair, then glanced towards
Aggie. Following this, he took the last piece
of pork from his plate, chewed on it, then swallowed
it before asking the next question. 'Does your mother
go to work?' he said.
'Well, she went to the factory to make buttons,
but they didn't give her enough money. Then she
hired a machine to do shirts, but they wanted too
many shirts done. I liked the hat room.' She looked
from one to the other. 'It was right upstairs above the
shop and all the women were nice. And there were
lots of pretty colours, but--' She now looked down
towards her hands, her fingers flicking against each
other, and after a moment she said, 'I fidgeted. It was
a long time to stay quiet all day until eight o'clock
at night. And one day at dinner time I tripped and
spilt a can on the table. It... it was full of beer and
it flowed over the ribbons and spoilt a hat and the
mistress of the room was very angry and told Mama
I hadn't to be brought back again, so Mama left.'
Aggie, sitting looking into the fire, nodded as she
thought: And aye, Mama took the only step left to
her, and look where it's got her.
She now turned towards the table when Ben said,
'You finished?' and the child replied, 'Yes, thank
you. Can I help to wash up?'
'Who said I was goin' to wash up? We just blow
on the plates here.'
Millie smiled widely at him now, and once again
she said, 'You are teasing me.'
'You seem to know a lot about teasing, young
lady. Well, take your plate into the kitchen and put
it into the sink. And oh, don't forget.., your fork,
and your knife an' all.'
As she went out of the room carrying her plate
and the cutlery, he stepped towards Aggie, saying
softly, 'What d'you make of her? She's canny, isn't
she? And did you ever see such a bonny piece? She
must have been decently brought up.'
'Aye, maybe. But I can't see her with a very decent
future with the mother she's got.'
'Bad type, was she?'
'No; no, a young lass really, very like her.' She
nodded towards the far door. 'But by the sound of
what she has just said her mother wasn't cut out for work, not the kind you'll find in this quarter, except
her last job. And then she's made a hash of that an'
all. They must have been on to her or somebody's
given her away, one or t'other, 'cos it must have
been a set-up cop. I'd passed that fella on the road
an' when I looked back she was talking to him; then
when I turned the cart into the alley the next minute,
she was flying past, almost throwing the child at me.
Well, not at me, she yelled at her to go home. But as
the bairn said, she hadn't a key, it was on her mother.
So there you have it, that's how it happened. And
from what she's been prattling on about she's had
a number of uncles.'
'It sounds as if the old man scarpered. She doesn't
seem to know if he is dead or not. She said he wore
a black suit and worked in a shop.'
'Oh aye. Sounds like a shop-walker.'
'Could be. Shush! Here she is.'
'I couldn't find any water but I've rubbed my plate
with a cloth, and my knife and fork.'
'Well, that's a clever lass for you.' Ben was
laughing down at her again. 'D'you want the job
as in-between maid, one pound, one 'an wompence
a week?'
'That's what my mama was; she was a maid to
a lady.' She now turned quickly towards Aggie,
adding, 'She will come for me in the morning, won't
she? She ... won't go away, will she? I mean ...
not like' - she now lowered her head - 'I want her.
I want my mama. She always put me to bed.., and
read me a story.'
They both remained silent, looking at her; then
Aggie said, 'She'll come for you in the mornin'.
Would you like to go to bed now? There's ...
there's a nice bed upstairs. Well, it's a big one with
a feather tick. It's a snuggler.' She smiled.
'I'm... I'm afraid to be in the dark.'
'Well, it won't be dark for a long time yet. By that
time I'll be upstairs.'
'Will... will you be sleeping with me?'
'Well!' Aggie glanced at Ben; then her head drooped
and wobbled from one side to the other before she
said, 'Well, if you don't mind, miss.'
'Oh no. I... I think I would like you to.'
'That's very kind of you.'
They now looked towards the door through which
the young fellow was making a hurried exit, and,
somewhat impatiently, Aggie said, 'Come along
with you, come along,' and led the way through
yet another door and into a passageway, and so
into a square hall from which a stairway rose.
The stairs were bare, and before mounting them
Millie looked down at Aggie's stockinged feet and
said, 'Aren't you afraid of getting splinters?'
It was on a sigh that Aggie replied, 'No, love, I'm
not afraid of getting splinters. I crawled down these
stairs forty-eight years ago and I've walked up and
down them ever since, mostly in me bare feet, and
I've never got splinters.'
On the landing Millie stopped and, looking about
her, she said, 'This is a big house.'
'Aye; I suppose it is.'
'There are lots of doors.'
'Aye, there are lots of doors, and through this one'
- Aggie pushed a door wide - 'is me bedroom. Now
come on and no more lip, an' get your clothes off
and into that bed, 'cos there's things I've got to do
before I sleep tonight.'
'Are you vexed with me?'
Again Aggie sighed and she half closed her eyes
before answering, 'No, child, I'm not vexed with
you, but, as I said, I've got things to see to. Now,
off with your clothes and no more chatter. D'you
hear me?' Her voice had risen and the child now sat
down on a low chair and quickly took off her shoes,
then pulled her grey stockings down over her knees
before, standing up, she asked, 'Will you unhook
me, please?' And Aggie, bending down, undid four
buttons on the back of her dress.
After the dress, the child took off two white petticoats,
and Aggie noticed that the material was quite
good; and when it seemed that the shift was about
to be taken off too, she said, 'I would keep that on,
if I were you; you haven't got a nightgown.'
'Oh yes. Yes, I forgot. I haven't got a nightgown.'
'Well, up you get!'
'I must say my prayers.'
'Oh. Oh aye. Well, get on with it.'
When Millie knelt by the bed and the mattress
seemed out of reach, she had to raise her clasped
hands head high to rest them against it. Then she
began: 'God bless Mama and Dada, and please take
care of them. And thank you for this day and make
me grateful for what I've got. And God bless Mrs
Melburn and this big woman.., lady who has been
kind to me today. And please bring my mama back
early in the morning. Amen.'
As she rose from her knees Aggie said, 'Who's
Mrs Melburn?'
'She was a lady in Durham who was kind to
us, the parson's wife. She let us stay with her for
a week after Dada..' She paused, and again her
hesitation appeared as if her mind were groping for
an answer or a revelation to something she couldn't
understand; then she said, 'After Dada... died. And ... and she set us to the station, and.., and Mama
promised to write.'
'Did she? I mean, did your mother write?'
'Yes, and so did Mrs Melburn.'
'Well, get up into bed.'
'Do you have bed bugs?'
'No! I do not have bed bugs. A flea now, here and
there, but no bed bugs. Get in!"
When the child shrank back against the edge of the
bed and made no attempt to climb up on to the mattress,
Aggie put a hand to her head before muttering,
'I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Don't look so scared. But I'm
particular about me bed. All right, you might find
everything that crawls in the yard an' they might get
as far as downstairs here and there, but not up here.
And not on me clothes either, not if I know anything
about it. If I do find them, they get short shrift. So
come on, love.' And she leaned down towards the
child, her thick arms going out and around her, and she lifted her into the bed, saying softly, 'There now.
Isn't that nice and comfy?'
Still shaking somewhat with fright, Millie swallowed
twice before she brought out in a small voice,
'It's very nice, thank you.'
'Well then, go to sleep now. But I'll leave the door
open, and it won't be dark for a long time. I'll be
popping up and down to see how you are, an' when it gets dark I'll light the lamp. But I'll be up long before
that. Now the pot's under the bed if you want to do
a number one. You'll be able to get out on your own,
won't you?'
'Oh, yes, yes, thank you.'
'Well then, snuggle down.'
Aggie took two or three steps backwards, smiled,
and turned and went out of the room, leaving the
door wide open. At the head of the stairs she paused
and gripped the broad banister; then slowly descending
the stairs, she muttered to herself, 'A little of that
one will go a long way.'
Back in the sitting-room she found Ben packing
the fire with tins filled with coal dust mixed with
dried mud, and he turned to her, saying, 'One of
these days you'll go daft and buy some real coal.'
'Why should I? What'll we do with all the tins?'
'You could always get a few coppers for them.'
'Coppers, aye, but it takes more than coppers to
cart them there; they won't come and pick 'em
up.'
He straightened his back and while dusting his
hands he said, 'You got her off, then?'
'Aye, I got her off, and thankfully. By! she's
got a tongue.'
As she sat down on the couch, Ben sat opposite
her on the settle, his big body and large head
topping the back of it while his short legs hardly
touched the floor.
'She's been well brought up,' he said.
'Aye, she has, finicky, I would say. And you can
imagine it, if her mother has been a lady's maid or
some such. I wonder what happened to the father?
I bet you a shillin' he's not dead. Done off, more
like it. By what I can gather they must have lived
in Durham for a time, 'cos when she was saying her
prayers she brought in a Mrs Melburn, a parson's
wife, who was kind to them after the father died
or whatever, an' from what I made out of her
jabbering the woman and the mother have written
to each other. Now' - she leant towards him, her
finger wagging - 'first thing in the mornin' you get
down to the station and have a word with Constable
Fenwick; he'll know what's goin' to happen to that
lass. Don't say anything about the bairn being here. Just make out you're interested in her the woman
called Forester.'
'Oh, Aggie, that's a laugh for the wrong side of
me face. Now, I ask you, me being' interested in
somebody, a woman who looks like that bairn
upstairs... Have a heart.'
'Well, all right. If your feelings are so tender
about your damned legs, tell him that Aggie was
enquirin' about her. Make up some tale that I've spoken to her on me rounds. D'you hear what I'm
sayin' to you?'
Ben's voice was solemn as he said, 'Aye, I hear
you, Aggie. Sometimes I wish I didn't; you don't
half rub it in.'
'I don't rub it into you more than you rub it into
yourself. You're not above mentioning your height,
even bragging about it at times, saying you're as
good as any two men twice your size. Aye well, you
might be, the upper half of you, but you've got to
reach them and you do it with your tongue. So I'm
not speakin' about any part of you you don't bring
to the fore yourself.'
A silence fell on the room, and its increasing
heaviness made her heave herself up from the couch
and take the three steps to throw herself on to the
seat beside him; and to put an arm around his
shoulder and say, 'Come on, lad, come on. You
know me. There's nobody in this world more sorry
for you at times than I am, for you could have
been a real good-lookin', strappin' fella. You're still
good-lookin'; and after all, you've got Annie.'
'Aye, I've got Annie.' He turned towards her now, adding, 'And you don't think much of Annie, do
you? And you've made that plain enough.'
'Well, lad, it's only because I think you're worth
somebody better than her. And it isn't the first time
I've said that, is it? You undervalue yourself. There's
plenty of men that haven't half your appearance and
are five feet or so who have married decent lasses and
brought up a family.'
'Aye, well, Aggie, there's a lot in the "or so" bit.
"Or so" could be two, four, or six inches. But I'm
five feet dead and it wouldn't look so bad if I was
narrow from the legs up. But to have an upper bulk
like mine and a head like a bull, well, I can't see
all the good, kind lasses falling over themselves and
saying, "Aw, Ben come on to bed with me." ' His
voice had changed during the last few words and
she pushed him hard against the end of the settle as
she said, 'No, they won't come running, but have
you ever thought of you doin' the askin'? Anyway,
what I'm askin' you to do now is to get on your feet
and go and get me a drop of gin and a couple of
pints of beer.'
'Is it a party?'
'Well, it could be; but then, you might want
to get away.'
'No, I don't want to get away. They can all wait,
all those stupid bitches beggin' me to strip 'em. You
get tired of doin' it.'
Aggie pushed him and he got to his feet, saying,
'Will I take the money from the box?'
'Aye, where else?' she said as she, too, rose from
the settle and returned to the couch, from where she
watched him go to the box that was standing on the
end of the sideboard, and from it take a piece of
silver, then button his coat across his broad chest,
take his cap from his pocket and, having put it on at
an angle, salute her, saying, 'Your servant, madam.'
Then, clicking his heels together, he turned on his
short legs and marched from the room.
After the door shut behind him, she sat looking
at it, wondering what she would have done over
the years without him. She, too, remembered the
day he had come into the yard and cheeked her
father, telling him he could choose his name from
Smith, Jones, or Robinson. He had said he thought
he must have been eight but that he didn't really
know. At that time he would have been like many
thousand of other youngsters, the sweepings of the
hungry 'forties.
He must have been born in the middle 'thirties,
when hunger was already rampant. The corn laws
had seen to that. He had been with them for some
time; two or three years before, he had told her that
he didn't know where he had been born, or who his
parents were. He only knew of the life he had led
in the baby-farming house, one of seventeen young
children. He had made his escape on the day he later
confronted her father in the yard. She had taken to
him from the first, and he to her, perhaps, on his
part, because she had given him some hot mutton
broth and let him eat as much bread as he could
manage, which had been half a loaf; and then she
had rigged him out in odd things.
Her father would joke about him to her when he'd
had a drink over much: 'Ready-made son you've got
now then, daughter, is it?' he'd say. 'Why didn't
you have a shot when the goin' was good? It's too
late now.' And many were the times when she had
wanted to bawl at him, 'And who was to blame for
that? You were, and me mam.' Lazy bitch, she was:
lying on this couch day after day feeling too bad to
move; but she could go upstairs and carry out the
duties of a wife whenever the fancy took her. More
likely in case he should go along the road to ease himself
on Alice Mulcahy. Yet he was the kindest man
you would wish to meet when the drink wasn't on
him. It was she who had cared for him, and looked
after him, too, until he died, and in the bed upstairs
in which he had been born, and his father before
him, in the days when this house had really been
a farmhouse and the land about had been glowing
with crops in their rotation. There had been cows in
that yard outside and horses stabled around.
Her great-grandparents had lived in this house;
it was her great-grandfather who had bought the
farm; but from where had come the money for a
Polish immigrant to buy a farm in those far-off days
remained a mystery to both her grandfather and, of
course, her father. All her father remembered about
his grandfather was that he was a dour man and
that the only relaxation he ever gave himself was
at the races.
Therein, she thought, lay the source of the money
as well as its eventual loss, because, when her grandfather
inherited the place, the farm was already in
debt. By the time he died there were no animals left
in the yard, nor land to call his own, for it had been
sold to the building men, who were throwing up The
Courts in order to house the rabble from starving
Ireland and those flooding in from all the villages
from miles around, all in the hope of being set on in the great new factories that made linen and lawn
and blankets and shawls, everything that would go
to cover a human being.
It had been from this influx that the rag business
had started. Before that they had sold coal from the
yard. She remembered when the coal had finished.
It was the time when her mother took to the couch
because she couldn't stand the sight and sound of the
hordes of women and children with their buckets,
and the arranged fights among the urchins so that
one or two of their gang could get away with
some lumps of coal, which would make all the
difference between having a fried meal or freezing
both inside and out.
She could never remember just how the rag business
started, but she recollected that she no longer
went three times a week to the paid school. Her
education from then on was the Sunday afternoon
spent in the basement underneath the church in
Halton Street, chanting the catechism.
It was scrap iron that came into the yard first, and bits and pieces of lead. What prompted her father to
go out with the hand-cart she didn't know, because
underneath it all he was a proud man. She only
remembered that right from the beginning he took
her with him, and it was she who was sent to the
doors to ask politely if they had anything to sell. At
first they never went round The Courts; the route
was always to the outskirts and to where houses
had gardens, small or large. But there again, he
never sent her to the really big houses because, as
he said, if there was anything going, the servants
would have had the first pick. Later, he was to learn
that the terraces were really the best area, for here a
woman would take pride in being seen to hand over
some cast-offs, because, in a way, this indicated that
she was well able to replace them.
The Saturday morning market in the yard was
taken from the pattern of the street market, where
the clothes were laid out in heaps on the ground
with a decent garment on the top of each pile to
tempt the passer-by to look further. So, what they
had managed to gather during the week, her father
would arrange on makeshift trestles in the yard.
Should it rain, he would bring the stuff under the
arches. But if a woman should ask for a particular
garment, he would take her into what had been the
front room of the house and there, in comparative
privacy, she could make her choice and try on the
clothes. Yet with all his hard work and, definitely,
hers, too, he seemed hardly to make a living.
It wasn't until almost his last breath that he told
her of the board beneath his bed and what was under
it, assuring her he had saved it for her. And after
raising the board and finding six wash leather bags
of sovereigns she had really believed him, and for
only the second time she could remember in her
life, she had cried. That was until the day of his
funeral, when his fancy woman, Alice Mulcahy,
through gin-inspired sorrow, told her that they
had been making plans to go to America. She had
known her father to be a kindly man." he would do anything to keep the peace and keep people happy.
But then, a week later, she had a visit from a strange
man enquiring for her father, and who, after being
told of his demise, informed her he had been asked
to sell the property for which he had felt able to
assure her father he would get a good price, seeing
that land around was scarce. And he had ended by
saying, 'He'll never get to America now.'
She remembered, following the man's visit, that
she had sat dumb with rage, and had then rushed
upstairs to his room, and every article belonging to
him, even to his razor strop, she had brought down
and thrown into the yard for the Saturday morning
onslaught. And that morning's takings had trebled
and brought her new custom, for he had always
seen to it that he was shod well and had good small
clothes and shirts.
It was now ten years since he had died, and during
the first year she had herself pushed the handcart
out almost every day for, except for young Ben, she
was on her own. With the years, it had seemed to get
heavier, so that now she made only two excursions a
week, mostly to the outskirts, making a point never
to visit the same house more than twice a year. And
there was also another point she made: she would
discard her black coat, black skirt, and black hat
once she left the environs of The Courts. Early
on, she had learned one thing: if the poor saw
you prospering they didn't deal with you if they
could help it, their idea being they weren't going to
give you a hand. So, for The Courts she would wear
the old black coat with the large pockets at the side
holding the narrow strips of candy rock in one and
the coppers in the other. However, it wasn't often she
had to fork out the coppers when pushing the handcart
through The Courts. A caring parent would pay
a penny or tuppence for some old coat or skirt that
could be cut up to meet the needs of some child.
She had discovered, too, one good source of decent
clothing: periodically, churches and chapels would
hold a sale of garments given them by their better-off
parishioners. To those ladies who were responsible
for dealing with this charitable effort, she would
offer as much as five shillings for a bundle of
what appeared to them as less attractive articles,
especially if they were food-stained, as some old
gentlemen's coats often were. But she knew that
Chinese Charlie would clean and press a garment to
make it look almost new and she could get as much
as two shillings for a good overcoat or a suit.
So, over the years there had been a number of
leather bags added to those under the loose floorboards
beneath the bed in which she now spent her
nights and, in her time, expected to die...
Ben came in, saying, 'Billy the welder is roaring
in The Crown. That'll mean he'll flail the lot of
them tonight, an' there won't be a penny of his
pay left for her. He was screaming his head off
about the war and the Russians. He was all for
sending Gladstone over to the "bloody" Russians.'
He grinned now. 'It was really funny to listen to
him. They just stopped him from choking the life out of Bobby Carter because he had said everybody
was for the war: if we didn't show them Russians
what was what, who would? By! I thought Bobby
Carter was a brave man to stand up to Billy, and
him twice his size.'
As he put the bottle and the can on the table, he
said, 'Have a drop of gin first, eh?'
'Aye,' she said. 'An' don't leave the glass dry. But
about Billy Middleton. Something should be done
in that quarter. He's practically crippled that oldest
lad of his, and him not ten yet, and she won't have
a word said against him. Stupid bitch! The next
thing'll be, he'll do for one of them, then she'll find
out where she stands.'
'Odd, when you come to think of it' - he handed
her a full wine glass of gin - 'but they say he's
like he is because his father and mother were religious.
When he was a lad they used to tie him
up in the cellar, starve him for days and read
the Bible to him as food for his soul. So since
his old fella died and he couldn't take it out on
him, he's taken it out on his young missis and the
young 'uns.'
He again sat down on the settle opposite her, and
sipped a glass of beer before saying thoughtfully,
'Funny, when you come to think about it, but
it's what happens when you're a bairn that sets
the pattern for a man or woman, in most cases
anyway.' Then looking up towards the ceiling, he
added, 'I wonder what she'll turn out to be like, that
young 'un?'
'Well, there's one thing that seems sure to me: she's
not goin' to have it as easy as she's had it up till now,
by the sound of her.'
'What d'you think'll happen to her if her mother
goes along the line?'
'It'll be the workhouse, where else? But then, from
what I hear, that's overrun with bairns; they've
stopped gathering them in from the streets. So, likely,
they'll farm her out to somebody and she'll be put to
work, probably as a runner in one of the mills.'
'That'll be a pity. I wouldn't like to see that happen
to her.' He looked down into his glass and in a much
lower voice now he said, 'Annie was put into the
mill when she was seven, the same age as that young
'un.' Again his head jerked towards the ceiling. 'She
did a twelve-hour day, sometimes fourteen. They
say things are better for the bairns now since they
brought the hours down to ten, but some of the pigs
get over that. Before, they used to count their breaks
in the twelve hours, now their breaks are in their
own time. It's against the law, but they get off with
it. Annie never knew what it was to have a pair of
boots on her feet until she was ten.'
'Oh, my God! D'you want me to cry over her?
Anyway, she's had almost twenty years since that to
get her feet warm.'
'There's two sides to you, you know, Aggie, and
one's unfair and as bitter as gall.'
As he rose from the settle and put his glass down
none too gently on the table, she said, 'Aye. Well,
now go on and tell me me good side.'
'I doubt if you've got one.'
For a moment, she said nothing, but sat watching
him pour out a mug of beer; then she said bitterly,
'You're an ungrateful devil. You know that?'
He put the can back on the table, placing his free
hand across the top of it for a moment; then he took
the mug over to the couch and, handing it to her,
said, 'You know that isn't true. The fact that I'm
here at this minute proves it.'
She sipped at the froth, then sat looking towards
the fire. But when he went to take his seat again on
the settle, she said, 'There's no need for you to hang
about; get yourself away. But lock the gate and take
the key with you, and don't make a rattle when you
come back. And tomorrow, you could put a drop of
oil on that loft door, and the stable one an' all; they
screech like barn owls.'
He grinned at her. 'Barn owls?' he said; 'well, they
might be an' all as we only close them at night. Barn
owls ... You'll be all right?'
'Have you ever known me to be anything else?'
'Aw!' He shook his head with impatience. 'Nobody
can be kind to you, can they, Aggie? You won't take
kindness, will you? You get worse, you know that?
more sour.' He turned now and went hastily from the
room, and she repeated to herself, 'You get worse,
you know that? more sour.'...
The twilight was fading fast when she entered the
bedroom but she could see that the child was still
sitting bolt upright in the bed.
'You should be asleep.'
'I... I was waiting for you. It... it was getting
dark.'
'It's a long time off dark. Lie down now.'
The child lay down; then she watched the big fat
woman undress herself, noticing particularly that
she did not wear corsets like her mama, but that
she wore a habit shirt, and one bodice petticoat and
two waist petticoats. Her shift, too, was white, but it
was sticking to her body here and there with sweat.
She watched Aggie ease it off her flesh, then take a
nightdress from a drawer and pull it over her head,
and lastly, sit on the side of the bed and draw off
her stockings.
When Aggie climbed into bed, such was her
weight that the child rolled towards her, and her
head seemed to fall naturally between her breasts
and when the small face peered up at her and the
small whisper said, 'You're very big,' Aggie said,
'Aye, I'm very big. An' you're very small; an' you
have too much to say, so go to sleep.'
As the head snuggled into her and the thin arm
came round her waist, Aggie drew in a long tight
breath; then when her own arm automatically went
around the child, she closed her eyes tightly, because
for the first time in her life she was feeling flesh close
to her own.

TWO



It was eight o'clock the following morning when Ben
came back from the town. Aggie was dressed for the
day: her hands and face looked clean, her hair had
been combed; she was wearing a clean blue-striped
blouse. She had just finished her breakfast of dripping
and bread and a piece of cold bacon when Ben
came into the room. She said immediately, 'Well?'
'She'll be up at ten o'clock before the Justice.'
'Did you find out anything more? Who did you
talk to?'
'Well, would I talk to anybody else but your dear
Constable Fenwick.'
'Well, what did my dear Constable Fenwick say?'
'He said, she's among the others. There's nine of
'em. But he has no details of her because he didn't
bring her in, he said.., which was kind of him.' He
now pulled a face at Aggie and went on, 'He said he
thought she was new to the job.'
'Is that all?'
'Aye, except he pointed out that if she was new
to the job and she tried to muzzle in around that
quarter, the others would soon make short shrift of
her. Remember the other month, it was in the papers,
wasn't it? about them tearing the clothes off that one
who tried to queer their pitch? If I remember, that
was on a Saturday night when the gents came down
for their pickings. Anyway, I've been thinkin' about
her. She's not up to much, is she, if she takes a bairn
like that 'un with her when she's on the make?'
'Well, likely it was the lesser of two evils. She
would have had to leave her alone in the house,
and Nelson Close isn't in the suburbs, is it?'
'Is she still asleep?'
'She was when I left her.'
He sat down at the table now, and she pushed the
bread board and the dripping towards him, saying,
'Want a piece of bacon?'
'No; I don't feel like it this mornin'.'
'No, you wouldn't. You didn't get back into the
loft until one o'clock, did you?'
'Timing me now, are you?'
'No, but I did wonder why you don't move
your bed along there. Dear Annie'll make room
for you.'
'Yes, I could. I've thought about it, an' all.' They
stared at each other; then, his tone changing, he
said, 'What's goin' to happen to the young 'un if
the mother goes along the line?'
'Well, we went into this last night, didn't we?
All I'm concerned with is handin' her over to her
rightful parent or whoever's goin' to take responsibility
for her.'
'You're goin' down there?'
'I'm goin' down there to the court? Aye, I am.'
'Well, well, well. You mean to get rid of her, don't
you?'
She now placed her large square hands on the table
and leant towards him, and her voice was low and
hard as she said, 'Well, what's the choice? Can you
see me keepin' her here? Look around you, look at
the refinements I've got to offer.'
He didn't answer her for a moment; when he did,
it was quietly. 'She could do worse, a hell of a lot
worse. I can speak for that, can't I, Aggie?'
She straightened up now and bawled across at
him, 'You were a lad; now you're a young man. She's
just a chit, and a knowin' one at that, who's been
brought up in a different atmosphere. It mightn't
have been the class but there's been some schoolin'
there an' some refinement. Can you see her fittin'
into this? Aw!' She shrugged. 'You're soft in the
head. You know that? It's them books you're readin'.
Mr Dickens is gettin' at you. Help the poor. My God!
What does he know about it? The only thing I feel
about Mr Dickens is he's makin' his money out of
exposing misery.'
'Aye; well-' he got on to his feet now - 'it takes
somebody to expose it. God Almighty! there's plenty
of it, and nobody's bothered much with it except
here and there. They keep their distance; the smell
of the poor's enough for them. Mr Dickens is doin'
some good.'
'Well, he's certainly got a supporter in you. But
while we're on, I'll tell you this; you'll go blind
readin' that small print.'
'Oh Aggie, shut up!' He had turned and was
starting to walk towards the door when he received
a full blast from her as she yelled, 'Don't you tell me
to shut up! you young prig, else you'll find the door
locked on you. Aye, you will. I'm not as soft as all
that. It's come to something, hasn't it, when I can't
speak in me own house now.' She addressed the fire,
saying, What's come over him anyway? He's never
stood up to me before. All through that 'un.
She started as the voice of 'that 'un' said, 'Good
morning. I found my own way down. There was
no water to wash. There was a basin and a jug in
the room but no water. And I've managed to do up
two of the buttons at the back, but I can't reach the
top two. Would you, please?' As the child turned her back to her, Aggie bent down and buttoned the top
of the dress; then she said, 'You hungry?'
'Not very; but I would like a drink, please. And
may I get washed? I should have washed before I
put my dress on, you know. But when I see Mama
and I tell her, she won't mind.'
Aggie looked down on the child. She said she
was seven. As Ben had pointed out last night, his
Annie was scurrying between the looms when she
was seven, and barefoot. This one had certainly had
it soft. And God help her! Whichever way her life
was goin' she would never have it soft again, not as
she saw it at this present moment.
'There's a pump round the back of the house. Go
on out there; Ben'll show you where it is. Ask him
to put some water in a bowl, and you can bring it into the scullery. There's soap and a towel there.'
Millie looked at Aggie for a moment before
saying quietly, 'Thank you.' Then; as if forced
to say something polite, she said, 'I slept very
well. It was a nice bed. Thank you,' and turning
about, she went out, not running like a child but
walking sedately.
A few minutes later she returned with Ben, who
was carrying a tin bowl of water. The child was
smiling and she looked up at Aggie, saying, 'The
pump was funny. It talked the water out; it went
gurgle, gurgle, gurgle.' And Ben raised his eyebrows
as Aggie looked at him.
When he returned to the room, having left the
child in the kitchen, Aggie was pouring some milk
into a mug, and she said to him, 'Look at that!

the rain for a long time. By! I'll see that bugger tomorrow mornin' if I have to get up at five, an'
I'll tell him what I've meant to do for a long time;
I'll take the can along to the authorities. By God!
I will. That cow would have kicked the pail out of the byre in shame if it had squirted anything
out like that.'
'Oh! Aggie.' His smile was wide. Then changing
the subject completely from milk and children to the
necessity for a clean yard, he said, 'I know where I
can get some broken slabs. I'll only have to pay him
a dollar and the cartage, and there'll be enough to
cover the rest of the yard. When it's wet it's a mire
out there. How about it?'

'Oh, well, yes, if you're afraid to get your feet
muddy. Yes, of course, sir. But a dollar, no more.
How many loads would it be?'
'Oh' - he shrugged his broad shoulders - 'two,
three. It's heavy stuff, even for a horse. It could be
done in half a day; I mean, the cartage.'
'Well--' She went to the fire and ground the kettle
on top of the glowing tins, then added, 'As you're
takin' over, you'd better see to it.'
'That'll be the day when you allow anybody to
take over. Anyway, Aggie--' He sidled close to her
and looked into her face, saying, 'That little 'un's got
under me skin. If her mother has to do the month,
keep her here till she comes out. Will you?'
She jerked herself away from him. 'Not on your
life, lad,' she said. 'Not on your life.' Then in a
lowered voice, she added, 'What would I do with
her in here all day? And when I'm out, take her with
me? Her lookin' like that! Then, look at this place.
What is it like? A hovel.'
'Well,' he hissed back at her, 'it needn't look like
a hovel, if you'd get off your big fat arse at times
and do a bit of scrubbin'.'
Her hand shot out and caught him fully on the side
of the face, causing him to wince. Rubbing his cheek,
he said, 'It's years since you did that. It struck home
that, didn't it? 'cos it was the truth. You're always
talking of speaking the truth yourself, aren't you,
Aggie? but you can never face up to hearin' it. We'll
forget about this now but I'm warnin' you, Aggie,
never raise your hand to me again. Never! 'Cos I would die of shame if I retaliated and hit back; and
I would, because I've levelled men almost as big as
you before today, and you know it.'
'Is this milk for me?'
They both turned to look at the child. She was
pointing to the mug. But Aggie's anger rendering her
unable to speak, Ben said, 'Aye, me dear. Drink it
up.' And going to the table, he asked, 'Would you
like some bread an' drippin'?'
'Yes, please.'
'And there's some bacon there.' He pointed to
the plate on which were some slices of cold streaky
bacon.
She reached over to look at the bacon before
saying, 'No; thank you. I'm not very fond of fat.'
Making a sound in his throat, he turned his head
away, then said, 'Funny thing, but neither am I; yet
I've had to get used to it;' and on this he went out,
leaving Millie looking at the big fat woman and
feeling she must make conversation: 'It's a beautiful
morning,' she said. 'You have a lot of clothes in the
next room. And why are all those heaps of things in
the yard? Is it a kind of shop?'
Oh no; she couldn't put up with that, not at
this moment; and so, saying, 'Stop your jabber
and get on with your breakfast. Then stay put
until I come down,' Aggie walked to the door
leading to the hall.
In the hall, she stopped and looked about her. 'It
needn't look like a hovel,' he had said, 'if you'd
get off your big fat arse at times and do a bit of
scrubbin'.' She had worked like nobody else for
years, right from when she was ten, and before
that, hard manual labour. But during these last few
years she had felt tired, weary. It was as much as she
could do to push the hand-cart and to carry her body
around with her. It was too big, too cumbersome. If
she could only stop eating. But why should she? Aye,
why should she?
Not one of these questions had hit her before. It
was since that child had come into the house last night. Was it only last night? My God! It seemed that
she had been here years, and already she had driven a
wedge between her and Ben. And Ben was all she had
for companionship; those who would have been her
so-called friends she wouldn't let over her step, and
those she would have liked to call friends wouldn't
come near her step. No; she had only Ben, and she
had struck him.
She must get rid of that child.

She stood at the back of the dingy room, the
child close by her side, and she listened to the
clerk calling out the offences - soliciting was a
common phrase, but once he said 'Procuring of
men' - and she noticed that the Justice hardly
raised his head: 'One pound or one month. One
pound or one month. One pound or one month.'
He had seen them all before. They mightn't have
a pound between them but he knew it would be
paid. Big Joe would see to that, or one of his
cronies. But he raised his eyes and then his head when the last one stood before him. He hadn't
seen her before.
'Soliciting ... she was known to have men at
her house and was seen to stop them in the street.
Constables Walton and Makepeace apprehended
her.' Et cetera, the et cetera going on to explain
that she had been taken to the hospital and there
examined by Doctor Bright in the presence of Constable
Makepeace.
What Aggie didn't know about the ways of loose
women, prostitutes, and pimps wasn't worth learning,
but it was a business and she believed that
everybody should mind their own business. Only
one thing she drew the line at and that was when
the prostitution took up bairns. She couldn't stand
that.
Until now her knowledge had come from conversation
and confidences and such; she had never
before been in a morning court and listened to the
proceedings.
From this distance, and her being among the other
women, the child had not recognised her mother,
but when the sentence was passed, 'One pound or
one month', and the woman turned about and the
child saw her face, a cry escaped her, and she was
about to spring forward when Aggie pulled her
tight against her leg and, bending down, hissed
at her, 'Quiet! Be quiet!' only for the child to
hiss back, 'That is Mama. What is going to happen
to... ?'
'Shut up! Shut up!'
Gripping the child's arm, Aggie pulled her from
the room and through into a hall and there she
stood waiting, for she guessed that the women lined
up like felons against the wall would now be led
out to pay their fines at the desk in the corner, or
be taken through the door back to the cells. She
was not surprised that most of them were laughing
and giggling.
Two men were standing near the main door. One
was a big man with a bullet head and a short neck,
with shoulders almost as broad as Ben's; but he had
height with it, being all of six foot tall, which in
itself made him different from most other men, for
it was only here and there you would see his like. His
companion was a head shorter and he was thin; but
a reader of character would have stamped him the
more evil of the two.
The women knew that their fines had already
been paid, and so, after signing their forms, in
most cases by making crosses, they joined the men the while throwing quips at the policemen standing
by the door.
The last in the line was the fair woman. She
wrote her name on the form; then, as the wardress
motioned her forward, she turned and looked at
Aggie and the child, and with a quick gesture she
thrust out her hands towards them. But as the child
again made to run to her mother Aggie held her
firmly and the wardress pushed the woman through
a door; even so contriving to keep her head turned
towards her child.
The crowd of women and the big man had gone
out into the street, but the thin man remained; and
he looked from the child towards the closed door
before he, too, turned and went out.
'Don't cry. Don't cry.' They were out in the street
now and Aggie, for once in her life, stood helpless,
knowing not what to do.
'Is Mama wicked?'
'No, no.'
'Then why has she gone away? What has she
done? She ... she shouldn't have gone. She loves
me. She said she did.'
'Be quiet. Here! dry your eyes.' Aggie took a surprisingly
clean man's handkerchief from her pocket
and handed it to Millie.
'Where am I going? Am I to stay with you?'
She couldn't answer.
They were turning the corner at the end of the road
when they almost ran into Constable Fenwick, and
he greeted them: 'Hello, Aggie.'
She didn't respond in like manner but said, 'She's
got a month.'
'Well, it was to be expected. When they go into
that business they know what they're doing.'
'Was she really in it?'
'Oh yes; using the house an' all.'
'But Nelson Close is quite a way from here. How
did your lot find out?'
'Some Nosey Parker in the house. And then they
were thinking of--' he indicated the child with a
slight nod. 'But I was surprised at her type; you
would think she could have got a job, a decent one
somewhere. But then,' he again indicated the child,
'they're a handicap where jobs are concerned, unless
you farm them out for the day, or altogether. What
you going to do with her?'
Perhaps it was the term 'farm out' that brought
the retort: 'Hang on to her until she comes out, I
suppose.'
'That's good of you, Aggie. God knows what
would happen to her if she was let loose. Slim
Boswell would soon do a bit of trade there.'
'He was there this morning with Big Joe.'
'Oh? Well they look after their own. I can stand
Big Joe, but not Slim.'
'Then why don't you arrest him?' Her voice was
harsh.
'Oh, we do, we do, Aggie. But when you keep
the big names supplied with a particular kind of
amusement you can always depend on it that the
police are found to be in the wrong, or that they
are framing an innocent man, or that the children in
question are his nieces. And he will produce a sister,
or a cousin, or an aunt. My God! I've seen it all. But
things are changing, Aggie, things are changing. It'll
take time. It'll take time. And it will be women that'll
change it. Oh yes, women. There's one or two ladies
already shouting their mouths off. And I can tell you
something' - he bent towards her - 'their husbands
have been warned to gag them, or else. But I know
one in question who said, to hell, or words to the
effect' - he grinned - 'that he couldn't gag her if he tried. Women have power, you know, Aggie,
if they but knew how to use it. Look at yourself,
for instance.'
'You tryin' to be funny?'
'No,' he said, and seriously: 'no, I'm not. There's
a good few people around this quarter afraid of you
and of what you can do when you open your mouth.
And you have once or twice, haven't you? Anyway,
have you any news for me?'
'No, nothing of importance, except I think you
want to keep an eye on Billy the welder. He'll go
berserk one of these days and murder the lot of
them. And the papers will get at you and ask why
wasn't something done before. He was mortallious
last night, so I bet hardly any of those bairns will be
able to move this mornin'. She certainly won't. Oh,
somethin' should be done with her. I'm not for the
workhouse, you know that, but I think they'd all be
better off in there.'
'I'll look into it, Aggie, and I'll have a word with
the committee.'
'You might as well spit on it as go to them.'
'All right, all right, yes; but they do the best they
can.'
'Maybe; but they're knocking their heads against
brick walls when it comes to Billy Middleton.'
'He's not the only one that uses the belt, Aggie.
You know that. And it's part of the Christian
doctrine, you know, spare the rod and spoil the
child.' And he added somewhat sneeringly, 'Jesus
loves little children, they say. Well, He's the only
one who seems to, yet He doesn't do much about
it. Get a few ranters together and they give you
broth if you let them save your soul. But there' he
sighed - 'that isn't altogether true. There's Parson
Wheatley, you know, over in the Dyke district. He's
got a school going. Free, that's something, free, not
tuppence, fourpence, or sixpence. And it's true, you
know, some of them do charge sixpence a week, I'm
bearing. But with the parson, the youngsters do a
half day in the mill and a half day at his school,
an' you wouldn't believe the difference it's made
to those little 'uns. And what's more, his wife has
classes at night for women. And it's growing; you
just wouldn't believe.'
'Well, that is something,' said Aggie. 'But different
from what you hear about the convent; you know,
Christ the Saviour's place. They don't take them
under a shilling a week, and God knows what they
charge when they live in. And of course they don't
want any snotty-nosed ones, no. Holy nuns. My
God! mean as muck, they are. I've found that out.'
'Now, Aggie.' He laughed at her. 'Don't stamp on
the Catholics; else I'll have to run you in for kicking
me mother in the face.'
'You a Catholic then, constable?'
'I am, for me sins.'
'I would never have believed it.'
'It's a dark secret, Aggie. An' you know, little pigs
have got big ears and this little pig is looking up at
me.' He now smiled down into the wet, tearstained
face, saying, 'You're going to be all right. Aggie'll look after you. In the meantime, if you would like
to come to church with me next Sunday, it'll be
my pleasure.'
'No, by God! She's goin' to no Catholic Mass as
long as she's under my care. Good day to you.'
'Good day to you too, Aggie. You're a good
woman in spite of the muck.'
Her step slowed and she was about to turn round
to voice some rejoinder but continued on, gripping
the child's hand hard now and stepping up her walk
into almost a trot.
Well, she had saddled herself with something,
hadn't she? Dear God! she had. How she was
goin' to put up with the wee 'un's fancy talk and
fancy ways, she didn't know. And a month was a
long time...

Ben said, 'I knew you would keep her.'
'Well, you knew more than me. It was the last
intention in me life to saddle meself with her. But
I'll tell you this much: she'll have to spend most of
her time with you 'cos I couldn't put up with her
round me feet all day.'
'Oh, I'll see to her. Don't worry about that. So
she got a month? Well, well.'
'Aye, well, well; but I'll tell you, there's one thing
I'm sure of an' that's the child will take to the yard
quicker than the mother will take to the cells an'
the life she'll be forced to live there. Good God in
heaven! Aye.'
Five days later Aggie felt she could stand no more.
The child never stopped talking, and in that refined
voice too. And the questions she asked! She was causing a stir in the yard, too, upsetting some
folks, while making others laugh. She would advise
a customer not to have that: it looked too old, or it
smelt. One good thing she had done was to point
out two women pushing articles up under their coats
without paying. Obviously very pleased with herself over this and Aggie's reaction, she then brought it
up so many times that Aggie was eventually forced
to yell her into silence.
Aggie was now in the market-room, as they called
it, talking in a low voice to Ben. 'I can't stand her
and her jabber any more, Ben,' she was saying. 'I'm
sorry. I'm sorry, lad. Look, take this sovereign and go down to the station. I should have done it at
first; I could have paid it then. It never struck me at
the time. If those pimps could pay, I could've paid.
Oh aye, I could've paid the fine. Anyway, take it
down. See the sergeant and ask him to let her out.
Of course, it'll take a day to get it settled; but I can
put up with that.'
Ben took the coin from her hand, then looked
hard at her before he turned abruptly and went out. She stood looking after him for a moment; then
she dropped on to an upturned box, and bending
her head into the folds of flesh under her chin, she asked of herself why she had to do this. What was
the matter with her? Was it that the child was too
refined and showing up her own shortcomings? Was it that just the sound of her voice grated on her? Was
it that her bright loveliness caused something like a
pain in her chest every time she looked at her? Was
it that she was getting old and past bothering with
children? What was it she was afraid of?
She stopped her questioning, then got up heavily
from the box and went into the kitchen.
Well, it was done. This was the last day she'd have to put up with her. And there she was, washing the
bottom panes of the window. She couldn't reach very
far, but for as far as she could, the window was clean,
bright. The sun was showing a different sheen as its
beams passed over a stretch of the stone floor.
The child, now turning a smiling face towards
Aggie, said, 'I'll stand on the chair and that'll take me half-way up, but you'll have to do the rest, as I
can't reach. It must be a long time since they were
cleaned; they are very dirty. I've been over this part
twice, and look at the water.' She pointed to the tin
dish. 'And I've scrubbed the table again.'
Aggie did not remark on the child's handiwork; instead,
she said, 'Who taught you to do housework?'
'Mama, of course. We had to keep the house dean; Dada liked a clean house. He was always
very well washed, and Mama, too. And from I was a little girl I went round with Mama cleaning
the house.'
'And I suppose you're a big grown-up girl now?'
A gurgle issued from the small throat as Millie
answered, 'Well, not really big, but I'll grow.'
'Did you ever live in a big house?'
'Not as big as this. But in Durham we had three
rooms and a toilet outside and a little garden where
you could sit in the summer. And then there was the
river. The river was beautiful. And the cathedral.
Have you ever been to Durham Cathedral?'
'No; I haven't been to Durham Cathedral.'
'Oh, it's very grand. It's the best one in the
world, you know. It's built on the edge of the
river. When you're in a boat you can look up to
it. I've been in a boat.'
'You've been lucky.'
The smile slipped from Millie's face and it was
moment before she responded: 'Yes, yes I've
lucky.' But the words were not said as if from the
mind of a child but from that of an adult who had'
experienced many things. It caused Aggie to say
brightly, 'Well, I think you'll still be lucky, because
you might be seeing your ma later today.'
'Oh! Oh! Mrs Aggie. Oh! will I?' The child was
now standing before her, gripping her hands. 'Oh!
thank you. Thank you. Oh! I'll tell Mama when
see her how good you have been to me. You'll
Mama. She's very pretty, you know. Well, you
her, didn't you? But' - her voice dropped - 'she
looked tired. She never used to be tired. She
dance with me and take me long walks. Oh, you'll
like Mama.'
'Aye. Yes, yes, undoubtedly I'll like your mama.'
And she forced herself to add, 'I'll tell her
a good girl you've been in cleanin' me place
me.'
'Oh, that is nothing.' Millie moved back to the
window now. 'I like doing things. I like cooking. I
have never cooked here, have I?'
'No. No, you haven't. We... we don't do much
cookin' here.'
'But you have an oven?'
'Yes, yes, we have an oven.'
'What a pity! If I had been staying with you I... I
would have shown you how I can make a scone...
scones. People say sconnes when it should be scones,
shouldn't it?'
'If you say so. Yes, if you say so, it should be
scones.'
Aggie now walked heavily through the market
room and out into the yard. And she made herself
look about her, at the odd heaps lying on the rough
ground, and she said to herself, 'Yes, he was right,
it'll be better if it's paved. And I wonder if he's put
any oil on that door?'
She walked over to an outhouse which, in comparison
with the rest of the place, looked extremely
tidy in that on the shelves were arrayed different tools of all shapes and sizes; and on the walls, hanging
from nails, was all the accoutrement that went
to the dressing of a horse: collars, bridles, saddles,
some stiffened with age, others looking usable.
Taking up an oil-can she went out and towards
the old outbuildings, to the door next to the one
leading into the barn and, moving it, she found that
it hadn't been oiled. The door led upstairs to what
had once been the stableman's rooms, and which
now housed Ben. After she had oiled the hinges, she
paused a moment before lumbering up the stairs.
She stood looking about her; at his plank bed
with the bedclothes neatly pulled over it; at the
old easy chair with the stuffing sticking out of its
seat. A hard kitchen-type chair was set near a table
with three legs. An orange box was obviously being
used as a replacement for the missing leg as well as
serving as a miniature bookcase, for there were seven
tattered books on the dividing shelf and a stack of old
newspapers below it.
Whatever it was her mind had said to her, she
answered with, Well, it's better than thousands of
others in the town, and many a one would be glad
of it. And anyway, you couldn't get a decent table
up those stairs, they're too narrow.
She had just reached the foot of the stairs when
she saw Ben entering the yard; and when she stepped
from the doorway he called towards her, 'Been on a
tour of inspection, then?'
'Aye, you could say that. I think you should try to
get a table up there, or at least fix a leg on that one.
And of all the single ticks that have come in, there's
bound to have been a decent one among them. Why
haven't you taken one up?'
'I prefer me hard pallet; it's a sort of penance
for me sins.'
'Don't be too bright. What happened?'
He put his hand in his pocket, then handed
her back the sovereign, saying, 'She's gone. She
went the same day, they tell me. I couldn't get it out of them who had paid for her, but old
Alex the cleaner told me on the side: Boswell,
Slim Boswell.'
'Oh my God! No!'
'Oh my God! Yes! And he's only got to see her' - he thrust his head back - 'and it'll be mother and
daughter. Oh aye, definitely daughter.'
'She needn't be with him; he could have paid
for o . .'
'Don't talk soft, Aggie. If she hadn't been with
him she'd have been here before now. You said she saw you with the child and there's not two
Aggie Winkowskis kickin' around this quarter, or
the town itself, and somebody would have told her
where you lived.'
Her response was almost a plaintive mutter: 'What
are we goin' to do?' she asked.
He noticed that he was being drawn into making
the decision by the 'we'; and so he said, 'Well,
speakin' for meself, it would sicken me if I thought
the young 'un got into his hands.'
She started to walk across the yard, and he followed
her; and they had reached the house door
before her decision came: 'I'll take the cart down
there later on; if he's put her to work she's likely
pacing The Strand,' she said.
'Oh, I doubt not, not on The Strand, Aggie, for
a beginner.'
She swung round to him, grinding out in a low
voice, 'She mustn't have been any beginner, not goin'
by the uncles the child's had. And what's strikin' me
now, she took the child with her when she was on
the game just as a draw.'
'That needn't have been, Aggie. We talked about
that, didn't we? She couldn't have left her in the
house. Anyway, as I see it now, if the authorities
have got wind of her havin' a youngster, we'll have
some of them officials and the do-gooders comin'
round, and it'll be the workhouse in the end.'
She said nothing directly in answer to this, but
carried on into the house, saying, 'I'll have to tell
her she's gone somewhere.'
In the sitting-room, Millie was standing on a
chair and reaching up towards the upper panes of
the window.
'Come down off that! Come down off that! You'll
break your neck.'
'No, I won't; I'm very steady on my legs.'
Aggie closed her eyes for a moment; then slowly
she ordered: 'Come ... down ... off.., that ...
chair.'
The tone brought Millie on to the floor and
standing before Aggie, saying, 'I ... I just wanted
to help.'
Aggie drew in a long breath, bowed her head
slightly and said, 'Aye, I know you did, love; but
come and sit down a minute.' And she took the child
by the hand and walked her to the settle, and when
they were seated she looked at the small figure by her
side, at the hair, like a golden halo round the oval
face, and the limpid grey eyes gazing so trustfully
at her. And as she stared, there was interposed on the fair skin the face of a man, a thin man, and he
was leering at her as if in triumph, as he would
do if he were to get hold of this unusual-looking
child, for he'd make a pretty penny out of her, no
matter what channel he sent her along, his nursery,
the street, or the boat. Any one of them would bring
in a good profit.
As if the child were sensing her dilemma, she
said, 'I am going to see Mama today, am I not,
Mrs Aggie?'
For once the preciseness of the words did not irritate
Aggie, and she answered gently, 'I'm sorry, love,
but.., but she's had to go away for a day or two.'
'Where to?'
Aggie was stumped for a moment, but then she
thought of Durham, and so she answered, 'Durham.'
'But ... but she can't. She said she would never
go back there.'
Aggie pulled herself up from the seat, saying,
tersely now, 'Well, love, she has.'
'But ... but why didn't she come and take me
with her? She never leaves me.'
'Well' - Aggie was walking towards the table, her
back to the child - 'she ... she was in a hurry.
Something had come up.' She now rubbed her hand
over the oilcloth as she waited for the next question.
But when it did not come, she turned about and saw
the child with her head bowed and the tears running
down her cheeks. Returning to the settle, she seated
herself again by the child and said kindly, 'Come on
now, come on. You're quite a big girl. Grownups
have things to do, you know, an' they can't always
explain them.., well--' She put her arm around the
narrow shoulders and pulled the child into her side,
and when again the arm came around her waist and
the head was pressed between her breasts there arose
in her that pain that was both an ache and a pleasure:
a pleasure that had no future that she could see; a
pleasure that she had been deprived of all during her
womanhood. And now here was a pleasure that was
also an irritant. It was a pleasure that she wanted to
press into her body while at the same time throw it
off as far away from her as possible.
The sound of the door being opened made her
instinctively push the child aside from her. Ben,
however, did not remark on the scene he had just witnessed, but said, 'There's a friend of yours in the
yard who would like to have a word with you. He
dropped in off his beat, sort of.'
'Oh aye.' She nodded at him; then as she passed
him she said quietly. 'Stay with her, but keep your
mouth shut, else you might contradict my story.'
In the yard Constable Fenwick was looking at the
pile of tins; and, as she approached him, she said,
'Goin' cheap: a penny a score.'
'What on earth d'you use them for? Who buys
them?' he asked, as though he couldn't believe
anyone would do so.
'Oh, there's always a buyer for everything. They
grind them down. But I use a lot meself. Best
form of fuel and the cheapest: fill them with a
mixture of coal dust and mud and you've got a fire goin' all day and night. The tins hold the
heat.'
'Is that a fact?'
'That's a fact.'
'I've been away for a day or two; I lost me
father.'
'Oh.' Her light tone changed. 'I'm sorry about
that. Was he dear to you?'
'Aye, very dear, and a good man.'
'Did he live hereabouts?'
'No, in Newcastle.'
'Oh; Newcastle.'
'Aye, that's where I was born and reared. I would
have been there the day but I had to go and marry
a lass from down here, and she wouldn't leave her
mother. Women are the limit, aren't they, Aggie?'
She did not respond to this, but stared at him, until
he spoke again, saying, 'I'd have been along before
now, but I heard about me father the very day when
we last spoke, and so I had to go off straightaway to
Newcastle. Before I went, though, I managed to have
a word on the side with the lass. She was waiting to
be moved to start her month. She begged me to take
this.' He put his hand in his pocket and brought out a
key. 'She asked me to give it to the lady who had been
in court with her child, and to ask if you would take
care of her till she could come for her.' As he handed
her the key, he added, 'Apparently she wants you to
take the personal things from her lodgings.'
Aggie stood holding the key in her hand.. It was
all of three inches long, and as she looked at it, she said, 'I shouldn't be landed with this. What life will
it be for a child stuck in here?'
'There's many a worse place, Aggie, and many a
worse person to take charge of a child. I can vouch
for that. Anyway, if it becomes known the lass left a
child behind, the authorities will be visitin' you, and
then you'll be able to get rid of her.'
'Huh!' She bridled now. 'What if it should then
happen I don't want to get rid of her, eh? What
about it then?' ... Why in the name of God! had
she said that?
'Oh, well, that could be easily arranged. You'd
have to sign some sort of form. And if they ever
want a reference, I'll stand for that. And there are
others an' all, I'm sure.'
'Where?' Her voice was scornful now. 'A rag
woman in a hole like this! What! they would say.
Taking charge of a child, and such a one? Aye, and
such a one' - she was shaking her head - 'who'd talk
a hind leg off a donkey, and with such politeness
that it gets up your nose and under your skin and
on your nerves.'
He was laughing now.
'Well, perhaps you'll learn something from her.'
'I've had all the education I need, thanks. But
anyway' - her tone changed again - 'I'm grateful
to you for your help.'
'Any time, Aggie, any time.' He again looked at
the pile of tins. 'I'll have to tell me missis about that
trick, and tell her to get going and save some money ... Ooh! I'd better not, though, not if I want to live a little longer. Well, I'll look in again, Aggie; and
mind you, see everything's above board' - he glanced
around the yard - 'no dealing in stolen property; no
organising of crime in any one of its many forms. But
I think you'll stay clear until Thursday.'
He grinned at her, then went from the yard.
And she stood looking down at the key in her
hand, while she said to herself, 'Well, this seems
to decide it, doesn't it?' and turning, she yelled,
'Ben!' And when he appeared in the yard, followed
by the child, it was to her she spoke, saying,
'Go and put your hat and coat on; we're goin'
for a walk.'
'A walk?'
'Yes, that's what I said, we're goin' for a walk.'
Then with an impatient movement, she said loudly,
'Your ma has sent the key to your house. We're goin'
there to pick up some of your clothes.'
'Oh, we are?'Oh, that is so nice. And I need a clean
petticoat on and...'
'Go on.' Get your hat and coat on.'
After Millie had turned to run back into the house,
Ben said, 'So that's what he wanted. How did he
get hold of it?'
'Apparently he had a word with her while she
was waiting to be taken along the line. It must
have been just before Boswell picked her up. Get
the hand-cart out of the barn; there'll likely be things
to bring back.'
Without more to-do he hurried from her, and she
herself went into the market-room.
From a cupboard, she took a large, brown, straw
hat and a dark grey coat; and after first pinning the
hat on to her hair she shrugged herself into the coat.
But it wasn't large enough to button and showed her
blouse and skirt, and so when she appeared in the
yard again Ben, standing ready by the cart, grinned
at her, saying, 'That's nice! Smartish.'
'Aye, smart.., ish. Where is she?' She turned and
looked towards the house door. 'Don't tell me she's
washing her face again!'
'Here she is.' Ben waved to the child, and when
she approached them she exclaimed loudly while
looking at Aggie, 'Oh, you are dressed! You look
different. That is a nice hat.'
'Thank you. Thank you.'
That was another thing that annoyed her about the
child: she always had to find something nice to say.
'Well, come on, let's get away,' she said.
'Have a nice trip.'
Aggie turned a scornful glance on Ben, then
pushed the cart through the gateway on to the road.
'Are you a real rag woman, Mrs Aggie?'
Here we go again. 'Yes, I'm a real rag woman.
Now what are you goin' to make out of that?'
'Nothing. Mama says that honest work, no matter
how lowly, is something to be proud of.'
God in heaven! That mama, that proven whore
who was now in a brothel and was likely to stay
there, that's if Slim didn't ship her out an' all, because
she was a looker all right.
'Are you going to shout for rags?'

'No, I'm not. And keep your tongue quiet.'
Millie kept her tongue quiet for some time, until
she felt forced to say, 'I would have never known
this way home.'
Aggie made no reply to this, and the child remained
quiet until it was evident that she recognized
the entrance to the area, for she exclaimed, 'Oh! now
I know where we are.'
'Whereabouts is your house then?'
'It wasn't a house, I think I've told you, it was
outside. We go round the corner here.'
They went round the corner, and the child stopped
in front of a flight of steps leading up to a dilapidated
house, one of a number in the street. But to the right
of the steps was a low iron gate, and leading from it
more steps, but downwards; and the child exclaimed,
'Down there! down here!'
Aggie looked up and down the narrow street; then,
taking a chain with a lock attached to it from under a
piece of sacking in the corner of the cart, she pushed
the cart close to the gate, and tied a leg of it to
the iron post.
'Why are you doing that?'
'Just in case somebody takes a fancy to it.'
'No-one would run off with a handcart.'
'Well, they've done it before.'
'Really?'
'Yes, rea-lly! Get yourself down those steps, and
see if I can follow you.'
The stone steps were narrow, and she didn't like
stone steps, they were greasy when wet, but she
made the bottom of them and inserted the key in
the lock. She followed the child into the room, but
there she stood aghast. It was a cellar, stone-floored
and stone-walled, and stone cold. It was obviously
partitioned into two rooms by a rough wooden
screen. In the part in which she was standing was
a small table and two chairs and an iron contraption
that looked as if it might be used for some form of
heating. There was no chimney attached to it; so she
guessed it was for paraffin oil.
She walked round the end of the partition. In this
part, there was a narrow iron bed, covered by a
patched quilt, and at its foot was a large suitcase.
Near the wall was a bass hamper. Clothes, mostly
small garments, were hanging from the rails that had
been knocked in the partition.
The child had followed her, and as she started to
finger the clothes, she said, 'It... it isn't a very nice
place. It's always cold. But ... but, as Mama said,
as long as we kept it clean and it was only for a short
time... But--' She turned and looked at Aggie as she
ended slowly, 'But it wasn't like the house we had in
Durham. That... that was so nice. I... I miss that
house. I miss Durham. I... I... '
'Now, now! there's no time for cryin'. Come on,
come on. Stop that! I'll take these clothes down and
you fold them on the bed there, nicely, then we'll put
them on the cart. And the cases an' all.'
'Why? Why? Mama will be coming back.'
'Look! Do what you're told! Your mama sent
word for me to do this. You understand? I told you. And you're to stay with me... well, until she
comes for you or other arrangements are made.'
'Where is Mama really?'
'I told you, she had to go to Durham.'
'I... I don't believe you, Mrs Aggie.'
To put it in her own words, as she explained
the scene later to Ben, she was flabbergasted. And
she had to ask herself if this young 'un was seven
or seventeen.
'You don't, eh? You don't believe me? Well then,
all right, you can stay here by yourself, and see to
yourself, until your mother comes for you.'
'I... I cannot stay by... by... my... self. I'm ... I'm afraid, and.., and I'm too little.'
'You're only little in stature, not in your tongue or
your mind. So look, let's have no more of it. If you
don't fold them up I'll just toss them on the cart like
I do the rags. It's up to you.' She now stripped the
partition of the clothes, threw them on the bed, and
then went and lifted the lid off the case, only to find
that it, too, was full of clothes, both the woman's and
the child's. She groped under the clothes, thinking
there might be anything else, probably a small box
of some kind, and recognized the feel of leather.
When she took out the leather writing case, the
child turned and cried, 'That's Mama's! She keeps
her letters in there.'
'Oh aye!' Aggie retorted, while thinking, that
should be interesting. And then she said, 'Look,
there's no way I can get this case and that bass
hamper up them steps, full as they are, I'll have to tie the stuff in bundles an' put them on the cart. I'll
hand them up to you from the bottom of the steps,
and you stay by the cart.'
During the next half hour they worked in this way,
and when the empty cases and the bed covers were at
last placed on the cart, Aggie locked the door, then
hesitated for a moment, wondering what to do with
the key. Her rent would have certainly been paid in
advance and the rent man, whoever he was, would
likely be the only one who would come down here,
except of course the child's uncles, and they must
have been hard put to it to resort to this hole. Aye,
but, of course, there was the bed, and the woman.
But what did this child do while it was going on?
Likely what hundreds of others had to do: wonder,
and think, and stick their fingers in their ears; some,
on the other hand, might even ask themselves how
long it would be before they could try it. But this
child was so different, and so bonny. Oh, for God's
sake! get on with it, woman. With a final gesture
she put the key on the sill of the narrow window
and pulled herself up the stone steps.
After unlocking the cart from the gatepost, they
were off, the child now walking between Aggie's
outstretched arms and adding her small strength to
the pushing.

'What d'you make of it all?' Aggie looked at Ben,
who shook his head, saying, 'Beats me. Those are
all good clothes. Best quality; some of the woman's
bits are real high-class stuff, I would say.'
'So would I. But about these letters. They tell you
something, and yet they tell you nothing. This Mrs
Melburn, the parson's wife.., she seems a motherly
figure, in a way, but that bit' - she pointed to the
page of a letter that was on the table - 'that bit tells
you why they came this way.' She picked up the page
and read aloud:
'I'm sorry at the disappointment you found that
your friend had left the town without leaving a
forwarding address. I can understand how upset
you were after expecting to make your home with
her. Human nature is very odd. Perhaps it was her
husband's doing.'

Aggie lifted her head and looked at Ben, saying,
'Reading between the lines, the husband of this
friend, whoever she was, wasn't going to allow his
wife to get mixed up in something. What d'you
think?'
'It reads like that.'
'Then this other one.' She picked up another letter,
and again read aloud:

'I think of you often and of the happy times we
had at The Hall, and they were happy times. We
never thought then that there was such a thing as
tragedy in life and such falseness.

'Then this last one. Just a few lines on this page:

'I am distressed for you, my dear. You must come
back. Don't do anything silly or anything you
would be ashamed of. It isn't like you. Do come
back. People forget. They have short memories.
John is with me in this.
My love to you in friendship. Yours Jessie.

'Again I ask, what d'you make of that? I think it
must be as I said: either she'd done something or
her man had done something. That's as far as I can
think. Except that it's more likely the man, because,
you know, the child talked about him dying, but
in a funny way, as if dying was another name for
something else. Well, I don't suppose we'll ever know
the real ins and outs of it. But I've got a good idea
about one thing: that little miss upstairs knows more
than she lets on. That look that comes over her face
when you start probing. Like this afternoon, when
I said to her, "There's no letters from your father
in here. Didn't he ever write to your mother at
some time or other?" and she said, "I ... I don't
know." But there's something she does know and
she's keepin' it to herself. She had another cryin'
bout, too, when I took her upstairs.'
'If the authorities find out that her mother's
walking the sidelines,' Ben said, 'there'll be no
chance she'll get her back. Would you then sign a
paper for her?'
Aggie gathered up the letters from the table, returned
them to the writing case, then rose heavily,
saying, 'Time enough to think about that. See what
happens in the meantime. But I think I'll write to that
parson's wife and see what she has to say about it.'
The meantime came to an end three days later.
The weather had changed. It had been pouring
with rain all day, and half the yard was a quagmire.
The lanes, courts, streets, and roads were the same.
It was Aggie's day to visit the outskirts, but as she looked out of the window on to the patch of grass that was welcoming the steady downpour, she said, half to herself, 'It's a good job I'm not forced to go out,' and a voice in her mind added,
'You need never go again if you don't want to.' And she answered it: 'Then what would I do with meself?
Sit and listen to Madam Correctness for the rest of
me days? Oh no!'
She turned and looked towards the child, who was sitting hugging a doll. It had a china head, a
stuffed cloth body, and wooden legs. But the legs were cleverly jointed at the knees and the ankles, and
the whole was prettily dressed. They had found the
doll in the bass hamper where, Millie had informed
her, it slept when they were out of the house. She had been foolish enough to ask if it had a name.
And when told it was Victoria after the Queen and
that the Queen was a wonderful lady, and her Prince
was wonderful, too, she'd had to bite her tongue to
prevent herself from saying, 'Aye, she's a wonderful
lady all right, she's still for bairns your size working
twelve hours a day. And she with a squad of her own.
Don't talk to me about the wonderful Victoria.'
As she looked at Millie rocking herself slightly
78

thought, If I were to tell her her mother has died,
she would likely think it was the same way as her
father had, whichever way that was, which wasn't
real dead. So what am I to do?
Her answer came at seven o'clock that evening.
She heard Ben come into the market-room, but
when the kitchen door did not immediately open,
she went over to it and saw him throwing off a
wet sack that he had been wearing over his head
and shoulders like a cape. And when he bent to take
off his boots, she said, 'You're wringin'.'
'What d'you expect?' he said, without looking at
her. 'D'you think I walk between the drops?'
'Take off your pants.'
The pants can stay where they are ... Is she
upstairs?'
'No. Come right in and close the door.'
Inside the room he wiped his face and neck with a
piece of old towelling. Then he said, 'The decision's
been made for you.'
'What d'you mean?'
'She hung herself.'
He straightened up, and they stood looking at
each other. Then Aggie turned and looked around
her before making her way to an upturned box,
saying, 'Oh, dear God! No!'
'It's the best way, I think.'
'Oh, shut up! How did it happen?'
'By puttin' a rope round her neck.'
'By God! If you joke about this I'll put a rope
round your neck.'
'I wasn't meanin' to joke, Aggie. It just comes out
with me. You know it does. I'm sorry... I'm sorry
for the lass: she's past feeling anything now. And it
wasn't the rope, it was a pair of fancy stockin's that
they dish out, so I was told.'
'When did it happen?'
'Last night. And I'll tell you something more: it
would have been hidden up, as many another's been,
an' she would have been dumped somewhere, or
found in the canal, but one of the lasses that found
her had a screaming fit and ran out into the street,
went barmy, they said, yelling, "She's hung herself!
She's hung herself!' Well, the polis was brought,
naturally, and they took the body away to the workhouse
mortuary. And you know what happens from
there, she'll be dumped in a common grave: there'll
be no pious words said over her, her being a suicide.
But the other thing. Apparently, when the polis went
back this morning he found the house empty, bare,
absolutely stripped, and Slim Boswell and the lasses
gone, and every stick of furniture just vanished, the
lot. It's happened before, the midnight flits. But that
was a biggish house, ten rooms or more, so I heard.
Slim'll surface again, though, never fear. You see, he
knew if they had taken him in and it was proved he
had been using her, or, as a little bird told me, he had
got her ready for shipment, they would have surely
sent him along the line this time, and stripped the
house of all his fine pieces. And that's another thing
I heard: it wasn't only bairns and young lasses he
collected, but furniture and foreign crockery, mostly
from China, they say. Oh, he had taste in his own
way. But my God! When I think what that lass must
have gone through before doin' that, I could spew.'
And then he added, 'I was talking to one of Big Joe's
bouncers and it was his opinion that she got wind
of what was to happen, before they had time to give
her a dose, likely. He seemed pleased that Slim had
disappeared from the district 'cos Big Joe was never
for tradin' in bairns. Huh!' He tossed his head. 'You
wouldn't believe it, Aggie, but he talked as if Big Joe,
being above that kind of thing, could be classed as a
caring, honest man. People are funny, aren't they?'
She looked up at him, saying, 'That's enough
for now. You talk as much as she does.' Then
added, with a little concern, 'Go inside and get
yourself warmed.'
'I'm not cold, not now. Anyway, you'll keep her
if you can, won't you?'
She paused and allowed her gaze to wander round
the room before she said, 'I hate the authorities and
their bits of paper.'
'Well, far better that. And do it now rather than
them pounce on you later and accuse you of hidin'
her. I'm sure your friend will put a good word in for
you,' which brought from her the sharp retort: 'Yes,
he will! There's good and bad in every quarter, and
he's a good bobby. He's been kind to me.'
'Oh, you've repaid him: you've opened his eyes to
things that've been under his nose, and he couldn't
see the wood for the trees. Oh, you've repaid him.'
'Huh,' she said, and then smiled faintly as she said,
'odd, you know: you tell me that Annie's a good
woman, and I suppose she is, but I can't stand the
sight of her; then I tell you the constable's a good
man, and you know he is, and you can't stand the
sight of him. Funny, isn't it?'
'Aye, Aggie, it's funny.' And he was about to add,
'But you know as well as I do there's a reason in both
cases,' but instead, he said, 'Well! well! Now I'll go
and join the new permanent member of the family. I suppose I can look upon her as a younger sister?'
'That you can't, because I'm mother to neither of
you.'
He had been about to open the door into the
kitchen, but now he turned and looked at her, and
his next words cut her to the bone as they were apt
to do when they spat the truth at her. 'And for that
you're to be pitied, Aggie.'
PART TWO

The Nursemaid

ONE

Millie stood by the pony's head, stroking its muzzle
while she talked to it, saying, 'Don't worry, you'll
soon be home, laddie, then you'll have your tea. I
could do with my tea an' all.'
Two years ago she would not have said 'an' all',
but, 'too'. However, many things had happened
during the two years since she had been told that her
mother had died of the fever and that, prior to this,
she had not been allowed to see her in case she should
catch it and spread it further. And it wasn't until she
had knelt by the heap of earth that signified her
mother's unconsecrated grave that she had stopped
crying. It was as if she had accepted the fact that her
mother had gone out of her life and that her future
lay with this big fat woman, who alternately yelled
and cajoled, and the nice man called Ben.
She had been content to stay in the house all day
and to try to clean it; but Mrs Aggie had told her she
must go to school, at least for part of the day. They
both told her that. And so she went out to school
every morning, not to the threepenny one run by the
Council, nor to the Church of England, but to the
penny school run by the Methodists.
At first she had complained to Aggie, saying they
were stupid because they taught nothing but the
abc and counting, and that most of the time was
spent singing hymns and listening to stories from
the Bible. She remembered, too, how surprised she
had been when Ben had said, 'Well, you can go to
the Ragged School and see if you like it there. There's
one thing sure, you won't have much time to grumble
because you'll be taken up with scratchin' yourself.
And that beautiful hair of yours will walk off your
scalp with dickies.'
Yes indeed, she knew now if she had ever gone
to the Ragged School that's what would have happened.
She always felt sorry for the children at the
Ragged School and there seemed to be hundreds and
hundreds of them. Another funny thing she had had
to have explained to her was why some grownups
would go to the Ragged School at night time.
Oh, she knew she had learned a great deal during
the last two years; she also knew that a good part of
herself was happy, mostly, she thought, because she
had come to like Mrs Aggie and living in her house.
Of course, she still shouted at her and still grumbled. But she, too, seemed to be learning. She had heard
Ben tell her it was about time, too, but almost too
late; that was when she had stopped pushing the
hand-cart and bought Laddie and the flat-cart.
What was more, she'd also got a cover for the
couch and some rugs for the hall and a stair-carpet.
As for the yard, it had become almost clean over the
last two years; it was all paved now. And Ben had painted the front of the house, and the barn doors
and such; and the market-room had been moved
into the barn itself, and that room had been painted,
and papered, and odd pieces of furniture put in. She
smiled as she recalled that Mrs Aggie had sworn a
lot whilst that was being done. But that, too, was
the time when Mrs Aggie struck her so hard that
she had fallen on her back, and all because she had
called Mrs Nelson 'a bloody cow'. Well, that was
Mrs Aggie's other name for Mrs Nelson. Anyway,
Mrs Aggie had been very sorry she had struck her
and she had taken her into the town and bought her
a real new bonnet, although she would allow her to
wear it only on a Sunday. During the week, whenever
they were out, she insisted that she roll her hair up
and put it under the cap. She liked wearing the cap;
it made her feel different, as did the long grey coat
that went down to the top of her boots, because then
she did not feel like Millie Forester, whose mother
and father were dead and had no-one belonging to
her, except the fat woman and the man with short
legs, but more like a princess who, every now and
again, donned strange clothes and went out among
the common people, and was kind to them, and yet
always remained a princess under the disguise.
It was during the night that she would conjure
up this picture of herself; in the daytime she was
practical. That Mrs Aggie no longer went ragging
in The Courts, but, instead, encouraged the children
to bring what rags they had to the yard, there to
receive their candy rock, and also the women to
come on a Saturday morning to the barn and
buy what they wanted, she knew was very wise.
She also felt somewhat pleased, feeling that it was
better for Mrs Aggie to concentrate her collecting
efforts in the nicer part of the town. Ben called it
breaking new ground; she herself would have put it
'widening her scope'.
She had read the words, widen your scope, in a
phrase book. She liked it. But she recalled it was
to do with God. All the books that people read
were to do with God. Everybody seemed to be
praying; except, of course, the children who went to the Ragged School and those who flooded The Courts at the back of the house and round about

that everybody prayed, because Mrs Aggie didn't
pray, nor did Ben, nor his Annie. She liked his Annie, but Mrs Aggie didn't. She wondered why.
Perhaps it was because Annie was thin and not
very pretty. But, then, she was nice to talk to,
and she was jolly. The last time Ben had taken her there - on the quiet; it was to be a secret Annie
had done the clog dance to Ben's playing
his tin whistle.
That was another thing that gave her pleasure; to
listen to Ben playing his whistle. He could make it
sad or gay, or even funny. Ben liked Annie, and
Annie liked Ben. But she was older than him. In
fact, she was very old; she was twenty-four years
old and she worked in the mill and earned eight
shillings a week.
She herself earned a wage. Mrs Aggie gave her
a shilling a week, because, as she said, she was
her assistant; for there must be someone to hold
the horse and look after the cart and see that the
children didn't nick.., steal the clothes off it.
Mrs Aggie was now paying a visit to one of her
good houses. She called it a good house, because
the maid always kept things for her. Mrs Aggie
would give her anything up to a shilling for them.
Generally, they were the cast-offs of two children in
the house who happened to be about her own age,
and this could mean a pretty flock coming her way,
but only if, Mrs Aggie said, she kept her nose clean.
That was a funny saying, wasn't it? because her nose was always clean.
She now turned from the pony and looked towards
the side gate separated from the front gate by a hedge
of trees. All the houses along this road had two gates.
From where she was standing she couldn't see the
house, but she knew it was big, red-bricked and
square. They were all big, red-bricked and square
along this road.
It would be very nice, she told herself, to have a
house red-bricked and square with two entrances.
Perhaps one day she might live in a house like this.
Perhaps, in the years to come, she would get Mrs
Aggie to move, but that would only be when she
was too old to take the cart out.
A snort from the pony interrupted her daydreaming;
and immediately her slight body stiffened:
walking quickly down the road towards her
was a man, and even over the distance she knew he
was smiling at her.
She almost jumped forward and darted towards
the side entrance, dashed through the gate, up the
shrub-bordered path and into the yard where, at a
far door, Aggie was standing in the act of handing something to the maid And they both turned startled
faces and looked at her, as she cried, 'The man! Mrs
Aggie. The man! He's... he's in the road.'
Bending and whipping up the wicker basket full
of odd garments, Aggie nodded hastily towards
the girl, saying, 'Ta, lass. Ta.' Then as fast as
her legs would carry her, she shambled down the
path towards the gate. Outside, she looked up and
down the road; then turning to Millie, she said,
'There's nobody here now.'
'He was, Mrs Aggie, he was. And ... and it
was the same man who ... who took off my
cap that. day when he was with the lady, and
before that, asking if ... if I'd like to see the fair
on the green.'
'Get up.' Aggie pointed to the seat at the front of
the cart, and immediately Millie had done so, she
gripped the iron frame of the seat, heaved herself
on to the first step, then, almost with a lunge, on to
the seat; but this time she didn't say, as she usually
did, 'I'm past this; I'll sit on the back in future and
you'll take him,' but she jerked the reins and put the
pony into a trot.
Twenty minutes later, she was driving into the
yard. Neither she nor Millie exchanged a word during the journey, evidence of the seriousness of
the situation felt by them both.
Ben was there to help her down, and once on the
ground, she said, 'I want to see you inside.'
'Oh?' He turned an enquiring gaze upon her as she
marched towards the house, but before following her
he held out his hands to Millie as she went to jump
off the last step, saying now in a low tone, 'It looks
a good enough day' -he pointed to the back of the
cart- 'what's up?'
She had her head down as she said, 'That man,
the one who frightened me. He was on the road.
He was smiling, and I ran to the house and told
Mrs Aggie.'
Even before she was finished speaking he was
walking quickly from her towards the house.
Aggie had taken her hat and coat off and had
dropped on to the settle, and as he entered the room
she said immediately, 'Somethin' will have to be... '
but paused as Millie came in on Ben's heels, and she
nodded towards her saying, 'Go and take your things
off and set the tray.'
Millie was about to speak, but Aggie barked, 'Go
on! Do as you're told for once, without opening
your mouth.'
After Millie had flounced away to do her bidding,
Aggie said, 'She came in that yard as white as a
sheet. She senses what he's after: she can't exactly
explain it, but she knows that he could take her
away. Something's got to be done. I can't keep a
stronger tag on her than I do now, almost night and
day. I hadn't left the cart more than five minutes.
Oh! no, not that.' She shook her head. 'The lass had
apparently got the bundle ready for me. A nice lot
of stuff: a whole man's outfit an' all, the granddad
had died; an' there was bairns' clothes. I gave her
half a dollar this time. She was pleased an' all. But
before she could say a word that 'un came rushin'
in.' She sighed deeply before ending, 'What's to be
done, Ben?'
He was standing before her, one arm extended,
the hand gripping the mantelpiece, and he said, 'You
can't keep her here much longer. I've told you that
before. He or one of his bloody cronies will pick her
up. I don't know how he found out that she belonged
to that lass, but find out he has. God help her! She
seems to be suitable material for what he wants: her
father a murderer and her mother a prostitute.'
'The parson's wife's letter didn't actually say he
was a murderer. A man had died through him, that's
what she said.'
'Well, you don't get twelve years for a busted jaw
or a black eye. I thought it odd when you wrote and
asked her how it had come about an' you got no
answer. And d'you remember what else you put in
the letter? You asked her if she would like to have
the bairn, her being a minister's wife. But no; their
Christianity wasn't goin' to go that far.'
'Blast her to hell's flames!' And with this interjection
Aggie now beat her closed fist against the end
of the settle as she added angrily, 'If she had acted
like the friend that she was supposed to be to the mother I wouldn't be faced with this lot tonight.'
'You could send her away to a school.'
'How could you be sure that he wouldn't pick her
up from there? He could dress up one of his ladies
to look respectable an' make a call.'
'He wouldn't know where you put her. Anyway,
if it was some place like where those sisters are.'
Aggie was on her feet now. 'Nuns? No. I'm
surprised at your suggestin' them.'
'I thought it would have appealed to you, being' as
your friend Fenwick's one of their ilk.'
'He's not one of their ilk, not in that way; he's
respectable, an' there are respectable ones.'
'He's a Catholic, nevertheless. And it surprises me
that they took him into the Force, 'cos he's made
no secret of it an' you know yourself how they're
thought about.'
'Aye, I do, by the Protestants, the Baptists, the
Methodists, the Temperance-ites, an' every other
bloody one of the ranters. But I didn't think you
were among them.'
'Oh, me? You know me, I run with the hare an'
hunt with the hounds: I'd suck up to the devil himself
for a penny.'
'Oh, shut your mouth an' talk serious about what
we're goin' to do.'
'Well, I'll talk serious. You've got to get her away
from here if you don't want her to end up where her
mother was; an' the best place, as I see it, is a closed
school, an' there's not a closer one, I should imagine,
than the one under them sisters. Now don't let your
hair rise. You asked me advice an' I'm givin' it to
you. I get around, as you know; I've seen all the
schools, right from the ragged one, the penny, the
tuppence, the threepence, right up to the fourpence
a week one. I've seen the type of bairns that go
in and out of them. And I'll tell you something
else. I've heard mothers enquiring why their little
daughter hasn't come home. Even little boys have
gone missing. There's a racket goin' on, Aggie; but
you know as well as me it's been goin' on for years.
Probably always has done. But the middle class an'
the upper lot don't seem to recognise it goes on, not
until lately anyway, when one or two ladies seem to
be trying to get somethin' done about it. As far as I
understand from the gossip there's nothing'll come
out of it by goin' to the polis; it's got to come from
Parliament. They've got to make a law, like, an' them
that break it... well' - he drew in his breath noisily 'I
would like to see them swing.' He turned abruptly
away now, saying, 'Take my advice, Aggie, get her into a closed school.'
'What closed school?'
Millie had come into the room carrying a tin
tray, and as she put it down on the table, she
looked from one to the other and said, 'What are
you talkin' about, closed schools? Is the school
going to close?'
In answer, Aggie did not bawl at her but said
quietly, 'Come here, love. Sit down there.' She
pointed to the couch, and when Millie was seated
she lowered herself down beside her and, taking her hand, said, 'You're frightened of that man,
aren't you?'
Millie bowed her head and said, 'Yes. Yes, I am.'
'Why?'
'Why?' She was looking up into Aggie's face now.
'Well,' She thought for a moment. 'I ... I didn't
like his face and.., and the way he got hold of my
arm that first time,' she said. 'And then, when he
brought the lady.., no, she wasn't a lady, she was
just a woman, and her voice was common and she
called me duckie and ... and I said to them, "I'm
going to scream." And when there were two men
passing he let go of me and I ran. I ... I--' She
turned to Ben now, saying, 'I don't know why I was
afraid, they just made me afraid. They weren't like . .. well, ordinary people. I don't know.' She shook
her head. 'I just didn't like them, nor him. His face
was nasty, and he kept smiling.'
'Well, love, you're nine years old, coming on ten
quick, an' you've got a head on your shoulders, so,
I'm goin' to talk to you straight. He's a bad man.
A very bad man. And I'll tell you somethin' else:
your mother wouldn't have died if it hadn't been
for that man.'
'But ... but Mama died of a fever, you said she
did.'
'Yes, it was caused by that man.'
'How? How can a man cause a fever?'
'It's hard to explain. But... but when you're a bit
older I'll... I'll tell you how. In the meantime, tell
me, has.., has he ever said anything to you except
askin' you if you would like to go to the fair?'
'No; but the woman said she would show me
some pretty dresses, new ones, not--' She looked
downwards now before she said, 'Smelly stuff off
the cart.'
There was silence for a moment, and then Millie
lifted her head as she said, 'He ... he called me a
funny name. I... I didn't tell you before because it
was about the rags.'
'What did he call you then to do with the rags?'
'Rag Niff. That's what I thought it was at first but
when he said it the next time it sounded different,
it was nymph, rag nymph, that's what he called me.
"Hello, Rag Nymph," he said.'
'Nymph?' Aggie was looking at Ben, and he
looked questioningly at Millie as she said, 'A nymph
is a kind of fairy, I think. I've read about them in one
of my stories. They live in woods and dance round
toadstools.'
The almost simultaneous intaking of breath by
both Ben and Aggie was audible; then, again taking
Millie's hand, Aggie said, 'Listen carefully, child.
That man is bent on takin' you away from us. He is
an evil man, bad, very bad. Now neither Ben there,
nor me, can watch you every moment of the day.
You go to school. Ben takes you there and he brings
you back, but there are the in-between times, and
evil men are clever. And then there's the time with
the cart when you stand, like this mornin', lookin'
after it and the pony. Well, you know, if you hadn't
been quick and run into me he could have caught up with you. And what then? Now, I want the best for
you, the best that I can give you, because in a way
you belong to me now, and Ben there.' She put her
hand out towards him. 'And we both.., well--' She
could not bring herself to say 'love you', but instead
said, 'care what happens to you. So, we think for a
little while ahead you should go to a school where
you'll be looked after; I mean, where you can sleep,
and where he won't get at you.'
'I ... Oh! Mrs Aggie, I don't want to go to a
school where I won't be able to get out and come
home. Why can't you tell the police about him?'
Aggie looked helplessly at Ben and he, moving
forward and dropping on to his hunkers, brought
his face level with Millie's as he said, 'He ... he
hasn't done anything yet. He hasn't run off with
you. There's what you call no case against him, not
at present, anyway. Aggie's friend knows about him,
but, as he said, they can't pin anything on to him;
they've been tryin' for a long time. But he's got to
be caught in the act. You understand?'
'Yes' - she nodded at him - 'I understand. Oh
... oh, Ben, I ... I don't want to leave, I mean'
- there was a break in her voice now - 'I don't
want to go away. I ... I love it here; and ...
and I keep everything clean, don't I?' She turned
towards Aggie, who had to turn away and look
towards the fireplace.
It was Ben who answered for her, saying, 'Aggie
knows that. You've got the place like a little palace,
or a big palace.' He grinned now. 'It's never been
so clean in its life. You're a marvellous worker;
and what's more, you make the best currant buns
I've ever tasted. Oh, love.' He now put out a hand
and stroked her cheek. 'I'll miss you; we'll all miss
you. But you see, you'll come home for the holidays,
Easter and Christmas; and they have holidays in the
summer an' all, don't they, Aggie?'
Aggie mumbled something in her throat; then,
hastily pulling herself up from the couch, she said,
'Well, now we all know where we stand, so let's eat.
I've never had a bite since mornin',' which made Ben
exclaim on a laugh, 'I can't believe that. Never! Can
you?' He looked down on the bent head, but there
was no response from Millie. And now he put his
hand on her hair and stroked it, saying, 'It'll be all
right. You'll see, it'll be all right. And you'll be what
they call educated. Oh aye, and you'll come home
and you'll cock a snoot at us.'
'I never will. I never will.' The tear-stained face
was turned up towards him now. 'I'll never turn my
nose up at you, and never at Mrs Aggie. Never!'
'No, I know you won't, me dear. That's one thing
I'm sure of. But come on, set the table. Here's
another one that's as hungry as a hunter. We'll leave
the tea till after, to wash the chitterlings down. I love
chitterlings, don't you?'
'Not very much.'
'Go on with you! Go on! the dish is in the pantry.
Go and bring it.'
He let her leave the room before going across to
Aggie, who was standing now looking down into the fire, and he patted the back of her shoulder,
saying, 'You're doin' the best thing, Aggie, the only
thing. That kind of education will take her back
likely to what she was; I mean, what she could
have been. 'Cos you know somethin'?' He bent
his head forward and whispered now, 'She hasn't
got past the "bloody old cow stage" completely.
The other day I heard her come out with a bloody.
When Laddie kicked over a bucket of: mash, she said,
"You bloody silly donkey." '
Aggie turned quickly towards him now, saying,
'She didn't!'
'She did.'
'Well' - she straightened her broad shoulders 'perhaps
everything's turning out for the best then.
Let's pray to God it is, anyway.'
'Oh Aggie, that's a daft thing to say. As if He'd
have any time for us with the mob of Holy Joes He's
got to see to. You might as well hope to get manure
from a rockin' horse's backside as help from Him.'
Her hand came out and she thrust him backwards
on to the settle.
And that's how Millie saw them when she entered
the kitchen again, carrying the plate of chitterlings:
the two people she cared for most, and who were
about to lose her, laughing their heads off.
The queer feeling came over her, that choking
feeling in her throat which she experienced in the
night, when she was lying awake trying to recall
and piece together dim, fleeting memories of another
time in which she had lived, when things had been
both happy and sad, when angry broken sentences
would not meet and so explain the odd pictures that
formed in her mind. It was then that the lump in
her throat would break and spill the tears from her
eyes and cause her to make choking sounds which
she did not try to prevent, knowing they would not
penetrate Mrs Aggie's deep snoring.
But the sound she now made in her throat brought
both Aggie and Ben's eyes on her, and as she
turned and fled from the room and Ben made
to go after her, Aggie's voice halted him, saying
firmly, 'Leave her be! She'll cry over more than that
before she's finished.'

TWO


The House of Christ the Saviour was situated in
the better-class district of Benton Fields. Aggie had
passed the grounds many times and noticed that the
stone wall was topped with broken glass and that
there was a double wooden gate with an iron bell
pull attached to its side. She'd had no idea what the
house looked like, until she was going through that
wooden gate when, holding Millie by the hand, she
espied it in the distance.
The nun who admitted them appeared to be
covered from head to foot apart from her eyes,
nose, and mouth, for after she had bolted the gate
behind them she tucked her bare hands into her
sleeves, then led the way up a gravel path, on either
side of which a lawn extended as far as a further high,
stone wall, its top also embedded with glass. Judging
by the front of it, the house was quite large, for it
showed three windows each side of the front door,
the same above them, and a row of small windows
jutting out from the roof.
Without a word, the nun ushered them through
the broad, thick oak door and into a tiled hall, there
to be confronted by a statue of the Virgin Mary with
the Child in her arms, and above her, on the wall, a
large crucifix hanging at such an angle it appeared
that Christ's bent head was viewing Himself as a
child in His mother's arms.
There were numerous doors leading from the hall,
and the nun approached one, knocked, and when
bidden to enter, she thrust open the door, stood
aside and proclaimed in a low voice scarcely above
a whisper, 'Mrs Winkowski, Reverend Mother.'
It was so seldom that Aggie heard herself addressed
by her surname that she turned and looked at the
nun, but the woman's eyelids were lowered as if
in shame; then she inclined her head towards the
woman sitting behind the desk before turning and
closing the door quietly behind her.
'Sit down, Mrs Winkowski.'
Aggie recalled that Constable Fenwick had said
that the Mother Superior, as she was called, was a
bit of a foreigner, half French, he imagined, but a
nice woman for all that, and very holy.
Aggie sat down on the wooden chair and drew
Millie close to her side as the woman at the far
side of the desk smiled gently at her, saying, 'I
am very pleased to meet you, Mrs Winkowski.
I understand you wish to put your ward in the
care of the house.' She did not say, in my care,
but added, 'Which will be in God's care, too. How
old is she?' She looked down at the sheet of paper
on her desk. 'Ah yes; you are ten years old, Millie,
aren't you?'
'Yes; I am ten years old, but only lately.'
The tone of the voice seemed to surprise the
Mother Superior just the slightest, and she said,
'You have a clear speaking voice, child. That is
good; you will be open to education. Which school
did you attend? Was it the Church of England Sunday
School?'
'Yes, partly.' Millie nodded towards the woman.
'But that was only on a Sunday. Mrs Aggie' - she
turned and glanced at Aggie - 'paid for me to go to
the penny school.'
'Oh, was that the Wesleyan or Methodist? It
wasn't a Catholic school, was it?'
'No, ma'am; it wasn't a Catholic school, it was
the Methodist.'
'Oh, yes, yes.' The Mother Superior was now
addressing Aggie. 'So she knows nothing whatever
about religion?'
'Well, I wouldn't say that, ma'am. The Methodists
preach religion and so does the Church of England.'
'Yes. Yes, of course; but I mean the Catholic
religion.'
'No, nothing. Why should she? I mean, how
could she? She wasn't brought up a Catholic to
my knowledge.'
'You, I understand, have been her guardian for
two years?'
'Yes, that's right.'
'And I'm sure you found her a very biddable little
girl?' She now turned her smile on Millie, but she
received no answering smile, only a stare from what
she thought were those very odd grey eyes. A very
odd-looking child altogether. Too beautiful for her
own good. Oh, yes, from what Father Dolan had said
and through information he had got from Constable
Fenwick, much too beautiful for her own good. Well,
she would have protection here. No sin would reach
her in this house. And her next words went on to
express this when she said to Aggie, 'Well, you can
rest easy, Mrs Winkowski, your ward will be well
looked after. You need have no fear that she will
come in contact with any intruders. And I think you
will agree it will be to the best advantage of all if the
holidays were curtailed. You yourself may come and
visit her for an hour once a month. Don't you think
this is a wise plan?'
She was talking now as if the child were not
present, but the child was present, and she spoke
up: 'An hour a month? Oh, that's awful. And you
promised there would be holidays.' She was looking
at Aggie now, and Aggie said, 'Well, there will be
holidays, dear, there will be holidays;' then turning
to the Mother Superior, added firmly, 'she'll have
to come on a holiday three times a year, otherwise
it's no go.'
'Oh well, it's your responsibility, Mrs Winkowski,
when she's out of our care. The only thing is, I want
to reassure you that she will be perfectly safe here.
And of course she will be mixing with a very good
class of pupil.'
'I understand that all right.' Aggie's tone was
aggressive now. 'But understand, from my side,
that I'd like to see her once a fortnight, if it's just for an hour, and that whatever holidays the
other bairns have, she's got to have the same. Is
that understood?'
There was a long pause before the Mother Superior
said, 'Yes, if that's how you wish it, Mrs Winkowski.'
'Yes, ma'am, that's how I wish it, because it'll
be me that'll be payin' the fees, won't it? Ten
and six a week is a deal of money, indeed it is,
don't you think?'
Mother Francis stared at the enormously fat and
none too clean woman. This is what came of dealing
with the common herd. It was hard to remember that
God had made them, too, and that He begged for
leniency for them. Inwardly praying that she might
be able to show her piety and understanding, she
said, 'Yes, I'm sure it must mean a lot to you. But,
you know, real education never comes cheaply. And
then the child has to be fostered, fed, and provided
with a school habit and hood, besides night attire.
Did you ever go to school, Mrs Winkowski?' God
hadn't fully maintained His help to keep condescension
from her tone or to prepare her for the answer
when it came: 'Yes, I went to school, ma'am. I started
at the early age of five, and I was taught until I was
ten, and all day at that. And from then on I read.
I could repeat the catechism for you from beginnin'
to end, and chunks of the Bible. But perhaps I've
been misinformed, like, for I understand you don't
read the Bible.'
'Yes, I'm afraid you have been misinformed, at
least in some parts, Mrs Winkowski.' The tone was
stiff now. 'Those who can understand the Bible are
allowed to read it, but there are passages that could
be misinterpreted by the unintelligent or those of
simple understanding.'
'Oh, aye; it's not good to let people know about
human nature, is it? And that the so-called Holy men
were not above... '
The Mother Superior didn't need to check Aggie's
flow, she did it herself, saying, 'Well, this one here' - she now thumbed towards Millie - 'I'd like to
bet she's read the Bible from beginnin' to end, an'
many other books besides. We get all kinds thrown
into our yard, you know.' Then she couldn't help
but add, 'It's amazing how educated some of the
ignorant people are. Surprising. Surprising.'
The Mother Superior knew it was time to end this
interview, so now she stood up, saying, 'Well, Mrs
Winkowski, I'm sure you can leave your charge with
us with an easy mind. And I shall look forward to
giving you a good report when you next visit us
in a' - she paused - 'fortnight's time. Say three
o'clock in the afternoon a fortnight today. Will
that suit you?'
Aggie, too, was on her feet and her voice was
much lower now as she said, 'Aye, it'll suit me.' Then
turning to Millie, whose expression almost broke her
down and gave her the urge to take her by the hand
and run from this place, only her good sense stopped
her; and bending down, she put her arms around the
child and when she felt the tightness of the embrace
and the pressure of the thin body against her belly, it was only with an effort she stopped the tears from
flowing. But they were in her voice as she whispered
down to her, 'It'll be all right. It'll be all right. And ... and if you don't like it, we'll think of something
else. You've just got to tell me. D'you hear? You've
just got to tell me.'
When the arms reached up and her head bent to
the face, for the first time she kissed and was kissed.
It was too much. Almost thrusting the child away,
she turned and stamped from the room, banging the
door behind her; and, had not the Mother Superior
moved quickly round the table and caught Millie's
hand, the child would have followed her.
'Come, my dear, it will be all right. Sit down. She's
upset; and I suppose naturally, she seems very fond
of you. Were you fond of her?'
'Fond?' Millie's lids were blinking, and her lips
were licking up the salt tears as she brought out, 'I
... I love her. And Ben.'
'Ben? Who is Ben?'
'He is the man who works there, lives with her.
She... she took him in when he was a little boy.'
'Oh, she's a good soul.'
'She's lovely.'
Lovely? That half-washed, great hulk of a woman?
Maybe she was quite intelligent; but she was no
more so than were quite a number of the poor she
already knew. Yet, what was she thinking, poor?
when she could apparently afford to pay the fees
for this child. Obviously there was money in rags.
But she had to admit that this child was of a different
type altogether: her voice, her manner suggested a
refined type of background. She'd have to find out
more about her. The only thing Father Dolan had
been able to tell her was that her mother had died of
a fever soon after arriving in the town; he himself had
learned this from the constable. Apparently there
were no relatives, the father, too, being dead.
Again she rang the bell, impatiently this time, and
the nun who appeared was contrite, saying, 'I'm
sorry, Reverend Mother; I ... I had to show her
out. She was agitated; she was walking across the
lawn instead of to the gate.'
'It's all right. It's all right, Sister Aloysius. What
is your class doing?'
'I left them sewing, Reverend Mother.'
'Well, we have a new member of our family. Her
name is Millie Forester. Isn't that right?' She was
looking down on Millie now, and Millie answered,
'Yes, that is my name... Millie Forester.' And the
tone of the voice seemed to surprise Sister Aloysius
as much as it had done the Mother Superior. And
the sister was further surprised when, holding out
a hand to Millie, it was not taken, but, instead,
the child began to walk out before her, only to
be brought to a stop by the nun saying, 'You
must always ask Mother Superior if you may leave
her presence. You say, "May I go now, Mother
Superior?"'
'Why? She... she knew I was leaving the room.'
The nun and her superior exchanged glances;
then Mother Francis, with a small inclination of her head, gave the nun leave to take this very
awkward child away.
If the Mother Superior and the nun were thinking
the child was odd, it was nothing to what Millie
was thinking about them and her introduction to
the school and its inmates.
THREE


Everything that happened to Millie during that
first week in the House of Christ the Saviour she
objected to. She discovered there were seventeen
pupils, ranging in age from six to twelve, and that
they were housed in two so-called dormitories,
which were divided by panels into cubicles, each
being about twice the area of its narrow iron bed, just enough to hold a chest of drawers and leaving
standing space in which to undress. There was no
chair. And that first night she experienced how one
undressed for bed and how one was expected to
lie. Sister Mary saw to that. Having been told to
strip off her clothes, even her shift, without looking
at her body, and don a long, unbleached, calico
nightdress, she was then told how she must lie in bed, straight down, her hands by her sides. And
when she protested she never lay like that and had
proceeded to demonstrate how she did lie, crossing
her legs and pulling her knees up, she had let out
a high squeal when the side of Sister Mary's hard
hand came across her knees in a whacking thump.
For a moment she had lain stunned, then had vowed
to herself she would be out and away by the next morning. It didn't matter about that evil man with
the smiling face; she would go to the police herself
and tell them what he meant to do.
She knew she wouldn't sleep; moreover, she was
hungry. That had been an awful tea they'd had at
five o'clock; two slices of bread and fat, a slab of
hard cake and a bowl of milk; then nothing else,
only a drink of water, if they wanted one, before
they came to bed, and it only half-past seven. And
then there was that chapel and the kneeling. No,
she couldn't stand it; and she wouldn't sleep. No,
she wouldn't sleep...
She was startled out of her wits by the clanging of
a loud bell being rung over her head, and then somebody
shouting in the dormitory: 'Up! Up! Up!'
She was sitting in a daze on the edge of the
bed when a head came round the partition, saying,
'You had better put a move on else you'll
get scalped.'
'What?'
'Hurry up! Get into your clothes, all except your
dress. Put on the cloak.' The hand came round
now and thumbed to a hook on the wall. 'You've
got to wash.'
She didn't hurry getting into her clothes, although
she felt cold, and so she was last in the line of children
to scramble down the stone stairs and into a room
with a linoleum-covered floor. Along the length of
one side there were also cubicles; along the opposite
side were narrow benches, on each of which was
a basin of cold water, also a piece of blue-mottled
soap, with a rough towel hanging from a nail in the
wall above the basin.
Very intimate sounds were coming from the
cubicles, but it wasn't until the girl who had beckoned
her earlier on came out of one of them and
pointed to another where the door was open, and
whispered harshly, 'Don't you want to go?' that she
realised, Yes; yes, she did want to go. But dear!
dear! In front of all these girls? Yet each cubicle
had a door, although she noticed there was no bolt
on the inside.
When she came out to the sound of splashing and
spluttering, she made her way to the "end bowl, and
there she washed her. face and hands; but again she
was last in the line to run up the stairs and finish
her dressing.
When there came, in the distance, the sound of
another bell ringing, the girl from the next cubicle
actually came in and tugged her out into the room,
whispering, 'You've got to line up!' Having got her
into the line the girl glanced at her and whispered,
'What's your name?'
'Millie.'
'Mine's Annabel, Annabel Kirkley. Stick with
me; but watch out for Mabel Nostil, that's her
at the end with the black hair. She sucks up.
How old are you?' This question came out of the
side of her mouth and Millie, quick to catch on,
muttered, 'Ten.'
'I'm nearly eleven.'
'Quiet!'
The command was bellowed. 'Get moving!' The
voice was thick Irish. Millie remembered it from
the previous evening. This nun had read passages
of some sort to them but Millie had been unable to
make out half of what she had said.
The children marched down the stairs, the nun
coming behind, and in the hall they met up with the
older girls and, now forming two files, they walked,
hands joined as if in prayer, slowly along a corridor,
and into the chapel.
The chapel was a large household room. At one
end was an altar; and to the side a group of statuary
of the Holy Family, on the other stood a plaster
saint arrayed in a brown habit. He could have been
anybody, one of the hundreds of saints; but, later,
Annabel informed her that he was known among the
girls as Mr Billy Brown.
Millie thought that they would never cease praying.
She didn't know what they were praying about.
She was tired of kneeling, listening to their voices
droning on: 'Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed
be Thy name', and 'Hail Mary, full of grace', which
was all she could make out of the second bit, because
what followed was just a mumble.
She was ready to be lulled asleep by the monotonous
chant when they all stood up and repeated,
'God the Father, God the Son, and God the
Holy Ghost.' She'd often wondered about the Holy
Ghost, and now wondered further if Mr Dickens's
stories had any connections with Him. She liked Mr
Dickens's stories.
She was surprised still further when more prayers
had to be said before they could start their breakfast:
'Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts which we are
about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ
our Lord. Amen.'
Ben knew a number of Grace before meals, and
they were all funny. This one certainly wasn't.
A large dollop of thick porridge was placed before
her, and a nun came round and poured a minute
amount of milk over it. There was no sugar on it,
but it tasted of salt. Then followed a slice of bread
with half a sausage lying across it. She rather enjoyed
that. The hot drink was supposed to be tea but tasted
awful. Then more prayers: 'Thank You, O Lord, for
this Thy gift of precious food. May we be worthy of
it this day. Amen.'
Following breakfast, she stuck tight to Annabel.
It was upstairs again, and now twenty-past eight,
and she was informed by her apparent new. friend
that they had to join a small team to clean the
toilets, which meant bringing the buckets downstairs,
emptying them in the larger-buckets arrayed
along the wall by a side door; then wash out
each utensil under a pump and return it to its
particular cubicle.
Following this ritual, she was separated from
Annabel while waiting for it to be decided which
class she would attend first.
So it was a short time later she found herself
under the hard eyes of Sister Mary, the large nun she remembered from last night, and her very hard hand.
She it was who took the reading, writing, and arithmetic,
but, of course, not until after more prayers.
Millie was two hours under Sister Mary, and
during this time she learned that the nun did not
always bother to use her hand, she also used a ruler
that seemed as flexible as rubber, for when it hit
knuckles it bounced back from them.
When the ruler first came in contact with Millie's
knuckles she actually cried back at the startled sister,
'Don't do that! I have done nothing wrong. My sums
are correct.'
The nun's eyes seemed to be popping out of her
head as she again wielded the ruler. This time it
caught Millie across the wrist, and when she reacted
by rising from her seat in an effort to leave the room,
she found herself thrust back with such force that
her head bobbed on her shoulders. Then the big
face was brought down to hers and the words came
between small misshapen teeth: 'Do we understand
each other now? Eh, miss?' she demanded. 'No, your
sum wasn't wrong, but you are writing instead of
printing. Do you understand me? I want your work
printed. There's plenty of time to show off your
handwriting when you've doubled your age. You
understand?'
She didn't quite, but what she did understand
was that she hated this woman, and the thought
momentarily came to her that that man wouldn't
surely have been as bad as this mean-faced nun.
At ten-thirty, Sister Mary left the class and Sister
Monica took her place. And now there was a
new form of prayer. It was called Scripture and
Bible stories.
Millie did not care much for Sister Monica either.
She was sarcastic: when she herself was first asked
a question, and she answered it, the woman made
game of how she spoke. But she did not retaliate:
she was too upset, almost confused at her previous
treatment to even pay attention.
Sister Monica stayed with them for half an hour.
Sister Aloysius followed. She was small. She, too,
was Irish, but she had a soft voice and a kind face: her
job was to teach sewing and singing. This was to be a
singing lesson, and she wrote the words of a hymn,
in print of course, on a blackboard. Then, taking a
funny little instrument, she struck her desk with it.
It went 'Ping!' and then the children began to sing.
Millie found this half hour soothing. When a bell
rang the singing immediately stopped; and there
were more prayers. At twelve o'clock the class was
dismissed, and there followed a rush for the toilets
and ablutions. Ten minutes were allowed for this.
Dinner consisted of pea soup, which Millie found
quite nice - she could taste there had been some kind of pork boiled in liquid - followed
a meat pudding. There was quite a good helping
of pudding but only a tiny piece of meat.
However, with the two medium-sized potatoes and
a spoonful of carrots, she found this also quite
to her liking.
After dinner, they were all marched out to the back
garden, which was similar to the front, where they could walk about or play catch ball, but were not
allowed to stand and talk to each other.
School restarted at one o'clock, with more prayers.
These went on for fifteen minutes, again under
the hard gaze of Sister Mary. But at a quarter
past one Sister Benedicta took over. She taught
geography, but it seemed that there was only one
country in the world and that was Ireland. Nevertheless,
she had a quiet voice, and Millie could put
up with her. She was later informed by Annabel
that she was known as Body Smell because she
had to empty the slops into the cesspit. They did
that for their sins, she said, a kind of penance.
But it seemed that Sister Benedicta must sin a
lot because she always seemed to get the dirty
jobs.
It should transpire that twice a week those who
cared could learn to cook; but apparently Millie herself was to be given no choice; she was sent, with another five girls, to the kitchen at three o'clock and,
there, came under the influence of Sister Cecilia, to
whom God had given a nice nature and a light pair
of hands with pastry. It was the time spent with this

from making her escape from this prayer-ridden,
ignorant set of women, from which Mother Francis
must be excluded. As Sister Cecilia was to say to
her, one could live without reading, writing, or
arithmetic, sewing, singing or geography; and yes
- there would be a twinkle in her eye - with some,
even without the good God; but one couldn't live
without food and without those who knew how to
make it appetising to the tongue.

After her first visit to Millie, Aggie returned home
somewhat perplexed, and she said to Ben, 'I don't
know quite what to make of her. She hates the
place. As far as I can understand she's made only
one friend; but that would be enough if it's a
good 'un. But there's a sister there called Mary
she would like to strangle. She said so. And you
know something? She showed me the marks on the
back of her knuckles and her wrist where that bitch
had walloped her with a rod of some sort, right from
the first day.'
'Well, why don't you bring her home? You'll
find some place different from that. That was your
friend's recommendation, wasn't it?'
'Don't forget it was yours an' all. Now don't
forget that.'
'Aye. Yes, you're right. But it shouldn't be allowed,
the hammerin'.'
'Oh, but I had to laugh, or nearly so, for you
daren't laugh in there. There was a sister watching
us all the time, and when we went to walk out
into the garden she said it wasn't allowed. "Well,
whoever told you it isn't allowed, tell them to
come and tell me," I said, and I took the child
outside. It was there she told me about this sister
and showed me her hand. "Don't worry, Mrs
Aggie," she said; "I'll get me own back on her
before I leave this place, you'll see, if it's only kicking her shins." And she will an' all, she'll do
it.'
Ben started to laugh now. 'You know, you can't
believe she's the same child that was so polite a
couple of years ago. She got on your nerves then,
didn't she? Remember when she used to stand there
and madden you with her politeness and that voice
of hers. She's still got the voice but the politeness
has slipped away a bit.'...
... Almost at that very moment Millie was standing
before the Mother Superior, who was voicing
that very word, politeness. 'You have been impolite
to Sister Mary because she chastised you for taking
your visitor out into the garden. She also tells me
that you are unruly. What you must learn, child, is
obedience. We must all learn obedience, obedience
to God's will. And it should happen that it's God's
will that you have been sent to us for protection and
education. So, don't let me, ever again, hear that you
have been impolite to any of the sisters. And, don't,
don't' - she held up her hand, her voice holding a
note of authority now - 'give me your opinion of the
matter. And that's another thing you must learn: you
should speak only when you're spoken to, unless you
wish to make a serious request. You may go.'

Millie's visit to the sanctum was the first of many
during the weeks and months that were to follow,
and all resulting from Sister Mary's reports. There
was an open war going on between the child and the
nun, and the class was aware of it and daily seemed
to await events. In the main, it was a time of misery
which unknowingly strengthened her character and
at the same time introduced her to a friendship which
resulted in her opening her eyes to another way of
life, a life that she recognised and knew she could
fit into; for it was during the first summer holiday
that she was invited to spend a day with Annabel
at her home.
Annabel had talked so much to her parents about
the beautiful girl with the long golden hair, and how
she had openly stood up to Sister Mary, that it was
decided to invite this child to have tea with the
family. Annabel's father was the manager of Crane
Boulder's Cotton Mill. It was considered one of the
advanced mills, advanced in that their employees
worked only the ten-hour day and finished work
at one o'clock on a Saturday. So it should happen
that Mr Kirkley was at home when the guests arrived
and was able to add to his surprise and not a little
amazement when his daughter's friend was delivered
at his door by Raggie Aggie, for Aggie had long
been a known character, she and her handcart,
and now the pony-driven flat-cart; and of course
the fact that she was almost as broad as it was.
He recalled tales about her, that she had at one
time belonged to a respectable family of farmers;
unbelievable now, for she could certainly no longer
be placed in that category.
Something would have to be done about this. He
had imagined the nuns to be very particular whom
they took into their house as pupils. However, before the visit ended the husband and wife both admitted
to being charmed with Annabel's friend, and that
they could understand their daughter's feelings towards
her, for the girl was not only as beautiful as
Annabel had described her, but also she had the most
pleasing and cultured voice. They had understood
from their daughter that her parents were dead. But
why, they asked of each other, should a child like
that be under the care of the rag woman? Kirkley
thought it was something worth looking into.
He did, and when he eventually learned that the
child's mother had committed suicide and that out
of compassion the rag woman had taken her into
her house to save her being put in the workhouse
or farmed out, again they both agreed that the
rag woman had worthy motives. And so, during
the holiday, Millie was again invited to tea, and
on this visit she amused them, together with their
other children, a twelve-year old son, and a five-year
old daughter, when she gave them an imitation of
the nuns, excelling herself when she touched on
Sister Mary.
It was Annabel's friendship and her acceptance
by the Kirkley family that really kept her in the
House of Christ the Saviour, where there was no
laughter except in the kitchen with Sister Cecilia
and sometimes a covert smile from Sister Aloysius.
Her stay, however, ended dramatically on the last
Friday of January, 1858.
It was a biting cold morning. The water in the
basins had a layer of ice on them, which had to be
broken before the children could wash; then, in the
dining room they sat shivering, for the fire at the end
of the room did not take even the chill away.
In the classroom, Sister Mary's indiscriminate
wielding of the ruler caused a great deal of wincing
and tears. The children had been told to write
answers to what happened to Jesus in the temple:
What did He do there? and what did His parents
say to Him when they found Him?
For Millie, the lesson needed no thinking, for the
sister had practically told them what to say, but
she wove a story round it as if the incident were
happening in Benton Fields at the present time.
Unfortunately she made a mistake of naming the
church where Jesus was found as St George's, which
happened to be a Church of England edifice.
After the monitor had gathered up the papers
and placed them on the small, square, wooden
table that acted as the sister's desk, the class sat
quiet, waiting anxiously for the verdict, a tick or
a large cross, the while automatically mumbling
Hail Marys. At no time in the day must there be
an idle moment or a silent one; any spare time must
be filled with prayer.
The sharp sound of Sister Mary's hand banging
down on the square of writing paper stopped the
chanting. She was yelling now, 'Stupid! Stupid! A
waste of good paper. Come out here, you!'
If the finger had not been pointed, all the class
would have known who was being called to face the
fearsome sister, and when Millie stood by the side of the nun's desk, the sheet of paper was immediately
thrust into her face with the demand, 'What do you
mean by that? A waste of paper! A waste of good
paper. Rubbish! Rubbish! Trying to be clever. Rubbish!
And that hair.' The woman flicked her hand
and knocked one of the long plaits from Millie's
shoulder as she continued her tirade: 'I've told you,
haven't I? I told you yesterday, one plait and at
the back, and tight. Stand still, girl! Turn round!'
And without giving Millie time to obey, she yelled
again, 'Turn round! Turn round! girl,' and swung
her round by the shoulders, and while holding her
with one hand she ripped the pieces of tape from the
end of each plait, before she tore at the hair until it
hung in uneven strands; then she almost lifted Millie
from the floor as, using both hands now, she drew
the strands together and began forming them into a
tight rope-like plait.
This done, she whipped up a piece of tape, which
she tied some inches from the bottom; then, while
still holding on to the hair with one hand, her other
hand shot out and pulled open a drawer from which
she grabbed a pair of large scissors.
There was a gasp from the children and a high
scream from Millie as the scissors went snip, snip,
snip. Flinging herself round and seeing at least three
inches of her hair lying on the wooden floor, she
yelled, 'How dare you! How dare you!' And now she
did what she had promised herself she would do, and
lifted her foot and aimed it at the nun's shin. That
. it had made contact was evident, for Sister Mary let
out a cry, a weird sound that was rather a yell not
a scream. Then again she was grabbing the plait,
screeching now, 'I'll cut it off. Right to the scalp.
Right to the scalp. You're wicked! Bad."
Some of the children were screaming as they
watched the tussle going on between the nun and the
girl whom they. secretly admired and envied because
she wasn't afraid of the dreaded Sister Mary.
'You're evil. Evil. You want shriving.' The nun
had hold of the plait again, while endeavouring amid
her screaming to bring her other hand, holding the
scissors, down to finish its work. But Millie, her
body twisted, her two arms extended, was gripping
the woman's wrists while being tossed to and fro
in the struggle, and she, too, was screaming, 'You
won't! You won't!'
Whether it was Millie's infuriated strength that
caused the woman's grasp on the scissors to slacken, or
that she changed her tactics and meant to direct the
scissors towards the child's face, couldn't be known,
but Millie grabbed at the open blades and, managing
to twist them round, consciously or by accident
drove one of the blades into the nun's arm.
As the scream rent the room the door was thrust
open and Sister Monica and Sister Aloysius rushed
in, just in time to stop the nun's hands going round
Millie's throat.
The room was in an uproar, the children huddled
together and all screaming. The big nun's arms were
flailing while the other two attempted to hold her.
It was Sister Aloysius who turned her head and cried to one of the bigger girls, 'Go and fetch
Reverend Mother! Take the children. Take them
with you. Out! Out!'
All the children, except Millie, scrambled from the room: she had staggered over to a side wall and was
leaning against it, her hands hanging by her side, her
mouth wide open to let her gasping breath free.
'I'll kill her! I will. I will. She should be dead. She's
wicked! Wicked.' The nun was screaming now at the
top of her voice; then for a moment she became still
and silent as she looked at a trickle of blood flowing
down over her fingers; and she now screeched again.
'Look! Blood! Blood! She's evil.'
'Quiet. Quiet, dear.' Sister Aloysius was wiping
the hand now with a piece of rough linen she had
taken from a pocket in her habit. 'It's all right.
Mother will soon be here. Be quiet now. Be quiet.'
'Never! Never! She must be locked up. She's bad,
wicked. And her hair shorn. I'm going to shear her
hair. I am; I am. She was born evil. Father Dolan
told Reverend Mother all about her, all about her.
She's from the dregs. Her mother was on the streets.
I heard him. She took her life ... evil. I spoke to
God. Two inches at a time, He said, until she is
cropped; the vanity is in her hair. Pride, all in
her hair. It's got to come off.' And as her voice
ended on another high scream the door opened
and the Mother Superior came in. Her voice was
calm as she said to Sisters Monica and Aloysius.
'Leave go of her.'
'But, Mother.'
She turned her cold stare on Sister Monica, saying,
'Do as I bid.'
They did as they were ordered, and when the
arms began to flail again Mother Francis brought
her hand in a resounding blow across Sister Mary's
face, sending her backwards against the wall, where
she stood, quiet now, her mouth agape and froth
around her lips. Stepping back and looking at the
other two nuns, the Mother Superior said, 'Take
her to her cell.'
Almost as if leading a child, they took the woman
from the room, and the Mother Superior, herself on
the point of leaving, turned and looked towards
where Millie was still standing riveted to the spot. It
was as if she hadn't been aware of the girl's presence,
but she said, 'Stay where you are, child. Don't move,'
and then went out.
How long Millie stood alone, she didn't know.
There was a continuous whirling of thoughts in her
head: Was she evil? Had her mother been evil? What
did she mean, her mother had been on the streets?
She had heard that term before. It was in some way
connected with bad things. But had her mother been
evil? And so, was she evil? She wanted Mrs Aggie.
Oh, Mrs Aggie, Mrs Aggie.
When the door opened and Sister Cecilia came
in, still wearing her kitchen apron, the whirling
thoughts ceased and she said, 'Oh, Sister.'
Sister Cecilia held out a hand towards her, saying,
'Come child, come,' then led her out of the room,
through the corridor, upstairs, and into her cubicle.
She did not immediately help her to get her things
together, but sat on the side of the bed and drew
Millie towards her, saying, 'It's a sorry day, child.
It's a sorry day;' then leaning towards her, she said
very quietly now, 'I'm not blaming you, my dear.
I'm not blaming you. It is a strange thing, and you
will find it more so in our way of life, that some
people cannot stand the sight of beauty. It is a joy
they're missing, but it is never revealed to them.
Poor dear Sister Mary has never known joy. You
must forgive her.'
The nun looked away from Millie now and towards
the partition as she said in a voice little above a
mutter, 'He bids us come, and if at first we don't
obey Him, His voice is insistent. "Come. Come,
my child. You owe me your life," He says. "Let
Me show you how to live it," but then once you
have given Him your life He becomes distant; you
have to struggle to touch Him. Yet He said to me,
"Cecilia, you have two blessings, you love beauty
and cooking. What more could you desire?"'
Turning to look at Millie again, she ended, 'But
one always wants more: just to see His face in the
night, not in plaster, in the flesh. But I tell myself it
will come. God's will be done.'
She put out a hand and touched Millie's cheek
now, saying softly, 'I ramble on, child. You don't
understand what I'm saying, yet some of my words
might remain with you, for I think you are old
enough to understand what I am about to say to you
now. Resist evil, my dear, the evil that men do. Do
you understand me? Resist the evil that men do.'
Millie didn't really understand. Her mind still
wanted to whirl, but she would remember the
words, 'Resist the evil that men do.' And on the
thought there came into her mind the picture of the
thin-faced man.
'Well now, child; let us pack up your things and
let us be ready when your guardian comes. She is
being sent for.'
'I... I to go home?' She slipped off the edge of
the bed as if she had been injected with new life.
'Yes. Yes, my dear, you have to go. And I am
very sorry, because you have the makings of a
splendid cook. You won't forget what I have taught
you, will you?'

forget, ever. Nor you.'
As she went to put her arms around the nun
a gentle hand pressed her back, and the voice,
so gentle, said, 'I ... I understand your feelings,
child; and I, too, feel ... but ... but,' and the
voice became rather thick as she ended, 'we will
not demonstrate them.'
After the bass hamper that had held her belongings
was refilled and strapped, Sister Cecilia said, 'Sit
there quiet, my child, until they send for you.'
She paused, and her fingers lightly touched Millie's cheek, as she said, 'My prayers will go with you and
I shall remember you always.'
'Oh, Sister, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I... I mean...
well, I mean, I'm not sorry to leave the school, leave here, but I'm sorry to leave you, and I wish I could
see you again. I... I won't be able to, will I?'
'No, my child, you won't; but you will always
remain in my memory. And you will remember my
words, won't you? Beware of the evil that men do.'
'Yes. Yes, Sister.'
'Goodbye, my child; and God be with you always.'
Millie sat again on the edge of the bed, her
head bowed deep on her chest, the tears running
unheeded down her face. Beware of the evil that
men do. Beware of the evil that men do. Yes, she
would remember those words, and always remember
Sister Cecilia.
FOUR

Millie had been home for nearly three months when
she received a letter from Annabel. It was the first
communication she'd had with her since the day she
left the convent ignominiously and in dire disgrace.
And during that time the house had become brighter
in all ways, not only through her cleaning and her
presence but also through her cooking.
She had become expert in at least three dishes
while under the tuition of Sister Cecilia: the meat
pudding, a lamb stew thickened with lentils, barley,
and vegetables and topped with dumplings, and, a
real piece of expertise: the making of light pastry
with either pig's fat or beef dripping.
From the time she returned to the house, both
Aggie and Ben ate better, lived more comfortably and
were happier. Yet, their frame of mind was always
streaked with anxiety that caused them both to be
forever on the watch. They made it a rule that she
was never to be alone. If she went out of the yard,
which was rarely, one or other would go with her,
and they never both left the yard together.
Although their protection wasn't evident Millie
was conscious of it, and there were times when she felt as hemmed in as she had done during that
tortured year or more when guarded by the sisters.
Then came the letter; and she read it aloud to
them:

'Dear Millie,
My mama asks if you would care to come to
tea on Saturday afternoon at four o'clock. Also
Mama would like to speak with your guardian
about something that may be of benefit to you.
I miss you very much. I am no longer with
the nuns but am to attend a day school. I have
such a lot to tell you, and I'm looking forward
to our meeting.
Your friend, Annabel.'

She looked from Aggie to Ben, and it was Aggie
who said, 'Something that may be of benefit to you.
What does she mean by that?'
Ben was grinning now as he looked at Millie,
saying, 'Perhaps they're goin' to adopt you.'
'I don't want to be adopted, Ben; I've been adopted.'
She smiled at Aggie; although Aggie gave her no
answering smile, but just said, 'Well, the day's
Thursday. We'll have to wait an' see what the
benefit's goin' to be ... Would you like to go to
school again?'
Millie did not answer straightaway; then, thoughtfully,
she said, 'I thought I might like to go to the day
school. I mean, like I did before. Yes' - she nodded
now- 'yes, I think I'd like more schooling.'
'Why?'
She turned towards Ben as she answered him,
'Well, because I know there's a lot to learn.'
'Can't see that. You can read a newspaper from
beginning to end and you can write better than those
fellas who keep the thing goin'. As for talkin', I
would say there are few who could talk better.
That's when' - he poked his head forward, a mischievous
grin on his face now - 'you don't let drop
one of those naughty words; you know, like you
did yesterday.'
'I didn't. I didn't swear. Well ... I mean--' She
shook her head, then looked at Aggie, saying now,
'If you didn't say it so often, I wouldn't either.'
'What's this I say so often?'
'Damn and blast your eyes.'
'I don't say that very often'
Both Ben and Millie now began to laugh, and,
getting to his feet, Ben said, 'Know thyself, woman.
Know thyself. Anyway, if you're goin' to tea with
the toffs you'd better get scrubbed down and pick
out some decent clothes.'
'There was nothing mentioned in that letter about
me havin' tea.'
'Well, if you're not invited I won't stay either. But
as Ben says, put on some nice things. There's ...
there's the print frock I let out that fits you. It's nice.
And there's that nice cape you got last week.'
'Shut up! both of you.' Aggie pulled herself up
from the chair. 'Why don't you strip me down and
go over me with a scrubbin' brush?'
'That's an idea.' Ben's expression was serious as he
nodded towards Millie, and she answered him, 'Yes;
yes, it is. But we'll have to do it with cold water and
the yard broom.'
That's enough. D'you hear? That's enough.' When
Aggie swung round with a lightness that always
denied her heavy bulk and made hastily for the
door, Millie flew after her and, jumping in front
of her, threw her arms around her waist as far as
they would go, crying, 'I'm sorry. It wasn't nice. I was just trying to be funny, like Ben. You're ...
you're so clean underneath, and nobody knows
except me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. And I love you. Oh, I do love you.'
'Shut up and be quiet. Stop your jabber. And
leave go of me.'
As Aggie pulled the arms from around her waist she glanced to the side, for Ben was no longer in the
room. 'Come here,' she said as she walked back to
the fireplace. And when again Millie stood close by
her side she looked down on her and said, 'Never
try to be funny at other people's expense. Ben
can do it because ... well, he's a man, and one
expects it from a man. But with a woman or girl,
no, unless it's against yourself. You can be funny against yourself.., you know what I mean, belittlin'
yourself like, but don't be funny belittlin' anybody
else. You understand?'
Millie's voice was breaking as she said, 'Oh, yes,
yes, Mrs Aggie, I understand. Oh, yes, I understand, and I'll never do it again.'
'Oh" - Aggie now wagged her head - 'be as funny
as you like, but don't level it against anybody to
hurt them. That's unless they've deserved it, or done
something bad. Oh, what am I yammerin' on about?
Go on, get on with your work. You were goin' to
make a tart, weren't you? I'll tell you what else you
can do; you can make half a dozen or so of those
currant buns of yours and take them with you on
Saturday as a kind of present for the lady.'
It was as much as Millie could do to check herself
from saying, 'Oh, I don't think I should do that. I
mean, they've got a cook.' She had already hurt this
dear, kind, woman. And to point out to her now
that she didn't know the right thing to do when
visiting people like the Kirkleys would be, in a way,
against the advice she had just given her, although it
wasn't to do with talking; more like behaviour and
deportment or some such. Well, whatever it was, she
knew she'd have to bake her little cakes and present
them to Mrs Kirkley on Saturday.

The maid who opened the door to them could not
take her eyes off the great fat woman in the biscuit
straw hat with big cloth roses on its brim, and the
cape that just covered her shoulders and showed
an expanse of blue cotton bosom, the like she had
never seen before. As she was about to say, 'I'll tell
the mistress you've come,' there was a scampering
of feet on the stairs, and Annabel almost threw
herself on Millie, crying, 'Oh! how lovely! How
lovely to see you!'
Millie was smiling widely at her friend as she
proffered the coloured plate, saying, 'I ... I baked
some currant buns for you.'
'They're for your mother, love.' Aggie was smiling
brightly at Annabel.
'Oh, then Mama will love them. Oh! here she is.
Mama, Millie has brought you a present; they're
currant buns. She makes lovely cakes. I told you.'
It says much for the calibre of Mrs Kirkley that,
after greeting Aggie with an inclination of her head
and a smile, she looked at Millie, who was handing
her the present, and said, 'Oh, thank you very
much, Millie; I'm sure they'll be delightful. We must
have them for tea. Jessie--' She turned towards the
maid, who was standing apart and, handing her the
plate, she said, 'Have these put on the table for
tea, please.'
The maid took the plate from her mistress as if
it were hot. Then Mrs Kirkley led the way into her
drawing-room and there, after indicating that they
should all be seated, she looked at Millie, saying,
'Well, isn't this nice! I'm so pleased to see you again.
And how are you?'
'Very well, ma'am, very well.'
'Have you been attending school at all?'
'No; not yet; but we' - she glanced towards Aggie -'we are thinking about it, considering it.'
'Oh, well then, that in a way will be a pity, at least
for us, because the proposition that Annabel indicated
in her letter is to do with a post for you.' She
inclined her head deeply now; then, after a moment
she turned her attention to Aggie, saying, 'You see,
my cousin is looking for a nursemaid to help with
her six children. It would be a very good position
for any young girl, and a happy one. My cousin is
married to the bailiff on Mr Crane-Boulder's estate.
They are the mill owners, you know.' As if by way of
explanation that a cousin of hers should be married
to a bailiff, she now added, 'My cousin was very
young when she married. Her husband is from a
good family; in fact he is distantly connected with
the Crane-Boulder's family, but ... but he was the
youngest son, and you know what positions go to
the younger sons.'
She held out her hand, palm upwards now, and
moved her head slowly as she looked at Aggie as if
she were talking to a friend who would understand
that a cousin of hers had not married beneath her.
And then she went on, 'They live in the grounds.
Not in the lodge; it is a very nice, large house. It
would have to be' - her smile widened - 'with six
children, wouldn't it? Well, there it is. I'm sure that
you would want to talk this over, but if you do feel
you can consider it' - she was still addressing Aggie 'I
could ask my cousin to keep the position open for
a week or two. In the meantime, I am sure if Millie
here would like to go and see my cousin and discuss
the whole situation, my husband would be delighted
to provide escort.'
She did not add, He would jump at the chance
of someone filling that post, so that he wouldn't
be asked to take the children off Rose's hands until she is once more fixed up with someone who could
manage her unruly crowd, as well as herself and
the house. By the end of last year, when they had
three of the children, he had been almost driven to
distraction. He blamed Rose, and wouldn't have a
word said against William.
Oh yes, he would take Millie there. And she, too,
felt the girl would fit in. She was certainly still young
enough to play with children, but, in a way, she
seemed to have an old head on those shoulders.
And so she smiled now as she said, 'There it is.
You must, as I said, have time to think about it.'
'I would have thought there's plenty of lasses
ready to jump into such jobs, ma'am, jobs of all
kinds being' scarce.'
'Yes. Yes, there are plenty of ... girls, Mrs
Winkowski, but they are not the type my cousin
would appreciate. She has already experienced some.
As I'm sure you know, the majority of girls seeking
such posts can neither read nor write and are of such
low intelligence that they have no control over the
children; in fact, the children soon take advantage
of them. Children are very wily, you know. So,
thinking it needed someone superior who might fit
the requirements of the position, I thought of Millie
as a most suitable person, and decided to put the proposition to you, Mrs Winkowski. Of course, that
is if you don't intend to allow her to continue with
her schooling. Yet, I'm sure she will learn a lot from
being in contact with my cousin and her husband,
not to mention with the Crane-Boulders themselves,
you know, the owners of the estate, because they
socialise liberally. Ah' - she looked towards the
door - 'there is the signal for tea. Would you like
to come along?'...
They had tea, just the four of them. Mrs Kirkley
ate one of Millie's buns and praised it highly; and
after Annabel had eaten one, and then asked if she
might have another, her mother exclaimed in mock
sternness, 'Oh! Annabel. Your manners!'
It was when tea was over that Mrs Kirkley said to
her daughter, 'Would you like to take Millie round
the garden, dear?' And when Annabel exclaimed,
'Oh, yes, Mama,' the two girls turned towards
each other before hurrying from the room. Aggie,
of course, knew she was in for, what was termed,
a bit of confidential chat; and she wasn't mistaken,
because Mrs Kirkley, without any preamble, began
by saying, 'There is more than one reason why I
have suggested this position for Millie. You know,
Mrs Winkowski, girls will talk, and I suppose it
was during one of Millie's lonely periods while
under the sisters that she confided in Annabel why
she had been sent to the school. It was because
of her fear and your concern regarding a certain
man who seemed bent on ... well, how can one
put it, except by plainly saying, abducting her. And
for what purpose we won't go into. She is aware, as
you yourself only too well know, that her looks are
bound to attract attention, and that beautiful hair;
its colour is so unusual that that alone will draw eyes
to it. Well, need I point out?'
'No, you needn't, ma'am. As for the abduction
business, I think we can say that's over. We've never
seen hilt nor hair of that man for well over a year
now. He could be gone from the town.'
'Oh yes.' The delicate eyebrows were raised. 'On
the other hand, there is the possibility he couldn't.
But there, you are the best judge of that. I only put
it to you. By the way, do you know much about
her mother?'
'No, ma'am, only that she died before her time
and had been a lady's maid.'
'Oh, indeed; a lady's maid? Ah yes; likely it is from
the mother that the child gets that air she possesses ... Or was it from the father, do you think? Do you
know anything about him?'
'Only that he seemed to be in a decent position,
and that he died.'
'Oh. Oh.' Mrs Kirkley sat back in her chair. 'I'm so
glad we've had this little talk; and it's so nice to think
that she and Annabel are friends. Annabel thinks the
world of her.' She did not go on to express the next
thought in her mind: thank goodness Annabel was
going away to school, and very soon the association
would be closed, for its continuance would create an
impossible situation.
It was Aggie who now rose first from her chair
and so bringing the conversation to an end by saying,
'Well, ma'am, I thank you for your hospitality, and
also for your kindness to the child. I'll think over
what you've said, and also put it to Ben. He's a sort
of help and partner, and he's had part of the rearing
of her from the time I took her, and his advice is
always sensible. So now we must be off.'
'Of course. Of course. I'll call the girls.'
The goodbyes were said; Annabel and Millie
clasped hands, but Mrs Kirkley gently prevented
her daughter from seeing their guests to the gate.
And perhaps it was just as well because there, on
the seat of the rag cart and sitting as patiently as
the pony was standing, was Ben. And from the
pavement he looked a big, decently dressed young
man, for his head and shoulders were well above the
back of the seat.
On sight of them, he jumped down and first helped
Aggie, then Millie up, and lastly squeezed himself
corner-wise into the seat, took up the reins, and
shouted, 'Gee up! there.' And so they made for
home.
A short time later they were sitting round the table.
Aggie had explained to Ben what had turned out to
be the reason for their invitation to tea; and now she
broke into his silence by saying, 'Well! Can't you say
something?'
What he said was, 'It's not for me to say, Aggie,
it's for her. Let her go and see if she fancies staying
there. Ten miles out, you say, and there's a squad of
kids to look after?' He turned to Millie, saying, 'How
does that appeal to you: six kids, the eldest ten?'
'Oh, I wouldn't mind that, not for a time anyway.
Perhaps I wouldn't like to stay there very long,
because, as I said, I might want to go to school
again. But,' she now smiled from one to the other, 'it would be an experience; and, as Annabel told
me, I'd get one and six a week and a half day off,
besides a full day every month.' She made a face
now as she added, 'Annabel seemed to think that
was generous.'
'Well, compared to the leave they get in the big
houses I suppose it is; half a day a month for some
of them, and then no leave at all if they're known to
come from the workhouse, or one of the settlements.
Well, it seems that you'd like to go and take a look
at the place and the people before you make your
mind up; and I suppose that's only right. But have
you thought what I'm goin' to do here, left on me
own? This place'll turn into a hovel again. And what
about our fancy meals, eh?'
'Oh, Mrs Aggie' - she put her hand across the table
towards the plump elbow resting there - 'I won't go.
As I said before, I could go to half-day school here.
Yes; why not? It's a silly idea, and I'm big enough
to take care of myself now... ' Her voice trailed off
as the two pairs of eyes fixed on her and her head
drooped as she said, 'That was a silly thing to say.
But you could always take me and fetch me back as
you did before.' She had addressed herself to Ben,
and he said, 'Aye, I could. But you know something?
For your own good, at least for the next year or so, I
think you'd be best out of the way. And at the bottom
of this one's heart' - he thumbed towards Aggie 'I'm
sure she thinks the same. And I promise you
something: I won't let the house get into a hovel; I'll
do a bit of cleanin' up meself. And if she would only
let me have Annie round' - his thumb was wagging
again - 'the place would be spotless.'
The look that Aggie fixed on him silenced his
tongue but left his face in a wide grin.
Aggie rose from the chair and went into the
scullery, and Ben, reaching along the table, covered
Millie's hand with his own, and she turned and
gazed at him.
There was always something comforting about
Ben: she felt that she loved him as much as she
did Mrs Aggie. And on the thought, she lifted the
hand, the squat unusually clean hand, and held it
against her cheek.
'Oh, Millie love. Millie.'
There was something in his voice that made her
want to throw herself into his arms; but then she
knew that Aggie wouldn't like that. Mrs Aggie
wasn't for shows of affection, which, she felt, was
a pity, for love should have an expression.

FIVE


Up to the previous evening there had been questions
bandied back and forth between Aggie and Ben as to
whether, after all, it would be necessary for Millie to
take the post she had been offered. But at half-past
seven the next morning they knew they had made the
right decision. In fact, for a moment, the situation
facing Millie seemed to be God-directed when, at
seven o'clock, as soon as Ben had opened the gates,
a Mrs Walton came hurrying in.
'You haven't seen anything of our Betty, have you,
Ben?' she asked.
'Betty? No. No, Mrs Walton. Why? Is she lost?'
The woman looked around the yard as if she
expected to see her daughter emerge from one of the doors or from behind a pile of rubbish. Then she
repeated, 'Lost? Oh, aye, she's lost. But himself said
this would happen, because I was always washin' her
bloody hair and keepin' her face scab-free, unlicing
her an' the rest, instead of gettin' meself out to work.
He said it's my fault; but I did it for the best.' And
now, her hand outstretched, and with a break in her
voice, she appealed to Ben: 'Don't tell me she's been
picked up. It's been the fear of me life, because she's
so wayward. Scamperin' round the market whenever
I let her out of my sight. And she was bonny. You
know she was bonny.'
'Aye.' Ben nodded at her. 'Aye, she was bonny,
Mrs Walton. How long has she been gone?'
'Since last night. Since last night. She wasn't outside
the bar waitin' for him. He always' - again the
hand was expressive - 'he always goes in on his way
from the mill. He gets dry, you know ... the flax.
Feels choked at times. And anyway, if he knows she's
there it brings him home. And now he's in a rage.
He never went in this mornin', and he's knocked
on every door in Foley Street. But if they had her
there, d'you think they would let him know? Now
he keeps blamin' me for keepin' her clean. Being the
first of the lasses, she was always his favourite; the
lads didn't seem to matter. What am I gona do?'
'Have you been to the polis?'
'Oh, aye. Aye, I went to the polis. But what'll they
do? Himself is right: half of them must be in the pay
of the Foley Street mob. Well, it's funny, isn't it, that
they never manage to find any missin' youngsters.
And it's funny an' all that the dirty buggers don't
go for the ragged-arsed lot that's swarmin' the place.
No, they take their pick. Oh, my God! Ben, if she's
gone it'll kill him. I tell you, it'll kill him. And then
he'll go for one of those buggers, an' he'll do for 'em.
Then what'll it be? Swingin', or Australia. And we
were just gettin' on our feet, three of the lads workin'
and himself bringin' it in, at least what's left after his
Friday night dos. But, nevertheless, we managed. An' you know yourself, I've come every week here
and set them up in different bits and pieces.'
She turned from him now and looked towards
the house door where Millie was standing. And she
stared at the girl for a full minute, before turning to
Ben again and with a helpless gesture saying, 'My
God! It's a wonder that one's escaped.' Then she
added, with a plea in her voice again, 'You get
around, Ben. And your Annie, if all tales are true,
she's got a relative that's no better than she should
be an' livin' nicely on it. Perhaps you could find out
somethin' through her.., would you, Ben?'
'Yes, certainly, Mrs Walton. I've got to go on an
errand this mornin', but as soon as I get back, I'll
... well, I'll do the rounds and I'll come along an'
tell you. You're in Booth Court, aren't you?'
'Aye, number fifty-six. Three floors up. Ta. Thank
you.' She turned now and glanced towards Millie
again before hurrying from the yard. Instinctively,
Millie made her way across to Ben, saying, 'Is she
in trouble?' And he looked straight into her face
as he answered, 'Aye, she's in trouble. Her little
girl has gone missin'. You know her, Betty, the
lively one; she was into everythin' in the yard here.'
Without saying anything further, Millie turned
and went back into the house; and Ben followed
her, there to see Aggie shambling into the room, and
although her eyes looked full of sleep, their powers
of discernment were indeed wide awake. 'What's up
now?' she demanded.
'Little Betty Walton has gone missing,' Ben
answered. He didn't say, 'He's at it again and he's
getting nearer.' But after a moment's silence he said,
as if casually, 'She's a scamper, that one; into every
hole and corner, if I remember rightly, so she's likely
stayed out late and is frightened to go home - if old
man Walton had a load on she'd be introduced to
the buckle end of his belt. He could be paralytic and
she could bring him home, but... '
'Aye. Aye,' put in Aggie. 'But it's about time there
was some breakfast on the table. And you've got a journey before you, you two, so let's get down to
the business of the day. And you, Ben Smith, Jones,
or Robinson, spruce yourself up, because it's among
the gentry you'll be goin'.'

They had left The Courts, passed the countless rows
of back-to-back houses, no cleaner, no more sanitary
than the half-mile of buildings behind them. They
had crossed the market, the shopping centre, passed
the churches, chapels, religious meeting rooms, fighting
to outdo each other and against the countless
bars; even hoping through the wave of religious
revival, and the example set by the Queen herself,
that they would eventually withdraw sinners from
the flames of hell-fire and place them in the arms
of the Lord.
And then there were the mills. Everywhere you
looked there were the mills: cotton mills, textile
mills, grim forbidding buildings, all of them, many
cheek by jowl with the slums they had created.
Then, as if a dividing line had been drawn across
the outskirts of the town, the scene changed: Ben
was now driving the cart past terraced houses with
lace curtains at the windows, and the bath-bricked
steps leading to painted front doors, with here and
there a little maid scrubbing the steps, or sluicing the
pavement outside the small railed gardens.
These were the homes of the upper working class,
the artisans, clerical workers, shopwalkers.
They now reached what appeared to be open
country, but which soon became large areas of
garden, each surrounding a single house approached
from the roadway through magnificent iron gates.
'Be prepared to bend your knee, and keep your
mouth shut. And yes, bite your tongue.' He grinned
at her.
'Well, I just might have to, mightn't I? But would
you ever do it?'
'Me?' He pushed out his chest. 'Never! What you
call a free soul, that's me; free as the wind.'
'Except for Mrs Aggie and the yard.'
'Don't be pert with me, miss. But aye, you're right,
except for Mrs Aggie and the yard. We must never
forget, mind, either you or me, if it hadn't been
for Mrs Aggie and her yard, God knows where we
would have been at this minute. She could easily have
given me the push after her dad died, and taken on
somebody.., well, more presentable, like.'
'You're very presentable, Ben, very.' She looked
him up and down now, and yes, he was very
presentable. She had never seen him dressed as he
was this morning. He was wearing the suit belonging
to that old man who had died. Chinese Charlie had
altered the lot to fit him, and he had pressed it, too,
and it had made such a difference to Ben. He looked ... well, she couldn't put a name to how he looked.
She discarded handsome, yet he had such a nice face
and plenty of brown hair and his upper body was so
fine. It was only his legs. What a pity about his legs.
If they'd only been a few inches longer; or perhaps if
his upper body wasn't so big then his legs wouldn't
be so noticeable. And he had a nice voice. He didn't
always speak correctly, but still he had a nice voice.
Everything about him was nice. She liked Ben. Yes,
she liked Ben. Impulsively now, she put her hand out
and laid it on his, saying quietly, 'I'm going to miss
you all over again, Ben, that's if I take this place.'
He drew the pony to a stop, looked down at her
hand still lying on his and said, 'You're not the only
one, Millie. That place is like a dead house when
you're out of it. But no matter' - his voice rose now
- 'you've got to go there for a time, anyway. And you understand, don't you?'
'Yes. Yes, Ben, I understand. But at the same time
I keep asking, Why? Why?'
'You know as well as I do.'
He had almost bawled at her; in fact, so loud
was his voice that he turned instinctively, feeling
he must have been overheard, and looked towards
the two gates which had 'The Grange' easily discernible
as part of the wrought iron. And just
as instinctively lowering his voice, he said again,
'You know as well as I do. There's no need to go
into it.'
'But there is.' She was hissing at him now.
He stared at her while drawing in a deep breath,
which expanded his broad chest further; then he
said, 'Well, if you want to know, you shouldn't look
as you do; you attract the wrong kind. That's the
answer, and I'm sayin' no more. So come, get down.
This is the place.' He pointed to the gate.
When, a minute later, he pulled on the handle of
the iron bell and it clanged loudly, the door of a
small house lust beyond the gates opened and a man
appeared and stood looking at them for a moment
before speaking. 'Well, what's your business?' he
asked quietly.
'She ... Miss Forester here is expected. She's to
meet a Mrs Quinton.'
'Oh.' The man now moved his head slightly and
looked at Millie; then, pointing with his forefinger,
he said, 'Further along the road there's another
gate. You'll come across the house half-way up
the drive.' He looked beyond them to the pony and
cart, then added not unkindly, 'You could get that
up the drive.'
'Ta,' said Ben. 'Thanks,' said Millie. They had
spoken together, then turned away, smiling.
Ben now said, 'You walk along; you might have to
open the gates... He was quite a civil bloke, wasn't
he?'
'Yes, a nice man.'
'Well, as it says in the books, it could augur good.'
Millie burst out laughing, and as Ben pulled himself
up on to the cart, she said, 'You know, you are
funny, the things you say.'
He looked down at her. 'Well, you're not the only
one who reads books, you know. I could beat you
along that line if I liked. And I will an' all; we'll have
a competition some day when you start readin' the
grown-up stuff.' And he slapped the reins along the
pony's back.
She was walking at its head when she turned and
said, 'Why don't you go to school, Ben?'
'What! What you sayin'? Go to school? Me? a
man!'
'Lots of grown-up people go to school at night,
some of them after work. I know Father Dolan has
a night class.'
'What! Join the Catholics? Are you askin' for him
an' all to be stabbed with a pair of scissors?... Oh,
I'm sorry, lass. I'm sorry.'
'Oh, you needn't be.' She pulled the pony to a
stop opposite this second set of gates. They were
open, and, nodding up to Ben, she said, 'I've never
felt any guilt or regret over that. She was a horrible
woman, cruel. And not only to me. But there are
other people taking night classes, Ben; like Parson
King. He's Protestant.'
'They're all holy Joes. But get out of the way and
let me turn him in if you're not goin' to lead him.'
They were now proceeding up a driveway bordered
on each side by shrubs: and then quite suddenly they
emerged into an open area. It was like a small field, only the grass had been cut; and there to the side
stood a house. In comparison with those they had
passed along the way, it could be considered small.
It looked as if it had only two storeys, but suggested
an attic under the fanlight in the roof.
Ben had hardly put his feet on the ground when,
from the side of the house, there emerged what
appeared to be a mob of children coming at them
in a rush and then skidding to a halt about three
yards distant. There were five of them: the biggest,
a girl, looking not much younger than Millie herself.
There were three girls and two boys. And it was the
taller of the two boys who looked at the others before
explaining, 'He's got little legs.' Then they scattered,
yelling, as Ben gave a jump towards them, shouting
on a laugh, 'Yes! but they can run.'
There now appeared at the door of the house
a young woman, and she called in a high voice,
'Children! Betty! Paddy! you, Daisy, come. Come
this minute.' As if the children hadn't heard her or
were not aware of her presence, they all ran back
towards the side of the house, and there they stood as a group, staring at the man with the short legs and
the girl with hair that looked almost white, walking
towards their mother.
'Oh, you're here. Good morning. Well, you had better come in.'
Millie took in at once that Mrs Quinton was a
nervous lady and that she wasn't very old; in fact, she looked young. And her hair was untidy and she was wearing an apron. She didn't appear to be at
all like the kind of lady who would be engaging a
maid. Not a bit like Annabel's mother.
'Come into the kitchen,' she said, and led the way
across a small hall and into quite a large kitchen,
dominated, Millie noticed, by an oblong table under
which were a number of stools. And she also noticed
straightaway that the open fire feeding an oven to
one side and a water boiler to the other was very
like the one Sister Cecilia had introduced her to.
'Sit down. Oh, dear me, dear me.' Mrs Rose
Quinton now pulled out two stools from under
the table and indicated that both Millie and Ben
should be seated, and when they were, she stood
before them looking slightly helpless but smiling
now as she said, 'You have, unfortunately, already
been introduced to my family; at least, all except
the baby. They are, what you would term, a handful,
but they are not really naughty children, only
impetuous, you know.'
Millie smiled at her, and she smiled back, saying,
'I ... I must be frank with you. They ... need a
firm hand. Well, I mean they need to be managed.
And again I must be frank in telling you, because if
I don't tell you this, one of the maids of the house
will likely inform you very shortly, that I've had two
helpers already this year. You see, I don't want you
to come on the ... well, shall we say' - her smile
widened - 'on false pretences. You understand?'
'Yes. Yes, ma'am, I understand; and I have worked
with children before.., well, when I was at the hum'
school, it was part of the older pupils' duty to be in charge of two or three of the younger ones to see
they washed properly and.., well, things like that,
and just before I left I was doing this.'
'You were at the nuns' school? Oh, yes. Oh yes.'
Mrs Quinton closed her eyes for a moment as if
recalling her cousin relating this girl's history, which had not included the scissors' business with Sister
Mary as being the reason for her leaving because
that might have put any caring mother off from
engaging such a virago.
'My cousin did tell you the terms?'
Millie paused a moment, then said, 'Yes.'
'And they're suitable?'
'Yes. Yes, thank you.'
'Well now, when can you start your duties?'
Millie now turned to Ben, and he shrugged his
shoulders, saying, 'It's up to you; but I could bring
you back tomorrow, if you would like that?'
'Yes. Yes, I would like that,' she said, and looked straight back at Mrs Quinton, saying, 'I will start tomorrow.'
'Would ... would you like to meet the children
now? Well, I know you have seen them already, but
if I could call them and... '
Millie rose from the stool and, looking at her
prospective and harassed mistress, she said, 'Oh, it's
all right. We'll get to know each other tomorrow,
I'm sure, and very quickly.'
'Yes. Yes, perhaps that'll be best. But oh, by the
way, you do know there are other duties? I... I have
a person who comes in for two hours every morning,
but ... but she does just the very rough work. I
sometimes need help in the kitchen and...'
'Oh, I'd be pleased to help wherever I can.'
'She's a splendid cook,' Ben said.
Rose Quinton looked at the extraordinary man and thought as many another had: what a pity! He
could have been a handsome man. She said, 'She is?'
And he nodded his head firmly, saying, 'She is. You take it from me, ma'am. I like my food, and she's the best I've come across.'
Mrs Quinton was again smiling down on Millie.
'Oh, that would be a great asset. Well, you will come
in the morning about.., at about the same time?'
'Yes, ma'am.'
Millie's new mistress paused as if uncertain what to do next; then turning quickly about, she led them
from the kitchen into the hall and to the open front door again, and looked to where her children were all standing round the pony and cart. In fact, her son Patrick was actually in the cart.
'Oh, dear me! Dear me! That boy! I'm sorry,'
she muttered.
'Nothing to be sorry for, missis, I mean, ma'am.
It's a good sign when children like animals and are
playful with them. Good day to you.'
'Good day.'
Standing before her future mistress, Millie did not know whether or not to dip her knee. She decided
against it, and so set a pattern which was soon to
become questionable. What she said now was, 'Good
morning, ma'am,' and Rose Quinton answered in a similar tone, 'Good morning;' then added hastily,
'your name is?'
'Millie, ma'am.'
'Oh. Millie? Well, good morning, Millie.'
Again Millie said, 'Good morning, ma'am,' then
turned and followed Ben to the cart, from which
there was now a great scattering away of children,
before once more they formed a group as if into
a combined force. But when Millie, from her seat,
liked her arm and waved to them, they looked at
each other, giggled, then all waved back, which
Millie took as a good omen and Rose Quinton
took as a sign of comparative peace. 'It was as if,'
she said later to her husband, William, when in bed
that night, 'I felt as if the house had suddenly been
blessed. Strange, wasn't it?' to which he answered,
'Yes, indeed. Well, I'm looking forward to seeing
this blessing. Indeed; indeed I am.'
SIX


Millie had been living with the Quintons, in what
was called Little Manor, for six months now, and
she couldn't recall a happier period in her life. She
still looked forward to her half-day with Aggie and
Ben, as she did her whole day once a month; but
she was always glad to get back into the Quinton
household, where she felt so at home she could never
imagine ever wanting to leave them. But looking
back, she always recalled her first week as a very
testing time.
Mr and Mrs Quinton had their meals served in
the little dining-room, whereas she had to take hers
with the children at the kitchen table. And when
nine-year old Daisy took a spoonful of hot soup and
threw it in her face, and there was a giggle from the
others, Millie, rising and going to a side table and
deliberately choosing a larger spoon, returned to her
seat, filled the spoon with the soup, and levelled it at
her opponent, causing a scream from Daisy but silent
gasps from her supporters. And when the astonished
child screamed, 'I'll tell Mama!' Millie said, 'Go on
then, tell her.' But when the child went to scramble
from her stool, she was checked by Paddy, her younger brother, with the advice, 'Don't; Papa's in.
You'll get your own back: just wait.'
The 'own back' took the form of locking Millie
in her attic bedroom, which was reached by a
ladder attached to the end of the landing. The
hatch had two bolts on the outside. Why they had
been placed there and not on the inside, no-one
knew.
The children had shot the bolts after Millie had
retired to bed. But when, at half-past six the next
morning, she found her way barred, she didn't,
as they expected, bang on the trap door yelling
her head off in frenzy; no, what she did was to
return to her pallet on the floor, pull the clothes
around her and lie there waiting. And she hadn't
all that long to wait, for when Mr Quinton came
downstairs for his seven o'clock breakfast and found
a bare table, he hurried upstairs and informed his
wife. Mrs Quinton's first remark was, 'Oh, she must
have gone. And I thought she was different. I thought
she would handle them. Or perhaps she has just slept
in. Go and see, William.'
When William climbed the ladder and found the
bolts shot he pulled them back, pushed open the
hatch and in the dim light of an almost guttering
candle he saw the maid sitting fully dressed on the
side of her pallet, her feet stretched out before her,
and she was smiling at him. He smiled back as he
said, 'The little devils!'
What she said to him was, 'You won't have had
any breakfast, sir, but I'll get it in a jiffy.'
She prepared his breakfast the while he visited
the two rooms in which five of his children slept,
but in which three of them were now wide awake,
waiting for the screams and the thumps that so far
hadn't been heard. And after clipping his sons'
ears and shaking his daughters, telling them they
should know better, he awakened his six-year old
son, Robert, and his four-year old daughter, Florrie,
with hard smacks on their buttocks. Then pointing
from Betty to Daisy, and then to Paddy, he said,
'I warned you what would happen, didn't I, if we
lost another maid? No more school; and you, Betty,
would go up in the big house kitchen; you, too,
Daisy. There's a young girl up there who has to
scurry around with muck buckets most of the day.
As for you, Paddy, it will be the stables. Now, I mean
that.' He lifted his hand. 'I'm not just saying it this
time. This girl is a good, intelligent girl. She'll likely
be able to teach you as much as you would be able
to learn at school, because she's been to school, too.
So that's the last warning I'm going to give you. You
understand?' And he now bawled at his son, 'Paddy!
do you understand?'
'Yes, Father, yes.'
'Do you want to go into the stableyard?'
'N... n... no, Father. I... I like engines. I mean,
I can draw engines. You know I can.'
'All right, all right. But there you have it, the three
of you. As for you, Robert,' he looked at his younger
son, 'you had better follow their lead or you will end
up in a stableyard, too. There's as young as you had to muck out horses before today.' On this he turned
abruptly and left them.
His warning had stuck, but resentfully; at least,
for the next few days and until Millie was able
to break through it because she was a storyteller,
and, moreover, because she could play with them.
Probably, too, because she told Patrick she liked to
hear him play his tin whistle, whereas, apparently,
nobody else did. And she broke down the final
barrier when, in a clearing in the woodland on
an afternoon when the sun was shining and there
wasn't a breath of wind, she danced for them, doing
the Irish jig Ben had taught her and which he himself
had learnt from Annie when he was a lad.
Blessed with a quick ear, Patrick was soon able
to play the tune that she hummed to him. And
then she had them all attempting to jig, the while
filling the wood with their laughter, so much so
as to attract the attention of two young horsemen
riding up the bridle path. Dismounting, they peered
through the trees and in amazement watched the
young Quintons' mob doing a weird dance round
a girl they had never seen before. She had golden
hair tied with a ribbon at the back, but the rest of
it bounced from her shoulders with every step of the
dance. They weren't to know it had escaped from its
bun with the exertion...
Millie came to know these young men; or rather,
became aware of them as being the sons of Raymond
Crane-Boulder, just as she was to come to know
many of the people in The Grange through the
gossip of Jane Fathers, she being the lowest in the
servants' hierarchy at The Grange because she was
merely the slopperout.
This term was very appropriate, for Jane took over
from the housemaids the chamber pots and china
slop buckets and emptied them into iron buckets;
then, with the help of Ken Atkins, the boot boy,
she carried them all of a hundred yards to the end
of the kitchen garden, where lay the cesspits.
The beginning of the wood lying only a few yards
distant from the cesspits, Jane would sometimes slip
into the shelter of the trees and flop down and dream
of the day when she might become a scullery maid
if she kept on the right side of Mrs Potter, the cook,
who would put a word in for her with Mrs Roper,
the housekeeper.
It was during one of these appropriated short
siestas that she first saw Millie and found a recipient
for her knowledge of the members of the household.
There was the old master who owned two mills in the
town, but who never visited them because he was fat
and had gout and hardly ever left his room. It was
Mr Raymond, his son, who saw to the businesses,
and Jane assured Millie that she would recognise him
right away if ever she came across him, because he
was tall, thin, and handsome. But the mistress now,
Jane pointed out: she was another kettle of fish,
different altogether, because - and the information
had been imparted in a whisper - she had a failing:
she liked the bottle, and at times there would be
the devil to pay going on upstairs. Flo Yarrow, she was the second housemaid, her and Jessie Kitson,
she was the in-between one, they could tell some
tales, and they did about the goings on upstairs: just like Ridley's pub on a Saturday night, they
said it was sometimes. Then there were the two
sons, Mr David, he was fifteen, and Mr Randolph,
he was fourteen. They were real rips; they played
tricks on the servants. Once they kicked a bucket
of slops around her feet. Eeh! she had been in a
mess, she said.
Millie learned that some of the servants were all
right, that they would speak to you, but not Mr
Winters the valet, nor the lady's maid Miss McNeil.
The butler neither; he was uppish. But Mr Boswell
the first footman, he was all right; well, he would
laugh at you at times; but not John Tester, the second
one; he was as snotty as a polis. There were four
maids attached to the kitchen and three others on
the first floor; and there were four men in the yard,
and four gardeners.
At first Millie was confused with all their names,
but through time, and at least twice a week listening
to Jane's chatter, she felt she had come to know
the members of the household and their particular
jobs. But what she didn't know, because Jane herself
didn't know, was the layout of the rooms in the
house, for although the girl had been in service
since she was eight and was now eleven, she had
never got past the servants' hall, and certainly not
past the green-baize door that led from the passage
into the main hall, not even to receive her yearly pay
of fifty-two shillings; for she received this, as the rest
of the kitchen staff received theirs, from the butler,
across a table in the servants' dining-room.
But Jane had high hopes that this year would be
different, for, later on, the mistress's brother, or her
half-brother, she explained, was going to have his
coming-of-age party, and it would be a big do.
And there was a whisper that there would be a
special party for the servants, too. Wouldn't that
be wonderful?
Millie felt sorry for Jane, and she told Aggie so on
one of her half-days. 'She's from the workhouse,' she
said, 'and so is the boot-boy, and they are treated as
though they have the plague, by what I can gather.
But she's so grateful for a kind word, and she keeps
on about this party that's going to be held for the
mistress's half-brother. But as far as I can gather, he
won't be of age until next year. Sad, really. I'm so
sorry for her.'
She was sitting on the couch by Aggie's side, and
as she leant her head against the broad forearm,
saying, 'She wasn't lucky like I was.' Aggie put
her arm around her, and in an unusual show of
her feelings said, 'And I was lucky in my turn to
get you, my dear.' Then she pressed her away and,
looking into her face, she asked quietly, 'D'you know
what Ben's up to?'
'No. What?'
'That's what I'm askin' you, lass, 'cos he talks to
you on the journey backwards and forwards. So, has
he said anything?'
'What about?'
'Well, where he goes twice a week in that good
suit of his. Now when he drops you off he doesn't
wear it. He's decently put on, I'll grant you that; he always has been, even when he's goin' down
to Annie's he's spruced himself up a bit, but this
is something different. The night he puts on that
suit he doesn't turn down the road that would
lead to her place, but goes on towards the town.
So where does he go? And he hasn't said anything
to you?'
'No, Mrs Aggie. No; but it must be somewhere
special he goes to, if he puts on that suit.'
'Well, that's what I think an' all, lass. I said to him, jokin', like, "Have you given your lifelong
friend the push and taken up with a fancy piece? And you know what he said to me?'
Millie shook her head.
'"I shouldn't be a bit surprised." That's what he said: "I shouldn't be a bit surprised. Stranger things have happened." And then d'you know what he said? and he put one of those fancy voices on. "For the first time, Mrs Winkowski," he said, "you've
given the right term to the association I have with
Miss Annie Blackett." Eeh! I nearly threw the pan of stew over him, I did.'
But Millie too was curious as to where Ben would go in his good suit twice a week, and on the journey back to the Quintons' she asked him bluntly, 'What are you doing, Ben, going into town twice a week
in your new suit?'
'Oh, she's been at you, has she? I've been waiting
for it. Well, miss, if I told you, you'd know as much
as me, wouldn't you? Then come Sunday you would
tell her on the quiet.'
'Oh no I wouldn't, not if you didn't want me to.
You know that, Ben.'
He glanced at her, then said quietly, 'Well, if I tell
you, you'll laugh; at least you'll do that.'
'I mightn't laugh unless it's funny. Is it something
funny?'
' No; I don't think it's funny. It's what I've wanted
to do for a long time but hadn't the nerve. But then,
I got to thinkin': there's you, a bit of a lass, and your
head's full of all kinds of things; and there's me,
ten years older than you, a fully-fledged man, and
I know practically nowt. Well, what I mean is, me
mind's workin' all the time, but it's goin' round in
circles, like, and the circles are not gettin' any wider,
if you know what I mean. So, I thought: well, there's
many a better man than me started to learn when he
was well on in age. And so that's what I'm doing. I
joined the night class.'
'Oh Ben. Oh! I am glad. What made you think
I would laugh at you? And as for me having more
in my head than you have, that's silly. I've always
found you wise.'
The, wise?'
'Oh yes. Yes, the things that you say in your
summing up of things ... and people. But I'm
so glad you're going to night classes. What are
you learning?'
'Well--' He flapped the reins, calling, 'Gee up!
there, Laddie,' and he seemed to ponder a moment
before he answered her question: 'It seemed daft,
the first time I went, just listenin' to the fella
readin' bits from this and that, then askin' what
you thought about it. Well, I wasn't the only one
there that couldn't tell him what they thought about
the Poor Law unions before the Board of Guardians
came into being'. I ask you. But as one bright spark
said, the less he knew about the workhouses the
happier he would be; he had just come to the
class in order to help him get a better job to
keep him out of the workhouse. We all laughed
at that, and the teacher fella did, too. It sort of
broke the ice. Mind, I nearly did say something
when he got on about the Public Health Act that
had come in in '48. Eeh! I wanted to say they
must have overlooked the mile warren of Courts,
where the rats have more space than those livin'
there. But it all makes you think. Well, it's opened
my eyes. But mind, I felt a bit rattled when he said
there were good workin' class houses goin' up and
people wouldn't go into them because they were
used to herding together in lice-ridden hovels. One
fella did stand up and go for him, but he told him
to go to Boston Lane and there he would see what
he had said was true. And you know, Millie, it was,
'cos I went along there meself an' had a look. They
were smallish houses, but neat like, brick built, yet
half of them were empty. I wouldn't have believed
it until I saw it.'
'It all sounds interesting, Ben; makes me wish I
was there with you.'
'Oh, you are better off where you are, far better
off lookin' after those rips of bairns, as Aggie's police
friend calls them. And one of the lessons was about
children, bairns, and the New Act of 1842. According
to that, apparently, children shouldn't be sent to
work until they are ten years old. But half the country
were up in arms against it: farmers, even parents.
I mean the young 'uns' parents, because they were
breadwinners. Of course, they were cheap labour
for the factories and the farmers. Well, I've always
known that. But when you hear it read out to you,
an' you hear of the laws that were passed against
it and weren't carried out, it makes you think. So,
there you are, Millie Forester, that's what I'm doin'
in me good suit twice a week: learnin'. And reading
more - when I get the chance.'
'Oh, I am proud of you, Ben. I really am.' And
when he muttered, 'You must be the only one then,'
she shook his arm, saying, 'Don't be silly. I'm not.
Mrs Aggie loves you.'
She waited for the denial, but it wasn't forthcoming,
not even the cocky one that would have come
easily to him, 'Aye, I can't help it, she can't help
it.' Instead, he just shouted to the horse, 'Gee up!
there.'
Thinking of Ben going to school, even if it was only
a two-hour night class twice a week, set her mind
working again on the thought that she, too, would
like to go to school. Yet, she knew she couldn't have it all ways; and she loved working with the Quinton
children, as she did helping Mrs Quinton. In fact,
she did most of the cooking now, and she knew that they appreciated her and thought of her in a way as
perhaps being different from a servant. Even so, on
the three Sundays in the month when the children
had their mid-day meal in the dining-room with
their parents, she was never asked to sit down with
them. And yet they made her feel as if she was one
of the family, whereas Nellie Fuller, the coachman's
daughter, who came for two hours every morning,
was given no privileges at all. Mrs Quinton was kind
to her in that she never shouted at her - but she was
never offered a drink or a bun before she left, and
her wage was always given directly to her father.
She was another one Millie was sorry for, and
she sometimes sneaked her a currant bun that she
had kept over from her own middle morning break,
and which Nellie always accepted and ate without
saying a word.
But it was one morning when she was escorting the
children on their mile walk to the church school in
the village that she got an idea, and that evening she
put it to Mrs Quinton in a very diplomatic way.
It was Mrs Quinton herself who gave her the
opening, saying, 'I bless that school. They get on
so well there, and your reading to them at night has
helped considerably, Millie. You know, you yourself
could be a teacher.'
'Well, I have high hopes of being one, ma'am... '
The idea had never entered her head. 'Before I came
to look after the children I was going to return to
school, and I would like to do that again.'
Before she got any further, Rose Quinton cried,
'Oh, no! Millie. No! You couldn't possibly leave the
children, not now. And they love you, they really do,
they really love you. You have been able to manage
them like no other; in fact, they obey you more than
they do me. Oh, Millie, Millie, you're not thinking
of leaving us, are you?'
'Well, I really would like to go to school again, if
it was only for half a day.'
'Oh, Millie, Millie. I thought you would be settled
here until the children grew up, I really did. You are
such a help to me. And we do appreciate you, both
Mr Quinton and I. He will be so disappointed.'
'But I am not going right away.'
'No; but you've got it in your mind, haven't
you?'
'Well, yes. Yes, I have, but.., but there is a way
out if... if you really feel that the children would
want me to stay.'
'Yes? Yes? What is it; I mean, the way out?'
'Well, if it were possible for me to attend school
with the children two or three mornings a week just
for half the day, I'd make that do for a time.'
Rose Quinton seemed to think for a moment, and
then she said brightly, 'Yes. Yes, indeed, Millie, that
is an idea. I must speak to Mr Quinton, and he will
talk to Mrs Wilkins. She is the teacher, you know,
and I'm sure, in a way, you could likely be of help
to her with the younger ones. Yes. Yes, I will speak to Mr Quinton as soon as he comes in. That is a
way out. And the children would love it and they
wouldn't take advantage of you. Well, you don't
let them, do you?' She nodded knowingly at Millie
before rising and leaving the kitchen, sighing deeply
as if with relief.

So Millie went to school again and life went on very
smoothly, and such was the feeling of the family for
her, she was given tea in the dining-room on her
thirteenth birthday.
And it could be said that life took on a rosy glow
for Millie during the months ahead, until the celebrations
at The Grange for the coming of age of the
mistress's half-brother Bernard Thompson, and the
staff party that followed it, changed things entirely.
SEVEN


During the week before the great event, the growing
activity and excitement it was engendering in The
Grange itself was also seeping into The Little Manor,
and especially was it felt by Millie, who had been
given to understand from Mrs Quinton that she
would be invited to the staff party, which was to
take place the day following the main party, and
which Jane had told her was to be held in the big
games room.
During one of her collections, Aggie had been
given a lady's taffeta dress with a blue silk lining.
The outside of the dress was marked in various
places, but the inside of the material looked as good
as new, as did the lining. She had taken it to Chinese
Charlie and asked him if his wife could turn it into
a dress for her Millie. Mrs Charlie was very good at
remaking clothes and it was she who suggested that
the material would be suitable for a Chinese style of
garment. And so that was what was being made for
Millie to wear on the great day.
Millie was as excited about the dress as she was
about the party itself; but she was anxious, above
all, to see the inhabitants of the house; except for the coachman and Ken Atkins, the boot-boy, who
sometimes slipped into the wood with Jane, for what
purpose she hadn't yet discovered, nor would allow
her mind to guess at, because she liked them both;
yes, except for these and, now and again, a gardener,
she had seen no other members of the household, for
The Little Manor was as separate from The Grange
as if it were set in another part of the town. The
staff never used the drive that led past The Little
Manor, having been ordered not to pass the bailiff's
residence. The party was due on the coming Tuesday
evening; but this was Saturday, and there was no
school on Saturday; and Saturday afternoon was a
time for play, inside or outside the house. On this
afternoon it was to take place outside the house.
It was a bright but cold day, and Millie had had
the children running around in the wood to keep
themselves warm, and the game they all liked was
to skip behind her the while following Patrick as he
played on his whistle.
In and out of the trees they went, and always
in this game Millie herself became a child again,
dancing and experiencing a particular kind of joy through the exuberance.
It was in this state that Millie emerged from the
wood behind the whistle player, followed by the
four children, to come to a staggered halt when
confronted by the tall lady and the gentleman.
Not having seen the master and mistress of the
house, Millie had not imagined what they were
like. But she was immediately given their identity
by Betty, stumbling over the grass verge and on to
the road and dipping her knee and looking from one
to the other as she said, 'Master ... Mistress, we
were playing.'
Berenice Crane-Boulder stared down on the girl
and, her voice belying the slightness of her frame,
she said, 'I should have thought you were beyond
the playing stage, child. And this girl,' She flicked
her fingers towards Millie; then stared hard at
her for a good moment before she said, 'Who is
she?'
Before Betty could answer, Millie said, 'I am nursemaid
to the children and helper to Mrs Quinton,
ma'am.'
Both the voice and the manner seemed, for a
moment, to deprive the mistress of speech; but
only for a moment: assuming further authority,
she rose her tone to a bawl and cried at Millie,
'Speak when you're spoken to, girl! Apparently
your training has been neglected.' Then looking
at Betty again, she said, 'Tell your mother I wish
to see her at ten o'clock tomorrow morning in my
office.'
'Berenice.' It was the master speaking now; but
his wife, seeming not to hear, looked at Patrick,
saying, 'Boy! go to the stables and tell the men a
wheel of the carriage needs attention. Away with
you!'
Millie watched the lady now walk away, the
rustle of her voluminous skirts making a swishing
sound, as if she were walking through dried leaves; and she imagined her to be a bird about to fly,
for the feathers in her hat protruded from the
back like wings.
The tall man was now patting Betty's head and
saying, 'It is nice to play. One's never too old to
play,' and the child, wide-eyed and smiling, said,
'Thank you, master. Thank you, master,' dipping
her knee with each statement. Then he turned and
looked at Millie before taking two steps towards her
and saying, 'You like to dance?'
'Yes, sir.'
'How old are you?'
'Thirteen, sir.'
'Thirteen. It is a very nice age. Your ... your
dancing was so energetic, it has caused your cap
to go awry.' And he put out his hand and pulled
the small starched cap from where it had slipped
almost to the back of her head and behind her ear,
and bringing it into place again, he said, 'You have
beautiful hair.'
As his hand touched her cheek her head moved
back just the slightest, and she looked up into
his face. It was a thin face, but with a kindly
expression. She remembered Jane telling her he
was thin. His eyes were brown, the nose pointed;
his top lip, too, was thin, but the lower pouted a
little in its fulness. And when he smiled as he did
now widely, he showed a mouthful of gleaming
teeth.
There then came a diversion, for Florrie's plump
legs had seemingly given way beneath her and she
sat down with a plop on the grass verge, saying,
'Oh, dear me,' which caused the children to titter,
and the master to turn to Millie again and say, 'You
have worn her out.'
Without answering the man, Millie picked up
Florrie, slightly inclined her head in acknowledgement
towards the man, and turned away to go
into the wood again, and one after the other the
children dipped a knee to the master and then
ran after her.
Chattering among themselves they entered the
house, and Daisy, quickly preceding the rest, ran
into the sitting-room to her mother and father. Rose
was sitting on the couch, William Quinton was at
a table to the side, writing a report, and she cried
at them, 'We saw the master and mistress! and the
master straightened Millie's cap.'
Her father stopped his writing to say, 'What are
you talking about, child?'
The rest of the family were now trotting into the
room, and he looked from one to the other and Betty
repeated Daisy's statement: 'We saw the master and
mistress, Dada. The mistress was in a tear. She wants
to see you in the morning, Mama, at ten o'clock
in her office.'
The husband and wife exchanged glances; then
William said, 'Where did you see them?'
'Just along the road.'
'On our drive?' He was on his feet now.
'Yes; the carriage had broken down. It must have
been outside the gates at the bottom. She went for Millie, but the master was nice. He straightened her
cap and patted her face.'
Rose was quickly on her feet, saying, 'He straightened
Millie's cap? Why?'
'Well, we had been dancing through the wood and
the jigging must have loosened the hair pins and it
had fallen to the side and he straightened it and
patted her cheek. And he talked to her.'
William again exchanged a quick glance with his
wife; then looking down on his family, he said,
'You're all getting too big for jigging and dancing
through the wood, especially you, Betty, and you,
Daisy. And Paddy, I'm going to burn that whistle
of yours. And what's more, Millie should have
more sense.'
Patrick now said, 'If you did, Dada, I'd just make
another. Taggard showed me how to whittle one.'
William spread his arms now, saying dramatically,
'What kind of a family am I rearing?' Then looking
at his wife, he said, 'What kind of a family are you
bringing up, woman, when my son defies me and
my daughters act like abandoned females, dancing
in a woodland? ... Robert! you take that grin off
your face before it is wiped off.'
When Robert rubbed his hand all over his face,
leaving his expression tight-lipped, the children all
burst out laughing, bringing the immediate command
from their father, 'Get yourselves away, everyone
of you! Out of my sight!' And they scampered
from the room, leaving their parents looking at each
other. And then William said a strange thing:' I don't
want to believe it,' he said, and his wife answered
just as enigmatically, 'Perhaps it's because she's a
dreadful woman.'

Aggie and Ben stood back and looked silently at the
slim young creature standing before them in a blue
brocade dress with its tiny stand-up collar and a sash
waist, and at the skirt flowing down to the top of
her black leather shoes. The sleeves were wide, and
when Millie lifted her arms and swung round, it
was evident that right down to the cuffs they were
attached to the dress itself.
'Did you ever see anything so lovely as that frock
in all your days?'
'Well, all I can say is, Charlie's wife's made a
good job of it.'
'My! she has that. I knew it was a piece of good
stuff when I first got the dress, but I never thought
it would make up like that.'
'But look who's wearin' it, Aggie. Look who's
wearin' it.'
'Oh' - Aggie tossed her head - 'that kind of frock
would make anybody look good.' But her words
were accompanied by a grin; and then she added,
'But you'll have to do something with your hair, lass. You can't leave it loose like that.'
'Oh, Mrs Quinton said she will gather it for me
into a special kind of bun at the back.'
'She seems a nice woman, that Mrs Quinton.'
'She is nice, Mrs Aggie. Oh, yes, she is nice. And
she's young.., well, I mean she's had six children but she's still young somehow, in spite of being
twenty-nine.'
'Twenty-nine?' Aggie and Ben looked at each
other, and Ben repeated solemnly, 'Twenty-nine.
She's practically ready for the grave.'
'Oh, you! Ben. You know what I mean. But isn't
it lovely?' She stroked her hands down the skirt. 'I've
never seen anything so beautiful in my life. Oh, thank
you, Mrs Aggie. Thank you.'
When she threw herself on Aggie, Aggie pushed
her away, crying, 'Look! It's ... it's been steamed
and pressed and cost me a pretty penny, I can tell
you; hail a dollar from beginning to end. So don't
muck it up.'
'Oh.' Millie now gently caught at the two hands
that were half extended towards her as she said, 'Oh,
thank you. Thank you, thank you. You know, you're
wonderful, and you can't stop me saying thank you.
And you know what? I told the children a story
about you the other day. I keep them quiet at night
telling them stories. Anyway, I was in the middle of
this one and there wasn't a sound, and I think that's
why Mrs Quinton came upstairs. She sat on the side
of Betty's bed and listened, and afterwards, when
we had gone downstairs, she said to me, '"That
was a lovely story. It was about Mrs Winkowski,
wasn't it?" '
'Oh, God in heaven!' Aggie went into her flouncing
attitude, and as she turned away she glanced at
Ben, saying, 'Did you ever! What'll we hear next?
She'll be in one of those ranters' chapels telling the
tale, and praisin' God while she bangs the bairns'
heads together.'
As Aggie disappeared through the doorway and
Ben, his body shaking with controlled laughter, was
about to say something, Millie put in sadly, 'You
can't thank her, can you? She won't take thanks.'
'Aw, me dear.' Ben went over to her and put
his arm around her shoulder, only to withdraw it
quickly, saying, 'Eeh my! I mustn't touch you, not
with that on. But that's her way. If she had stayed
a minute longer she would have been blubbing her
eyes out. Don't you realise, me dear, that for her
you're the sun that rises an' the moon that sets an'
all that goes on in between.'
Millie was smiling at him now: 'That was nice,' she
said. 'Who's it by? Did you read it somewhere?'
'No! No! I didn't. It came out of me own thinkin'.' 'Really? The sun that rises and the moon that sets
and all that goes on in between... That says it all,
Ben.' And now she added, 'You're still liking the
night classes?'
'Aye. Yes, I'm still liking them and still havin'
me say. Most of them are scared to death to open
their mouths in case they'll be stopped coming to
the classes. I've told them that wouldn't happen.
And anyway there are other teaching places round
about now. It's catchin' on. In my mind, though,
they're going wrong in one direction: they're not
making us write enough. They read to us and get
us to read bits back; but it's all snatches, if you
know what I mean. This week he's gone back to 47, dealing with the Corn Laws, you know, and
how some of the big blokes were scuppered when
the corn dropped from a hundred and twenty-four
shillings a quarter to forty-nine and six within a
few months. Poor people benefited, but sympathy
seemed to go to the corn dealers and the bill brokers
because they were ruined. And not afore time, I said.
From then, apparently, the trade began to boom. But
here we are at the end of the fifties, and are we much
better off? There were all those who scarpered to the
gold dig, gin's in California and Australia. Have we
heard of any of them making their fortunes? A lot
of them died, that's known. Bill Watson's brother,
for instance. And, you know, Bill didn't even know
until nine months later. All this talk of prosperity
gets up my bloody nose, 'cos while there's a lot
gettin' on in the world there's a lot more dying of
poverty and muck. And a sevenpenny loaf! That's
certainly not saving them in Ireland dropping dead
by the hundred. Eeh! there's a place for you.
'One teacher said a golden era has dawned on all
the Northern Counties, and right up to Scotland, and
even into Wales. You know, Millie' - he sat down
heavily on the settle - 'I'm in another world when
I'm in that room listening to that fella. Sometimes
there's a woman teacher. Oh aye, there're women
teachers an' all. But they get me a bit mesmerised,
and I think, yes, things are gettin' better, aye, they
must be; and then I walk half a mile back here to The
Courts and I say to meself, what's up with you, Ben
Smith, Jones, or Robinson? They haven't skimmed
the skin off the top of the watery milk yet. And you
know what I think, Millie,-I mean, who's the cause
of most of this muck and filth in The Courts? It's
the Irish. The teacher said their poverty over there
was caused by religion and ignorance and she said
we might think there were some bad slums here, but
they were nothing compared to those in Belfast and
such places. Well, I said to her after, you want to
come down to Belling Court, not five minutes down
the road from where I live. That's what I said to her. They've brought over their pigs and muck; the
place's full of 'em. There's fourteen living in one of the cellars there and they've got pigs in with them an' all, I believe. And of course, what'd 'they do? They
work for practically nowt, and if the bosses can get
cheap labour like that they're not going to pay an Englishman a decent wage, are they? Oh, Millie' he
shook his head from side to side now - 'I wish I was learned.'
'Well' - she laughed at him - 'you're going the
right way about it. And you're telling me things I
never knew. I'd like to go to those classes.'
'Oh, you'd have to grow up first.'
'I am grown up.' She was indignant. 'I'm coming
on fourteen.'
'Aye, coming.' He rose from the seat, saying,
'Well, I'm off for a dander.'
'May I come with you?'
'No, you can't, not where I dander. And anyway
you'd better get out of that frock if you want it to
be fresh for the party.'
'You always go for a dander on Sunday. Where
do you go?'
'Oh, different places. Talk to different people.
It's amazing how on a Sunday places change from
their week-day look, and people an' all. They talk
differently; they come out with things differently. Oh, you learn a lot on a dander. '
He now gave her a form of salute with his fingers to his forehead, then went out. But the door had
hardly closed on him when Aggie came back into
the room, saying, 'I would get out of that if you
don't want it crushed to bits and the hem soiled. As
you've likely noticed, miss, this floor isn't as clean
as it used to be when you were here.'
'Well, I can clean it.'
'You'll do no such thing. It suits me. So, get out
of that frock. And where's his lordship gone? Oh,
need I ask? His Sunday dander. And he's gettin' too
big for his boots by half.'
'He's a good man, Mrs Aggie, and you know
that.'
'Look, am I to take that frock off you?'
Millie now hurried from the room and upstairs,
where she changed into her Sunday dress; then she
folded the beautiful garment and laid it in between
two sheets of paper ready for its journey back to her
happy place of work.
When she again returned to the kitchen Aggie said,
'Come and sit down a minute and tell me about the
gentry you ran into yesterday. What's this I hear
about the big master straightenin' your cap?'
'Ben told you?'
'Well, use that napper that's supposed to be bright;
how otherwise would I be speaking about it now?'
'Well, if he told you word for word, and that's
what he likely would do, there's nothing more I can
say. That's what happened: he straightened my cap,
patted my cheek and smiled.'
'What kind of a man was he?'
'He was tall and had a nice face and seemed
kind. But his wife sounded a bit of a terror. I
understand she drinks.'
'So do I, in moderation.'
'Well, I think she doesn't know about moderation.
From what I can gather from Jane and from what she
picks up with her big ears from the kitchen jabber,
there's skull and hair flying in that house at times.'
'And that's where you're goin' on Tuesday night?'
'Yes, Mrs Winkowski, that's where I'm going
on Tuesday night, and I'm looking forward to
it.'
Aggie turned to gaze into the fire, saying softly,
'You'll move away from us and this quarter, like
he's doin'.'
'What do you mean, move away? Look here.' She
pulled at Aggie's arm. 'I'll never grow away from
you. You know that. As for Ben, to say that about
him, that's unfair.'
Aggie sighed, then said, 'I know the secret that's
between you. I found out some time ago. I made
it me business to find out, anyway. He's goin' to
school, isn't he? At his age, goin' to school!'
'Well, I thought you would have been proud of
him.'
'Education, lass, is all right in its place for them
that needs it, if you're goin' to do something with
it, if it means your livelihood or some such, but
otherwise what does it do? It just stirs the mind and
never brings pleasure, because the more you know
the more you realise you don't know, an' so you go
on probin'. Change doesn't do anybody any good.
As I see it, God sets you in a space, and He gives
you work to do, an' you do it the best you can. But
you don't say to Him, I don't like this job You've
given me, I'm made for better things, when deep in
your mind it tells you that you couldn't do better
things, any better than you are doin', if you follow
what I mean.'
Millie followed what she meant, and it saddened
her. She said, 'Then you don't like people getting on
in the world, getting out of the rut?'
'Not if they're made for the rut, lass, not if they're
made for the rut. Take Constable Fenwick. He was
on this beat for years; then he goes and becomes a
sergeant. I ask him how he feels about it and he
answers truthfully, he doesn't know. He's missin'
something 'cos his work now is different and he has
to write a lot of things which keeps him indoors,
whereas before, he knew almost all the people on
his beat; and him being' Irish and a Catholic, he
helped those he could, especially the bairns. He's
had a lot of them re-housed in his time. But now,
with his rise, he's lost touch. There's hardly a day
went by when he didn't pass that gate, and if he
didn't look in he'd give me a nod, as he always did
if I was on the road with the cart. And I know that
he did things that no ordinary policeman would do.
But now he's a sergeant he'll have to watch his p's
and q's. And he told me he was doin' what you call
studying. Studying what? I said to him. And when
he said bits of the law, I remember I made him laugh
when I said, if he carried the bits out he'd better not
show his face in The Courts round about or they
would pinch his bits, and more than his bits. No,
I'm not for education, not really.'
'Then why have you pushed it into me? Why
have you sent me to school? Why did you put
me under the nuns? Why did you insist that I go
to Mrs Quinton's?'
'Oh, that's a different kettle of fish. There was a
reason behind that. It was a lesser of two evils.-Oh
aye, by God! the great lesser, and you know what
I'm talkin' about.'
Millie sat back from her, laid her head against
the end of the couch, surveyed the fat bulk for a
moment, and then said, 'Mrs Agnes Winkowski, you
are a complex creature.'
'Is that what I am?'
'Yes, and more, and I love you. Oh, oh, I know
you will term that slaver, but I will say again, I
love you, Mrs Agnes Winkowski.' And quickly
now she leant forward and placed her lips against
the sagging cheek, then ended, 'And if I didn't
love you for anything else I would love you for giving me that beautiful dress.' She now struck a
pose. 'By! it's going to startle the staff and their
betters when I make my appearance in The Grange
on Tuesday night.'
Aggie didn't smile, she didn't laugh, in fact, she
said nothing, for if she had voiced her thoughts
she would have startled and troubled Millie, for
she would have said, 'I wish to God you weren't
goin' to that party, love. I do. I do.'
EIGHT


William Quinton had taken her to the back door,
smiled at her and said, 'Enjoy yourself.' Then he
had pushed the door open and said, 'Go on, or else
they'll have started.'
She had passed through the boot-room, lit by two candle-lanterns hanging one each side of the door
leading into the pan scullery, which was illuminated
in the same way. She walked slowly, taking in, first,
the enormity of the room, and then, the amazing
number of iron pans arrayed along a bench and
the tubs of water standing to the side. Now she
was in the kitchen. And here she stopped to gaze
about her in amazement. She had never imagined
such a place. There were two ovens flanking a large
fire and, over it, a spit from which was hanging
a huge piece of meat; and turning it with a twist
of the handle was Ken Atkins. He looked washed
and scrubbed and, glancing over his shoulder, he
said, 'I've just slipped out to turn it. They're all in the dining-room. Come on.' He held a hand out
towards her; then stopped and looked at her. She
was wearing the brown cloak over the dress, but it
was open at the front; and glimpsing the material, he said, 'That looks pretty stuff. Look, you'd better leave your cloak in the hallway here.' He led her up
the long kitchen and into a short passage that opened out into a small hall and, pointing, he said, 'Leave it on that chair there.'
After she had done so and stood before him, his mouth fell into a gape as he looked her up and down,
then said, 'Eeh! My! Well!' and as if reluctant to take his eyes from her he stood gaping for seconds before he said, 'Come on.'
She followed him along another passage, from the far end of which came a high buzz of voices and laughter, which continued for a moment or so after they had entered the room; then one face after another was turned towards her.
Millie stared at these faces. She was shaking inside, for she knew she had made a mistake, or at least that the dress was a mistake. Nobody in the room was dressed in ordinary clothes; they were all in their household uniforms.
Someone started to laugh, but this was quickly
quashed by a voice saying, 'Be quiet! Carter,' and the owner of the voice stood up and pointed
towards the end of the room, to a plank table with a form alongside it on which Amy Carter the kitchen maid and Jane Fathers were already seated. Ken Atkins made his way quickly to the form and sat down; but when Millie did not follow
him, Mrs Roper, the housekeeper, cleared her throat before saying, 'Take a seat.' Millie did not
immediately obey the order, but in a clear voice
she said, 'I'm very sorry. I understood it was a
party.'
'Of course it's a party! But we know how to dress
for a party. Take a seat!'
As she walked across the room to sit down next
to Ken, her mind was crying at her: Mrs Quinton
should have known, and she was given the answer.
Perhaps she did, and she was going to tell me, but
Mr Quinton stopped her, for it was he who had said:
It's a party, Rose, and that dress is a picture. Let it
be. And then he had said something that she couldn't
understand: They want startling, that lot; and if it
wasn't for one thing I'd be enjoying the effect.
Now she knew what he had meant, except for
that one thing.
Slowly the conversation and the laughter rose
again, and during it and between gulping her food,
Jane Fathers gave Millie a running commentary on
the hierarchy, from Miss McNeil, the lady's maid,
and Mr Winters, the valet, and Mr Carlin, the butler,
whose presence at the communal board appeared
to her like visitors from heaven itself: if Queen
Victoria and her Prince had been sitting here they
could not have aroused greater admiration in the
narrow breast.
The food was served in turn by the three housemaids,
helped with great laughter from John Tester,
the second footman, especially when, bowing to
Millie, he exclaimed loudly, 'And what is your
desire, madam, beef or turkey? I am here but to serve
you,' only for the laughter to die down somewhat as the immediate company was brought to another
silence when the chit who was dressed in brocade,
like a Chinese lady, dared to say, and in no small
voice, 'That I should be served with civility, if
you please.'
When John Tester turned round and looked towards
the housekeeper and the butler, this could
have been the beginning of an awkward situation;
in fact, could have put a damper on the whole party
had not David Boswell, the first footman, chipped
in with, 'Play acting at its best, if I've ever heard it.
What d'you say, Mr Carlin?'
Feeling it was his duty to keep the party going
merrily, the butler joined with his underling, crying,
'Well said! serf. Well said!' which brought guffaws
and laughter, and once again the meal continued
except that Jane Fathers, her head down now
whispered, 'Eeh! you shouldn't have spoke like that
Millie. Nobody does. What's come over you?'
Millie didn't know what had come over her; she
only knew she didn't care for the company and she
wasn't going to enjoy herself, and that the whole
thing had been a mistake. Her mind was again
blaming Mrs Quinton. She should have put her
wise; yes, she should. She shouldn't have let her
make a fool of herself. Yet, she didn't feel a fool: at
this moment she felt.., well, she didn't like to put it
even into a thought, but she felt superior. How many
in this room, she wondered, had any learning at all,
could even write their own name? Very few. How
many would have the courage to go to night class
Ben was doing? None of them, she told herself. It
would have been beneath them; it would have shown
up their ignorance. Once this meal was over and she
could get her cloak, she would slip out the way she
had come in...
The meal was over, including the toast to Mr
Thompson; and the exodus had started for the games
room where, waiting for them, were two fiddlers and
a flute player.
This, she thought, would be her chance to escape,
but she was baulked by the man who had come to
her aid before. Noticing that she had not risen from
her seat with the others and sensing her feelings, Mr
Carlin, too, stayed his departure and made his way
towards her.
Taking her hand and bending down to her, he
said, 'Never be ashamed of looking bonny, love.
It might have been the wrong dress, but it had the
right effect. Aye, it had that. Come on now and
enjoy yourself.' And with this he led her through
what seemed a maze of corridors to the two rooms
that had been made into one by the pushing back
of a partition.
By the time they entered the room, most were
already seated along three of the walls; at the far
end, in front of a step-high dais, sat the master
and mistress, their two sons, sixteen-year old David,
and fifteen-year old Randolph, together with Mr
Bernard Thompson, in whose honour this function
was being held. The musicians were already in place
on the dais.
Although she was almost the last to enter the
room her appearance certainly didn't go unnoticed
by members of the family. The mistress herself had
narrowed her eyes towards the girl, as if bringing her
into focus, and had then turned to her half-brother,
saying something which caused them both to laugh;
her two sons apparently had the giggles, which was
checked by their father; but he, too, was staring
down the room at the young creature, whom he saw
representing an exquisite piece of Chinese porcelain;
and he could not keep the surprise from his voice
when he muttered, 'My goodness!'
It was David, his elder son, who asked of no-one
in particular, 'Why is that girl rigged out like that?
Did she think it was a fancy dress ball?' As he spluttered,
his mother pushed him gently on the shoulder,
saying, 'I dare you to go and ask her to dance.'
'What! Me? Oh, Mama; don't be funny.'
She now turned to her half-brother, saying, 'You'd
better get up and thank them for being here, and let
them get on with it.'
'No; Raymond must do that,' he said quietly,
but Raymond Crane-Boulder was quick to put in,
'Not me. It was your birthday, so get on your
pins.'
Slowly the young man rose to his feet and, holding
up a hand for silence, began hesitantly, 'Thank you.
Thank you all very much for your kindness to me,
and for your good wishes, and particularly for that
very fine saddle you presented to me. Now, as you
have already gathered, I'm no good at making
speeches, so I suggest the musicians start up and
we dance. Eh?' And on this he waved his hand back
towards the three men on the dais, then sat down,
to loud clapping.
The musicians struck up a lively polka; but no-one
ventured on to the open floor until the valet took
the lady's maid's hand and led her forward. From
then, the rest soon followed, and the floor began to
vibrate with the thumping of one, two, three, hop;
one, two, three, hop.
When Berenice Crane-Boulder rose to her feet,
her husband said, 'Where are you going?' And she,
turning a disdainful look on him, replied, 'Where do
you think?' And turning to her son, she said, 'You
coming, David?'
'Yes, Mama. Yes, Mama, I'm coming.' The boy
was giggling and not too steady on his feet from the
wine he had drunk at dinner, and he turned now and
pulled his brother out with him.
As the three went out of a side door to the right
of where they had been sitting, Bernard Thompson
muttered under his breath, 'We can't all leave.'
'No, no, of course not,' the older man nodded
assent. 'But that's her, that's her. You've seen for
yourself, haven't you, these last few days? She's got
worse, much worse. Never sober. And she's got those
boys ruined. It's a good job they'll be going back to
school next week.'
Bernard Thompson had been looking down the
room to where, apart from three elderly couples,
two young girls and a boy were sitting; and now, as if on impulse, he rose and, smiling, threaded his
way between the dancers towards them.
Looking at Ken Atkins, he asked, 'Why aren't you
dancing?' and the boy, who now stood up, answered,
'Don't know much about dancin', sir.'
'Well, you'll never learn sitting there. Look, take
her.' He put out a hand and brought Jane Fathers to
her feet and, pressing her towards Ken, he said, 'Just
hop. Just hop.' And when they joined hands and both
started to laugh, those who were dancing nearby
laughed too. And this drew them into the throng.
Now he was left looking at the remarkable slip
of a girl and, his voice changing, he said, 'Do
you dance?'
'Yes, sir, I dance.., in my own way.'
How odd: her manner was as strange as her
dress. She wasn't like the rest of them. And why
was she dressed like this anyway? 'What is your
name?' he said.
'Millicent Forester, sir.'
'Well, Miss Forester, may I ask if you will give me
the pleasure of joining me in this dance?'
Without hesitation and, as was said later in the
staff room, brazenly, she stood up and put out a
hand to him. As he took it, his other hand he placed
on her slender waist, and without pause she put her
free hand on his shoulder. Then they were dancing.
Their steps seemed to match, because he wasn't
all that tall. She imagined, judging by Ben's height,
which was a little over five feet, this man could be
only six or seven inches taller. She had never done
this dance before, but it was so simple, one, two,
three, hop; one, two, three, hop.
When he looked down at her she laughed up into
his face. But when he said, 'You're as light on your
feet as a nymph,' her smile disappeared, for the
words recalled the face of the man who had called
her the rag nymph.
This man, however, was different: there was no
evil in his eyes that she could see. He wasn't really
handsome, but he was good-looking. And although
he was the mistress's half-brother there was no
resemblance between them; not in any way at least
that she could see, especially not in his manner.
The dance came to an end amid great clapping. He
led her back to her seat, and when she sat down he
bowed to her, saying, 'Thank you very much, Miss
Forester. I hope I may have the pleasure again during
the evening.'
She did not answer him, just inclined her head
towards him; and when Jane flopped down at her
side, saying, 'Eeh! fancy. What was it like ... I
mean, dancin' with 'im?' she answered, 'Just like
you dancing with Ken.'
Ken almost doubled up with laughter, and spluttered,
'But I stood on her toes; and I kicked McTaggart
on the shins backwards.' Then he leant past Jane
towards Millie, and whispered, 'I've always wanted
to do that,' which set them all off.
The music did not immediately restart and the
room seemed full of chatter. Looking round, Millie
realised that most of the staff were old.., well, in their thirties. In fact, some, she guessed, were in their
fifties, as old as Mrs Aggie. Even the housemaids
were fully fledged women. Jane, Ken, and herself,
seemed to be the only young ones present.
When the butler stood up the chatter ceased, and
he called out, 'Will you take your partners for the
quadrille, ladies and gentlemen?'
There was more laughter now and bustle as some
members of the company paired off and grouped
into four couples, making a square. But when others
Seemed laughingly reluctant to get to their feet, the
master and Mr Bernard Thompson rose together;
and when Mr Bernard approached Sarah Cross,
the first housemaid, the master continued down
the room till he came to the three young people,
and there, standing in front of Millie, he said, 'Will
you do me the honour, my dear?'
Whereas she had accepted Mr Bernard Thompson's
invitation without much hesitation, she now
sat looking fixedly at the tall man, until he laughed
down at her and, holding out his hand, commanded
gently, 'Come;' then she allowed him to lead her to
where there were only two couples standing. Having
joined them, he turned round and looked towards his
head gardener and cried, 'Come on, Benson. Don't
tell me you're too old for a dance? And you, Mrs
Benson, get him up.'
The feeling engendered by the master's picking
that chit of a girl, that stranger, that odd-looking
creature, to dance, was somewhat placated by his enticing
of the gardener and his wife on to the floor.
As the fiddles and the flute struck up a lively
tune, Millie now muttered, 'I don't know the steps;'
and he, bending his head towards her, exclaimed
loudly, 'What?'
'I don't know the steps.'
'Don't worry. Here we go!' And with this, he
marched her briskly around in a circle; then turning
her, he marched her back again. And so they progressed through the five figures of the dance.
Each of the other three men would take hold of
Millie and swing her round, but Raymond Crane
Boulder always caught her under the arms and
swung her off her feet.
By the time the dance was finished everybody was
gasping for breath but seemingly happily.
On this occasion, she wasn't escorted back to her
seat because her last partner in the dance was Fred
Bateholm, and he turned from her to rejoin his wife,
so leaving her to walk down the room to where Jane
and Ken were sitting. When she flopped down beside
them, Jane said, 'By! the master does dance, doesn't
he? And he swung you off your feet. D'you know'
her voice sank - 'your dress came up and you could
see your blue petticoat and your white stockings
right up to your calves.'
Millie wasn't taking much heed of Jane's chattering because she was looking towards the doorway
where the mistress stood. She had glimpsed her
before watching the dancers, and now she knew
she was looking at her. And when she turned away,
she was struck by the thought that if she was in that woman's employ she wouldn't last long. But then she
wouldn't be in her employ. She would never work for
anyone like her.
It was when the butler was announcing yet another
polka that Flo Yarrow, the second housemaid, who
had been out of the room, came in and hesitated
a moment before walking across the open floor
towards them. Bending down to Jane, she said, 'The
mistress wants to see you in the study, and you've got
to take her with you.' She nodded towards Millie.
'The mistress wants to see me? What for?'
'How should I know? That's all she said, she
wanted to see you, an'...' She nodded again towards
Millie.
'But ... but, Miss Yarrow, I ... I don't know
where the study is.'
'Come on out.'
Jane rose immediately, but Millie hesitated, and
she, too, now said, 'Why does she want to see me?'
'You had better ask her, miss, when you see her.'
There was sarcasm in the voice; but then her tone
changed and she said, 'Oh, come along.'
Outside the room, she pointed to a wide corridor:
'It's the last door on the right side,' she said, 'and
wait till you're told to enter.'
Flo Yarrow stood watching the two young girls
walking away from her, and she bit on her lip
and turned her head to the side as if pondering
over something. Then she swung about and went
back into the room where once again she saw Mr
Winters, the master's valet; but he was dancing with
Miss McNeil again, so she stood aside and waited.
In the meantime, the two girls had reached the
end of the corridor, and before Jane tapped on the
door she whispered to Millie, 'What d'you think she
wants us for? She was watchin' you dance. Very
likely it was because you showed your legs and your
white stockin's.'
'Don't be silly,' Millie whispered back. 'Anyway,
in that case, why should she want you an' all?'
Jane's hand was wavering in front of the door
when they heard a gust of laughter coming from
the room. They exchanged glances; and when Jane's
hand dropped away from the door Millie impulsively
knocked twice, and then they waited. And in the
waiting the laughter turned to giggling, then ceased,
before the mistress's voice called, 'Come in.'
When Millie stepped into the room the first thing
she noticed was that it was a kind of library. There
were bookshelves round the walls, and where there
weren't books there were silver cups and shields. In
the fireplace a log fire was burning brightly. The
chairs were all of brown leather.
The mistress was sitting in one to the side of
the fireplace, her elder son in one to the other,
with Randolph leaning against the back of it. Two
decanters and three glasses were on a table to their
hand; and it was obvious to Millie that the two
young men were silly drunk.
'Come over here!'
The voice was imperious; and in answer to it Jane
scurried forward, but Millie remained where she was within a few feet of the door. And strangely, in this
moment, she wasn't seeing the mistress of the house,
nor her drunken sons, but Sister Cecilia, who was
saying to her, 'Beware the evil that men do.'
She heard her own voice, thin-sounding now,
saying, 'What do you want with me, madam?'
'Come here, girl! and you'll find out.' The woman
had pulled herself to her feet and, when Millie still
did not move, she almost sprang across the distance
to confront her.
Grabbing a handful of Millie's dress at the shoulder,
she dragged her forward and thrust her towards her
son, the while still holding her, and saying, 'You're
made to tempt men and I'm going to see you're not
disappointed.'
With a twist of her body, Millie freed herself
and jumped backwards, and the woman only saved
herself from toppling by falling against the long oak
table in the middle of the room. And from there
she now cried at her elder son, 'Go on! Davey
boy. Make a start, and show your elders how it's
done. Aye, by God! show 'em. And you, Randy, take
that clot there.'
'What! Her, Mama?' The boy threw his head
back now and laughed. 'She's a midden mucker;
she empties the mess pails. Not her, Mama.'
'Anything to start on, boy. Anything to start on.'
When there was a cry from the top of the room
the woman turned and looked to where her son was
warding off the girl's hands, and she cried at him,
'Strip her! boy. Strip her!'
Millie had her back against a row of books, and,
putting her hand behind her head, she grabbed one.
It was a thick leather-bound volume and, swinging
it, she levelled it at the boy, and immediately the
laughing, drunken timidity he had previously shown
vanished: for now he yelled, 'You bitch! you,' and
the next moment he had his fingers in the front of
the collar of her dress, and the ripping of the brocade
and the under petticoat filled her ears.
'You! You beasts! Leave me alone,' she screamed
at him, and, flailing her arms, she brought her knee
up, and when it caught him in the groin he yelled
out in pain before actually screaming, 'You bloody
she-cat!' Then he was on her, his fists thumping her,
between tearing at her clothes.
When she fell with a thud to the floor, he on
top of her, perhaps it was her screaming and the
woman's laughter that covered the sound of the
door bursting open.
Raymond Crane-Boulder, followed by Bernard
Thompson, came to a momentary halt at the sight
before them. It was as if they couldn't believe their
eyes. And then with a bound and a sweep of his arm
Raymond knocked his wife flying against the further
wall, for her again only to be saved from falling to
the floor by her younger son.
In a fury stronger than that which his elder son
must have felt, the father whipped him off the prostrate
figure of the girl and, holding him by his ruffled
cravat, he took his doubled fist and levelled it against
his face. His son's crying out seemed to enrage him further, for from the wall above a shelf of trophies
he snatched a riding crop. He'd had to tug it from
its hook, but once in his hand he brought it round
his son's head, 'You young swine! You scum!'
After the third blow his arm was caught by
Bernard who yelled at him, 'Enough! Enough!'
and pulled him aside; and as he did so Berenice
Boulder's voice screamed, 'Hypocrite! Hypocrite!
Can't stand them being natural, eh? Hypocrite!
Bloody hypocrite.'
The younger boy was crying and appealing to his
mother: 'Be quiet! Be quiet! Please, please, Mama,
be quiet!' which seemed to activate his father again:
pulling himself away from Bernard's hold, he strode
down the room and, grabbing the cringing boy,
thrust him towards his brother, commanding them:
'Get out of here! And you, too.' He was now
stabbing his finger at the petrified Jane. The door
had no sooner closed on them than he advanced
swiftly on his wife and, looking into her glaring,
hate-filled face, he brought the crop across the side
of it, crying, 'You filthy, evil, drunken slut! You're
not fit to live. Do you hear me? Not fit to live.
You would watch your son--' He now closed his
eyes tightly for a moment; then his arm dropped to
his side as he stared at his wife who, after flinching
from the blow, was standing straight, glaring back
at him. She hadn't even put her hand up to her face.
And what she said now was, as if she were solid and
sober, 'I'll see the end of you yet, Raymond. And it'll
be a slow end. I prophesy it will be a slow end, you
unnatural swine.' And on this she turned from him
as if she were feeling no pain and walked out of the
room. And, as if defeated, he stood with his head
bowed, before swinging round to where Bernard was
kneeling on the floor holding Millie in his arms.
He hurried to him, saying, 'Is ... is she all
right?'
'I don't know.' The words were brief and curt
sounding.
Bernard now rose from his knees; and bending,
he lifted Millie and laid her in one of the leather
armchairs, then pulled her torn garment over her
bare chest before straightening and facing the man
he thought of as his brother-in-law. 'But what I do
know,' he said, 'is I no longer recognise Berenice
as the half-sister I once knew. Nor can you be
congratulated on your sons, Raymond, if you cannot
control their drinking at their age.'
'You know nothing about it.' The words were
ground out through Raymond's clenched teeth. 'Anyway,
I don't need any criticism from you; this is my
house.'
'It isn't your house yet, Raymond, it's your father's.
And I wonder if, from his fastness up above, he
knows what goes on down here. What would he
say to this poor child being...?' He paused: 'Well,
I don't know if she's been raped or not, but your son
had a damned good try at it, by the look of things.'
'Yes; but who drove him to it? Ask yourself that.
Anyway, get out of my road. I'll take her down to
the Quintons.'
'No. No, Raymond; you've caused enough speculative
gossip already tonight back in that room, when
you almost exposed the girl's limbs in your form of
dancing when there was no need for it. You didn't
act the same way with the other maids. And please'
- he held up his hand - 'say nothing more, else more
will be said, and we'll both be sorry for it. Just one
thing: I won't avail myself of your hospitality any
longer than tomorrow morning.'
Raymond Crane-Boulder stepped back from him,
saying, 'That'll suit me.' Then he looked down at
the dishevelled girl lying in the chair: her hair had
become loose and part of it was hanging over one
shoulder and lying across the bare nape of her neck;
her small breasts were heaving, and in so doing were
pushing aside her torn garment. And as he gazed
at her his lower lip covered his upper one before
being drawn in between his teeth. Abruptly he
swung about and went from the room; and Bernard,
bending over the chair, said softly, 'You're all right.
You're all right.'
Slowly, Millie opened her eyes. She had been
aware of the men for some time, though at first
their presence had been hazy. But the one thing
she felt glad about now was that the master had
gone. This one she didn't mind; he was different
somehow. She looked at him, and as he said again,
'You're all right,' the tears slowly spilled over on to
her flushed cheeks.
'Oh, my dear, my dear,' Bernard said. 'It's all right.
You're going home. Here! let me dry your eyes.' He
took out a handkerchief, and with it he wiped her
face; and then he said, 'Sit quiet now. By the way,
have you got a coat?'
Her mind said, 'A cloak,' but her lips refused to
voice the words, and he said, 'Don't worry. Don't
worry. I'll find someone. Just stay quiet.'
She was left alone. She did not move her head but her eyes took in the rows of books. And as they
rested on them, she said to herself, 'Ben. Ben, I want
to go home.' But that wasn't what she had meant, or
meant to think; it was something to do with Ben and
the books. He would love to be in this room with all
the books. Why was she lying here? Her head was
hurting. It was sore at the back. She had fallen, she
had a bump. Had she danced too much? No. No, she
hadn't danced too much. Why was she lying here?
As if a door had been wrenched open in her mind
she suddenly knew why she was lying there, and she
began to gasp, muttering now aloud, 'Oh, no! No!
Please don't. Please don't.' But she was alone now;
they had gone. He had torn her frock, her beautiful,
beautiful frock; and Mrs Aggie had paid all that
money to have it unpicked, re-made and pressed.
She would never wear it again. Oh, no, no, no! She
could never wear it again. Not even if it was sewn
up. She wanted to go home. If only somebody would
come and take her home.
'It's all right. You're going home.'
She opened her eyes and there he was again, the
nicer one of the two; in fact, the nicest one among
them. There was another man with him and he was holding her cloak; and the nice man said to him, 'I'll
have to carry her, Winters. I don't know if I can carry
her all the way, so you'll have to give me a hand.'
'She wouldn't be able to walk, sir?'
'You heard: she was rambling. I think she's been
slightly concussed. I'll lift her up, you put the cloak
around her.'
She knew she was being lifted and that her head
was lying against his shoulder. He was carrying her
home. She was so glad. And tomorrow morning she
would wake up and go down to the kitchen and
set the breakfast for Mrs Aggie and Ben. Oh, that
would be nice...
Bernard Thompson managed to carry her through
the house and down the drive to the Quintons' with
the help of George Winters, who walked by his side,
holding her dangling legs. And when at last he placed
her on the couch in the Quintons' sitting-room
before two amazed and anxious people, he said
to them, 'I think if she hasn't fully recovered by
tomorrow morning you should call in the doctor.'
When William Quinton asked, 'What on earth
happened? Look at her clothes!' Bernard said, 'Come
outside for a moment.'
In the hall William was given the. details as far as
Bernard knew them, but they were enough for him to
say, 'God Almighty! That woman will cause murder
one of these days.' Then apologising, he said, 'I'm
sorry: I forget she's a relative of yours, Bernard.'
'Well, I can tell you this much, William, I'm
sorry that she can claim that distinction, even if
it's only as half-brother. Anyway, I'm leaving in
the morning.'
'I thought you were here for the rest of the
holidays?'
'No. The. atmosphere's too strong for me.'
'The old gentleman'll miss you.'
'Oh, I don't think he cares very much one way or
the other whom he sees these days.'
'Will you go home?'
Bernard laughed gently.
'No, William. My father's third wife is expecting
the first addition. What relation that will make me
to it, I don't know. Still a half something or other.
No, I think I'll return to Oxford. I have a number
of friends there and I'll get down to work again.' He
paused for a moment, then said, 'Are you happy in
this job, William?'
'Yes. Yes, most of the time; but I know I wouldn't"
have it if it wasn't for the old man and his association
with my. grand-dad and my father. Anyway, being
the runt of the litter of ten, I'm glad to have
any post at all.'
'I've always thought you were worth something
better than this. Yet still, if you're happy. But' - he
looked towards the door - 'that poor child in there.
I doubt you won't be able to keep her.'
'No; I can see that.'
'She's very beautiful. I don't think I've seen anyone
so beautiful. She certainly caused a stir up there
tonight. My! you should have seen the faces: the
resentment, the bitterness. Odd, isn't it, how people hate beauty. She stood out like a princess on a
dung heap.'
'Well, it's odd: she mightn't have come from a
dung heap, but she lives pretty near it, for her
guardian's an old rag woman.'
'Never!'
'Oh yes. An enormously fat old thing, a bundle
of rags herself. She's got the famous taggerine place,
such as they call it, on the outskirts of The Courts,
beyond the market. She's well known in the town.
She's got a nickname, "Raggy Aggie". For years she .
used to push a barrow, and that child with her, I
understand. Now they've risen to a horse and cart.
There's a warped fellow comes for her on her days
off and brings her back. I say warped.., well, he's
only about five feet tall, but if his legs had been
longer he would have been a massive individual, and good-looking into the bargain. But he, too, from
what I can gather, was picked up and looked after by
the old rag woman.'
'Amazing. But she seems.., well, educated. Yes,
that's the word; she doesn't talk like the rest of
them.'
'Oh, she's been educated in bits and pieces; she
was under the nuns for one period, and later attended
a pay school; and believe it or not, she
asked to attend school, with my tribe. In fact, she did a little maneuvering. It was either she went to
school or she left, and the children are crazy about
her. Oh' - he put his hand to his head now - 'I don't
know what's going to happen there: they've never
been so good in their lives before; she can handle them and they love her. Dear! dear! Why had this
to happen? By the way' - his voice dropped - 'do
you think she was...?' He shook his head, and
Bernard answered, 'I don't know. I just don't know.
I heard her screaming. Apparently, Yarrow, one of
the maids, was told off to tell the girls to go along to
the study and she had sense enough to tell Winters,
and he told Raymond. I happened to be there. There
you have it. Well, I'll have one more look at her,
then I'll go.'
And that's what Millie remembered for a long time
afterwards: the kind face above her, saying again,
'You'll be all right.'

NINE


Three days later William Quinton drove Millie home
in his trap. It was a Friday and the yard was quiet.
Ben was dealing with a man who had brought in
some scrap iron, and Aggie was in the barn watching
two women sort through a pile of oddments and
making sure that they didn't stuff any up their coats.
She had lost a few good pieces of late and she felt
she knew where they had gone, and one of the two
customers was under suspicion. But when, glancing
out of the door, she saw a well-dressed man helping
Millie down from a trap she almost sprang across the
yard, as did Ben. And they both called out together,
'What's up? What's the matter?'
'Oh! Mrs Aggie.' Millie put out one hand towards
Aggie and the other towards Ben and muttered
weakly, 'I'm home. I'm home for good.' Then turning
to the well-dressed man, she said, 'This is Mr
Quinton. He's been so kind, like Mrs Quinton. I...
I must sit down. I'm still a bit dizzy.'
In amazement, one on each side of her, they helped
her into the house, and William Quinton followed,
his eyes growing wider as he passed through a room
filled with odd furniture and into another which,
he observed straightaway, was used as a kitchen-cum-dining-room-cum-sitting-room.
And there the
enormous woman turned to him and said, 'What is
this all about? Is she ill? What's been done to her?'
'She... she had a fall and slight concussion, but
she is all right. I can assure you, she's all right.
And more so, I can assure you she is so glad to
be home with you. But her return is my loss and
that of my wife and children, because, I may say,
she brought order and a cheerfulness and happiness into my home. The children loved her and my wife
found her a very great help.'
'Yes, I'll bet she would.' Aggie was nodding at him,
not sure how to take him, when Ben turned from
bending over Millie and, looking at Mr Quinton,
he said, 'Will you be seated, sir? And could we get
you a drink of something?'
'No. No, thank you. I... I must return as quickly
as possible.' He smiled at the shorter man, adding,
'I have a job to do. As you know, I'm bailiff
to Mr Crane-Boulder.' He gave this last piece of
information in turning towards Aggie; and, still
addressing her, he said, 'I would consider it a favour
if I could call now and again and bring one or two of
my children to see Millie. They would love that.'
With a forearm Aggie now heaved up her sagging
breasts and glanced at Ben, and whatever expression
she saw on his countenance, tempered what she now
said to the visitor: 'Well, if that's your wish, sir,
you'll be welcome. And ... and thank you for
bringing her back home.'
He now walked over to Millie and, taking her
hand, he said, 'I'll come and see you soon, and bring
the girls and Patrick. If I promise them such a treat
it might keep them tolerably quiet for a time.' He
pulled a small face at her, and she said, 'Thank you,
Mr Quinton. I would like that. Yes, I would like to
see the children again. Will you give them my love?'
And she smiled faintly now as she ended, 'And tell
Paddy to keep playing his pipe.'
'I will. I will.' He straightened up, then turned and
looked from Ben to Aggie, saying, 'Goodbye, then.'
And as Aggie answered, 'Goodbye, sir,' Ben said, 'I
will see you out.'
In the yard Ben demanded, 'What's all this about,
sir?' And after taking in a deep breath, William
Quinton gave him a brief outline, finishing by saying,
'That's as much as I know, and from what Bernard ... Mr Thompson told me, he didn't think she had ... well, been touched. You know what I mean?'
Ben's answer was a growl. 'Yes, I know what you
mean. My God! You're telling me that the son of the
house tried to... Good God in heaven!'
'They were very drunk, the young men, and I'm
afraid their mother was the instigator of the whole
incident. Unfortunately, her drinking is habitual, and
nobody is more sorry than my wife and I that all
this has happened, because we became very fond of
Millie. And my children, well, they adored her. She
was like a child with them, yet she could control
them.' He nodded his head now while adding, 'In a
strange way the other side of her seemed very adult.
Well, I hope to see you again, Mister... I'm sorry I
don't know your actual name. Millie has spoken of
you, and often, but by your Christian name.'
The name's Smith.'
'Oh, Smith. Well, I think I prefer Ben.'
Did Ben detect a little slackening of class, a slight
condescension? Whatever it was he retorted quickly, The name's Smith.'
William Quinton's expression changed, and stiffly
now he said, 'Well, good day, Mr Smith;' then he
mounted the trap and left the yard.
Ben re-entered the house; but he did not immediately
go into the far room, he stood with his hand
gripping the back of an old couch and his head
bowed to his chest for some minutes before he
pushed the door open, there to see Millie with a
cup of tea in her hand.
She looked at him as if she had been waiting for
him, and as he approached her, she said, 'Oh, Ben.
Oh, I'm so pleased to see you again. I've ... I've
said to Mrs Aggie that.., that I never want to leave
home, leave either of you ever, ever again.'
'Well, that'll suit us both down to the ground. But
... but how you feelin', really?'
'Not too bad; but I have a headache most of the
time. The doctor said it would go if I rested for a
week, say.' Then her head drooping and her voice
low, she said, 'My dress is ruined, Mrs Aggie,' which
brought no harsh retort from Aggie; instead, she put
her arm around the thin shoulders and pressed her
into her side as she said, 'Who cares about a frock? There'll be another where that came from. If that's
all that's worryin' you, you can stop. But can you
give us the rights of what happened? I mean... '
Millie raised her head and looked from Aggie
to Ben, who was on his hunkers before her, and
hesitantly she said, 'I ... I shouldn't have gone
dressed like that, but ... but they said it was a party. Yet every one of them was in uniform.'
'Is that a fact?'
Ben poked his head towards her. 'All in uniform
at a party?'
'Yes. Except' - she nipped at her lip now before
adding - 'the mistress, of course. And ... and I
seemed to stick out. And then Mr Thompson, him
whose birthday party it had been on the Monday,
you know. He was twenty-one. He asked me to
dance and we did the polka. He was ... he was
very nice; and yet' - again she bit on her lip - 'he
is the half-brother of the mistress, they say. But...
but he's not a bit like her. Then... then they had a
quadrille and the master asked me to dance.'
'The master asked you...?' Aggie's expression
was one of disbelief and she drew her head back
into her thick shoulders, repeating, 'The master
asked you?'
'Yes. Well, he didn't ask me, he sort of took me
into the dance, and ... and he swung me round.
And I didn't know my petticoat and stockings were
showing, but Jane said they were. You know, I've
told you about Jane. She has all the dirty jobs, and
she was so excited about the party. She told me
yesterday when she came to see me that the mistress
had been watching from the doorway, and it was
after that that she sent for her and me to go along
to the study.'
With a quick movement she thrust her head into
the back of the couch and opened her mouth wide,
and Ben said, 'It's all right. It's all right. You needn't
go on if you don't want to'. It's all right.'
But she went on haltingly, and told them as much
as she could remember, and when she had finished
they were both gaping at her. Presently, Aggie said,
'This Mr Thompson carried you from the house?'
'Yes; and I understand Mr Winters, the valet,
helped him, and they brought me home ... well,
I mean, to the Quintons'. And Mr Thompson came
the next day to see how I was. He was leaving the
house. And Annie said there was a lot of talk about
that because he had come for the holidays.'
She raised her head again and said quietly, 'Oh,
you've got no idea how wonderful it is to be home.
But do you think, Mrs Aggie, I could go and lie down
for a time?'
'Lie down, me dear? You're goin' to bed and
you're goin' to stay there for the next few days,
as that doctor said. And what's more, I'll have old
Partridge come and see you.'
'Oh, I don't need a doctor, Mrs Aggie.'
'Leave it to me, girl, to know what you need.
Anyway, old Partridge has been wantin' to get his
foot in this door again for years. The last bill I paid
him was sixteen years ago when me father died. Two shillings a visit he charged. Daylight robbery. And
I told him that.' She smiled softly and, holding her
hands out to Millie, she drew her gently up from the
couch, saying, 'Come away. Come away.'...
It was the same evening. The yard gates were
closed. They'd had their evening meal. Millie was
asleep upstairs and Aggie and Ben sat facing each
other, Ben with a mug of beer to his side on the
settle and Aggie with a glass of gin resting on a
shelf to her hand. They had been sitting in silence
for some time.
When Aggie spoke her voice was quiet. 'I know
what you're thinkin',' she said. 'It's such as my own
thoughts. We did what we thought was best: we sent
her away to save her being picked up and from the
outcome of what that would mean; yet she walks
straight into it; and all arranged by that bitch of
a woman. Have you thought what would have
happened to her if the men of the house hadn't
come in at that moment?'
'Aye, I've thought what would have happened
to her. And aye, me thoughts have just been similar
to your own. Well, here she is and here she
stays. And she won't get out of me sight if I
can help it.'
'Huh! -And how long d'you think you can keep your eyes on her? She's growing fast. The solution for her is
to be married, that's the only safeguard... '
She hadn't finished the last word before he sprang
to his feet, crying, 'Married? She's only thirteen,
woman!'
She stared at him for a moment and, her voice
deceptively quiet now, she said, 'She's near fourteen
and she's an old fourteen.'
'Aye, all right, she's near fourteen, but you're
marryin' her off.'
'I'm not marryin' her off now, but in two years'
time she'll be ready for it, aye, if not before.'
'What's come over you, woman? You want rid of
her?'
Aggie now heaved herself up and on to the edge
of the sofa, and her words were ground out: 'Yes,
I want rid of her because she's brought into me life
the only happiness that I've ever had. Of course I
want rid of her: I want rid of her because I love
her; I want rid of her because I won't know a
minute's peace until I see her safely married. Yes,
I want rid of her.'
Ben was standing, his feet apart, his arms away
from his side, his stance giving the suggestion that
he was about to spring; but bending his thick
body forward, he said, 'And where do you propose
to find her a husband? Someone from The
Courts? Or are you thinkin' someone from that
big house will come riding down and offer to
take her off your hands? Say, this Mr Thompson
who carried her from the house? You were asking
her about him, weren't you? Well, which is it
to be?'
Aggie wriggled herself back on to the couch, and
in a subdued tone now, she said, 'I wasn't thinkin'
of anyone from The Courts or a big house, but somebody in between, like one of those teachers
you learn from at night.'
'Oh. Oh, you've had your spies out, have you?'
'No, I haven't had me spies out. I don't have to;
in my business I just keep me ears open, and I hear
everything. Rosie Dillon, she's an old customer, her
brother apparently is caretaker for that, what do they
call it? national school, and for the rooms that are
used at night. She said, "I hear your Ben's goin' to
school again." You would have told me sometime, I
know. Anyway I have it in me mind that one thing she'll be wantin' is to take some kind of learnin'
again and that it would be safe for her to go to the
night class along of you. And you never know who
she might meet there, not among the learners, oh no,
but one of the teachers, perhaps. And, you know,
with her head on her shoulders she could become a
teacher herself.'
'It hasn't taken you long to get it all worked
out.'
'Well, there's a sayin' about desperate needs need
desperate measures. And--' She paused, reached out,
lifted up her glass, took a sip of the gin, then placed
the glass back on the shelf before ending, 'I want to
see her settled before I take me last journey, because
where would she be then? Any day now I'm likely to
hear you're goin' to go off and marry your Annie.'
'What did you say?'
'You heard what I said right enough. And I'll
add this: it's not before time, the years you've been
hangin' on.'
Walking over to the couch and bending over her,
Ben said with emphasis but quietly, 'Get this into
your head, Aggie. I'm not gonna marry Annie,
sooner or later. She knows that. Right from the
beginning she's known that. I can't get it into your
head that she's a friend. She's good company, she's
good chat. She took notice of me when nobody else
did... I mean, as a lass might. How old was I when
I first came to your dad? Eight? And she was then
sixteen. She seemed grown up to me, but she was
kind and she was lonely and lost, like I was. Behind
all me chatter there wasn't anybody more lonely an'
lost than me. I'd known her for more than a year
before I came into the yard here, and what you
don't know and what I've never said is that she
gave me shelter many a night when I would have
frozen to death otherwise. She had only one room.
Her mother was in bed in the corner, had been for
years, her body like a balloon. She lay there all day
by herself while Annie was at the mill. Each night
Annie would dose her with laudanum to keep the
pain down, and when she went to sleep she'd let me
in and I'd lie on the mat in front of the banked-down
fire till early next mornin'. For two winters she did
that. An' then her mother died and she let me carry
on, sleeping there on the mat, until your dad offered
me the room above the stable. And for the first time
in me life I had a place of me own.'
When Aggie's head began to wag and she was
about to speak, he held up his hand to silence her,
and went on, 'Now that I've started I'll give you the whole story. There were times when, lonely, we
comforted each other. And I was still a lad, mind;
but I told her that I'd never marry anybody and
she understood that. She's still nothin' to look at,
just skin and bone, mostly; but I had noticed over
the last few years that she had started to titivate
herself up a bit, and then when she got the chance
of moving from The Courts to one of the New
Buildings, she took it. It was then I found out the
reason. A man she's worked alongside for years in
the mill, he's a widower and much older, but he must
think something of her for he comes a-courtin', you
might say. And I'm happy for her.'
'My! My! My! But tell me, if that's the case, why
you still go along there.'
'For the simple reason, Aggie, as I've tried to pump
into you before, we're friends. We can play cards,
we can chatter, we can discuss the gossip of the
day. And she's got a lot to gossip about because,
as you know, her cousin's the best-known whore
on the street. And sometimes she pays a call on
her and we have a laugh at her tales.' He paused.
'Not always, though, because there's some things
that happen down on the street that turns even
Nancy Pratt's stomach. And, I can tell you, that
takes some doing. So there you have it, Aggie,
and you've no need to pry any more. But to go
back to your ... what the teacher would call,
demise, and what would happen to Millie should
that come about. There'll always be me here until
my demise, which, not knowin' the Lord's intention,
deal I'll have a few years ahead of me yet, being but
twenty-three.'
Once more Aggie pulled herself to the edge of
the couch and, thrusting her face close to his,
she almost spat her next words at him: 'And you
expect her to grow up an' to go on livin' here
under your ... what? your guardianship? A girl
like her, growin' into a woman that'll bring men
round her like flies? Oh, be your age, Ben Smith.
And let me tell you somethin'.' She now thrust
her doubled fist into her chest. 'I'm willin' to let
her go, and by God! I'm goin' to see that you
do the same, because, where she's concerned, your
head's not recognising your short legs. I know
what's in the back of your mind. I know what
all this education business is for. I know what
the new overcoat and the high hat is for. Well,
all the high hats in the world won't put inches
on you, nor smart overcoats see you any other than you are, So, get that into your head, Mr Ben
Smith.'
He couldn't speak for a moment; his Adam's apple
was jerking up and down in his throat; when he did,
his voice was quiet: 'Aggie,' he said, 'I'll never be
out of your debt, for I know I owe you what I am
today, and never for one minute in all the years
I've known you have I ever wished you any harm.
Just the opposite. Oh, just the opposite. But in this
minute I could take me fist and land it between your
eyes, not because you've tried to read me mind with less than a man.'
They stared at each other as they had never
done in all their acquaintance; then he turned and
went from her.
PART THREE

The Cook


ONE

From the day Mr Quinton had returned her home
and she had entered the kitchen, Millie knew that,
although she never wanted to be separated from
these two people again, her outlook was changed
with regard to her surroundings.
As the days passed and she filled her time with
cooking and cleaning, she knew there was a want
in her. Even though she now accompanied Ben to
his class on three evenings a week, there was always
the nagging question: what was really to become of
her? How could she earn a living? At first, she had
thought it could be through cooking, only to reject
this immediately. Her experience at The Grange had
left her with no desire, and a real fear, of ever finding
herself in service again.
Yet, she was faced with the fact that cooking was
the only thing at which she was any good. When
she had put this to Aggie, Aggie had added, 'And
talking. Why don't you think of learning to teach
children, like?' To which her answer had been, 'You
have to have a special education.' Yet at times, she
felt she knew more than Mrs Sponge, who took one
of the classes, but then not anything near what her
husband, Mr Sponge, knew. He was a clever man,
Mr Sponge, not only with dates and history but
about things that went on in the mind. It was he
who had said there was a solution to every problem;
you only had to sit down and spread your problem
out before you, as it were, like cards on a table,
then look to see if there was an outlet through any
part of the pack that would present a solution to
your problem.
Well, she had thought about it, and she had spread
her cards on the table, and most of them pointed out
to her that she could make good meat pies, scones,
and currant buns. She could also make a very good
nourishing stew. Another card pointed out to her
that she had a craft at her hands that would enable
anyone to start a cook shop. But at the idea of a
shop she turned the card face down, as it were.
Almost immediately another card pointed out that
she already lived in a shop. That yard outside was
a shop; well, a kind of one dealing with the residue
of many trades.
And the card seemed to jump from the table and
confront her with a picture of an absolutely clean
yard and, at the open gates, a long wooden bench
on which were arrayed her pies, scones, and currant
buns. And at the end of the bench, a big kale pot full
of hot stew, with herself standing at the other side
of the table, dealing with customers.
But what about customers? Why! the mill workers:
most of those who worked at Freeman's passed the
gates to reach their particular Court, At six o'clock every night there was a stream of them. And then,
too, during the day, all types of people were passing
up and down the road; although she had to admit
they were mostly the ragged, filthy children and
those adults emitting the stench of gin and filth,
that made the smell rising from the yard seem like
that from a herb garden.
But it was an idea, and who knew, it might in the
end lead to something. Although she never wanted
to leave either Aggie or Ben, she knew that Aggie,
at least, would die sometime, and Ben would likely
marry Annie; and although she liked Annie as ...
a nice little creature, she could not imagine Ben
living with her. But then, on further thought, she
could not imagine Ben marrying her. What would
they talk about? Annie had no conversation. She
had noted she could listen, but she didn't talk
or discuss anything ... well, not when she was
present anyway.
It was one evening when they were sitting round
the kitchen table and enjoying Millie's new dish, a
rabbit pie, not stewed in the old way, with potatoes
round it, but baked in the oven in a thick gravy,
dotted with sliced apple and covered with a pie-crust.
She had seen the recipe in the Sunday magazine. It
was a nice paper and had lively stories in it, more
so than The Band Of Hope and The Good Words
Magazine, both of which Mrs Sponge kindly passed
on to her every week.
The pie had caused much pleasant comment. It
was after the dishes had been cleared away, and
they were sitting round the fire that she dropped
her bombshell. And a bombshell it was.
When Aggie got over her surprise, the first words
she said were, 'Are you thinkin' of pushin' me out?'
'Don't be silly, Mrs Aggie. But, you know, you
say yourself you're tired of doing the rounds, and
Laddie is twice as old as you thought he was when
you bought him.'
Then she had asked Ben." 'Well, what do you
think? Don't just sit there staring; tell me what you
think.'
'I think it's a fine idea. You're a cook. No matter
what else you'll be in your life, you'll always be a
cook. And aye, I can see the yard being' cleaned
up, and a bench at the front gate. But, I'll say,
like Aggie, what's goin' to happen to me? Where
do I come in this? Are you willing to pay me eight
shillings a week?'
'I won't pay you anything; it will be Mrs Aggie
who will pay you.' She inclined her head towards
Aggie. 'And likely twice as much because, you know
that shop we pass on the way to the school, well, the
pies in there are tuppence ha'penny each.'
'Aye well, be that as it may. But again I ask you,
what's to become of me in this new business venture?
What am I to do?'
'Well, you don't think I can do it all on my
own, do you? It'll take me all my time cooking
with Mrs Aggie here, and somebody will have to
look after--' she laughed now as she said, 'the
shop.'
'Oh, I can't see meself servin' in a shop. Never!'
He wrinkled his nose.
'Well, all right then, I would do the cooking at
night; well, in the evening, and I would stand at the
table the next day.'
Aggie and Ben looked across at her now, and
Aggie said to him, 'She's got it all worked out.
My God! I can't believe it. This place has been a
taggerine yard for as long as I can remember, but
now she proposes to make it dainty with pies and
buns, and such like. But would you tell me, miss'
- she had turned now to Millie - 'how many pies
et cetera, et cetera, do you think you can cook in
that at once?' She was now thumbing towards the
round oven.
'Twenty-one, twelve on the top shelf and nine on
the bottom. And if the meat's cooked beforehand
they'll take only about half an hour. And at the
least I could do four lots in the evening. Of course
I'd want someone to stoke up the fire and someone to
go for the stores' - she glanced from one to the other
now - 'because I'd need a lot of fat, and flour, and
meat, and currants, and things like that. And I had
thought of peas. There's a place in the market that
sells mashed peas. You pointed it out to me once.'
There was a rumbling sound from Ben; then he
was doubled forward on the settle, his laughter filling
the room. And Aggie, looking at him, endeavoured
to keep her face straight, too, as she said, 'He's
findin' it funny.' And Millie, gazing at the old
woman, asked quietly, 'Aren't you?'
For answer Aggie said softly, 'Aw! love; I can't see
it happenin'. It would take an earthquake to move
that lot in the yard. And then, look at the weather.
How about that? You couldn't have a table out there
in the wind or rain.'
'Yes, I've thought about that. It could come under
the arch, or the barn could be cleared. Quite easily
the barn could be cleared.'
Aggie said nothing to this, but she looked to where
Ben was lying back against the settle, his hand now
held tightly against his side. His face was wet with his
laughing until Aggie, looking at Millie, said, 'Lass,
have you ever thought that you won't be in this place
for ever. Sixteen, comin' up. And who knows? you
could be married.'
They both gave a start as Ben sprang to his feet, all
laughter and fun now gone from his face as he cried,
'Don't start putting things into her head. You would
damn well think, the way you talk, that sixteen was
the limit for any lass marrying. She'll marry when
she's ready, and she'll know when she's ready. And
who she wants to marry an' all. So you get that into
your head, woman.' And on that, he turned about
and marched from the room, leaving Millie greatly
perturbed; but not so Aggie.
'Gets worked up, doesn't he?' she said. 'But you
know, me dear, what I say is true. Come sixteen,
if not afore, that's the way your thoughts'll be
goin'. By the way, how long is it since that Mr
Thompson called?'
'Three months.'
'Yes; yes, it'll be that. And I thought you would
remember. That was the third time he's looked
in, wasn't it?'
Millie was on her feet looking down into the wide,
sagging face, and her voice was just above a whisper
as she said, 'No, Mrs Aggie. No, never; he's.., he's
just a kind man. He's a gentleman and, what's more,
don't you remember who he's related to? That...
that awful woman.'
'She's just a half-sister, so you said.'
'Mrs Aggie, please, don't ever think such a thing.
I ... I wouldn't be able to look at him or speak to
him ordinarily if I thought he'd imagine that I ...
Well, it's as Ben said, sixteen is no age and I've never
thought about being married. Well, not really. I'll not
marry for years and years. And then it would have to
be someone I was at ease with, never anyone like Mr
Thompson. Anyway' - her voice was louder now 'I
wouldn't like the way they live, and they certainly
wouldn't tolerate anybody.., well, like me, coming
into the family. I know that. Oh, yes, yes, I know
that. You've just got to listen to Mr Sponge at the
school. He was speaking the truth, and that's why
they stopped him teaching. But he just pointed out
the gulf there is between them and us, I mean, the
middle classes and the working class. And not only
just ... well, like the people around here, but the
artisans.., you know, those men with trades whom
the middle class still think of as scum. Do you know
what? They won't allow working men on to the
station when the gentry's there because the sight of
them might offend their eyes, not until the train is
about to go, when they can scramble into the third
class, and have to stand up most of the way. Oh! Mrs
Aggie. And you think that Mr Thompson...?'
It was she who now turned about and hurried
from the room, leaving Aggie sitting quietly nodding
to herself. Then as if she were speaking to someone,
she said aloud, 'Well, we'll see what we shall see. I
hope I live long enough.'

TWO



It took nine months for Millie's suggestion to bear
fruit in the form of pies at tuppence and fourpence
each. Plain scones at a ha'penny each, currant ones at
a penny each, or three for tuppence; mutton soup at
a penny a ladleful, the implement being of a generous
size; peas to be served as required, a ha'penny or a
penny a scoop, with the Saturday being the currant
teacakes and light pastry squares day, both at a
penny each, yet the latter thick enough to be split
and hold some form of preserve or a slice of meat.
But the business had brought with it a disappointment,
at least for Millie: there was no chance now of
her attending the night school; and although there
had been no pressure on Ben to give up his free
time, he had done so. One thing, however, he would
not do was to accompany her into the adult Sunday
School in the Methodist Hall. No; they weren't going
to get him among the ranters, he said.
Millie was happy; at least she appeared so most
of the time. And Aggie was happy, very happy,
particularly on a Friday and Saturday night when
she reckoned up the takings. But always Millie had
to remind her that the cost of the ingredients, and
of Ben's eight shillings and her own wage of five
shillings, had to be taken into account before she
could say what amount was profit
'Well, Miss Smarty,' said Aggie, 'what d'you make
of it tonight?'
'If you give me a few minutes I'll tell you, but it
won't be as much as you think.'
'Well, there's seven pounds, four shillings here.
How much have we made?'
'You, my dear Mrs Aggie, have made one pound,
seventeen shillings and two pence.'
'Well, I suppose I can pay meself, say ten shillin's,
takin' all in all, so that leaves a profit of one pound,
seven shillin's and tuppence. Well, that isn't bad.
And what we've made durin' the rest of the week,
how does that answer?'
Millie started to scribble on the slate on which
she had worked out the accounts, and then after a
few minutes she said, 'Well, altogether the profit for
the week looks to have been four pounds, eighteen
and sixpence.'
'Not bad, not bad. I would have had to travel
the town for nearly three weeks before I touched
on that. A little gold mine this, isn't it? But' - she
now put her hand out and touched Millie's - 'you
can't keep it up, lass. You're at it from early mornin'
till late at night, except like tonight, when we've sold
out. And it's no use talkin' about gettin' a two-oven
grate in, 'cos you've only got one pair of hands, no
matter how Ben an' me help. You've got to make the
stuff, and you're gettin' as thin as a rake where you should be filling out. You're as flat as a pancake.'
'I'm not.'
'Well, if you're not you've got it well hidden, both
up your front and in your rear. No, dear, I can't see
you goin' on like this. In a fortnight's time you'll be
sixteen; and a great age will have come upon you;
and I'm not being' funny now either, because then
you'll be really enterin' womanhood.'
When a bell clanged she turned round impatiently
towards the door, saying, 'Can't they see that we are
closed? Why he had to go and stick a bell outside,
God alone knows.'
'Because,' Millie put in, laughing now, 'you complained
about them walking practically into the
kitchen here after we were closed. That's why he
put the bell outside, Mrs Aggie. Anyway, I'll go and
see who it is.'
'You'll do nothin' of the sort. You'll sit there.
You've never been off your feet since first thing.
An' the more you sit the more chance there'll be
for you to grow a little bit of shape. Look at me.'
She went out laughing at the joke against herself.
And Millie sat back in her chair and closed her eyes
for a moment. It was true; she did feel tired. It was
also true that in a fortnight's time she would be
sixteen, when Aggie had suggested she would enter
into womanhood. But hadn't she entered that area
some time ago? At what stage did one become a
woman...? When one lay thinking in the night
how wonderful it would be if... if... if, yet had
sense enough, when daylight came, to deny every
night thought, with such terms as, 'Keep your head
on your shoulders', or 'Have sense'.
As if she had been suddenly transported back into
the night she saw with a gape of surprise the man
who had been in her thoughts. There he was in the
flesh, standing by Aggie's side and smiling at her.
When she sprang to her feet, she toppled the chair
over, and he came rapidly forward and straightened
it, saying, 'I'm so sorry. Were you dozing?'
Before she could answer, Aggie put in, 'She's tired,
sir. She's never off her feet. This business was her
idea, but it's wearin' her out.'
'Oh, be quiet, Mrs Aggie, and don't talk nonsense.'
Millie now put her hand out and indicated the settle,
saying, 'Won't you sit down?'
'Yes. Yes, for a moment or so, but I won't stay,
as I'm putting you out.'
'You're not. You're not at all, sir,' Aggie put in.
'Can I offer you a drink?'
'No, thank you. I... I had a meal a short while
ago, and it was washed down. You understand?'
Aggie's head was bobbing now and she was smiling
widely as she said, 'Oh, yes, sir, I understand that
all right. It's a habit of me own. Mine's called cream
of the valley. Eeh!' She swept her arm towards Millie,
saying, 'Look at us both! Saturday evening and not
changed out of our old duds. Well, if I can't offer
you a drink I won't offer you my conversation, 'cos
it wouldn't be what you would call edifying. But
I'll away and change meself into something better.
If you'll excuse me; I won't be all that long.'
Millie made a sign of protest with a half-open
mouth and a gesture as if to halt Aggie's departure;
but Aggie was not to be stopped; she was already
disappearing through the door leading to the hall.
As Millie stood staring at him he rose to his feet,
saying with a smile, 'I can't sit while you stand.'
'Oh.' As if coming out of the night dream, she
turned and lowered herself slowly down on to the
couch, and he resumed his seat on the settle.
'How are you? You look fired. As Mrs Winkowski
says, you're working too hard.'
'It's natural. One is always tired towards the end
of the day and Saturday is an especially busy day.'
'Yes. Yes. Is the business still going well?'
'Very well indeed.'
'Have ... have you ever thought of taking a
shop?'
She looked to the side before she said, 'Yes. Yes,
I have, but that would mean leaving here and Mrs
Aggie and Ben.'
He did not reply saying, Yes, I understand, but
sat staring at her, all the while wondering how she
could tolerate these surroundings after having, for a time at least, lived in the more refined, even though
boisterous, atmosphere of the Quintons'. This room
for instance: it was really dreadful. Of course, it was
a working room, but it was taken up mostly with the
couch on which she was sitting and the two tables,
one under the window on which was laid out the
various flours and substances for her cooking; the
other, at which, he imagined, they would have to
eat, was also used by her for writing, for on it were
sheets of paper and a pencil, besides a slate. And that
room which he had just come through; it smelt; not
a bad smell, but a stale smell as one would get from
old people. And here she was, this beautiful lily-like
creature who, besides looking so beautiful, had also
a mind, which had been so apparent in the short
conversations they'd had previously. God! If only
things were different. If only.., if only. How often,
over the past months, had he said that to himself,
whenever the picture of her had sprung like a vision
unheralded before his eyes, that picture which had
brought him here tonight. How long could he go
on and what would she say? 'You have a birthday
soon,' he said now; 'I remember you telling me it
was in September.'
'Yes. In a fortnight's time.'
'And then you will be sixteen. Do you feel grown
up?'
She did not answer him immediately, but she was
looking him straight in the face across the narrow
space when she said, 'In a way, I can't remember
not feeling grown up. Yet, in another way, I resent
the feeling and want to remain, if not a child,
then young.'
He laughed gently, saying, 'But you are young;
and you're the type of--' he stopped here, not knowing
whether to say lady, or woman, but tactfully
substituting, 'personality that will always retain a
youthful freshness right until you are a very old
lady like my Aunt Chrissie. Yet--' He waved his hand now before his face, saying, 'that was a bad
comparison, because although, at sixty-five, she
still has that girlish vitality, unfortunately she has
become a little troubled in her mind. She lives not
so very far away from here in a sweet little house,
with an old retainer. I would dearly like you to come
and meet her some day.' To this he added playfully,
'When you are sixteen and allowed to go out.'
'I'm allowed to go out now, Mr Thompson; no
one stops me.'
'But I've never been allowed to take you out, have
I?'
She stiffened slightly as she replied, 'As yet you
have never extended the invitation.'
He had a nice laugh; what she called a clean
laugh.
'This conversation,' he said, 'could be taking place
in a drawing-room with tasselled mantelborders
there' - he pointed to the bare wooden mantelpiece,
bare except for a pair of brass candlesticks and
two ornamental jugs - 'and the windows almost
obliterated with heavy brocade drapes, the table
with an ivory marquetry top. Oh, and that one' he
laughingly now pointed to the table under the
window - 'oh, that one is carved Indian style. And
over there' - he indicated the far door - 'is a piano,
but you can't see the top of it because it's covered
with a huge Spanish shawl. And the walls are thick
with paintings, all by great painters. Oh yes. And the
floor? Well, nothing less than a Brussels carpet for
the floor. And under my feet here' - he now tapped
his feet on the home-made mat - 'is a bearskin rug,
an actual bearskin rug that once kept the poor old
bear warm somewhere out in the snows. And you
know' - he now leant towards her - 'your reply just suited that room.'
'I don't know whether to take all that as a compliment
or the reverse.'
Her answer evidently surprised him, and he was
definitely nonplussed when she said, 'Well, you've
described the drawing-room you are used to, so how
do you find this in comparison?'
She watched him blink two or three times, wet his
lips and then say softly, 'I don't draw comparisons.
It was a picture to match your voice at that moment;
although, I may add,' his tone dropped still further,
'that you would fit admirably into my description.'
He rose from the seat as if about to come towards
her, but at that moment the door opened and Ben
entered, to pause, then slowly walk towards the kitchen table.
'Hello, there.' Bernard Thompson's voice was
light. 'I ... I was just passing and popped in to' - he inclined his head towards Millie - 'to see how
our young friend was getting on.'
'Oh, aye. Were you makin' for The Courts?'
'The Courts?' It was a puzzled question.
'Aye, the only destination past our gate is to The
Courts; you know, Nelson Court and the like.'
'Ben!' Millie's voice was quiet. 'Mr Thompson
called in to see me as he has done before; he knows
what The Courts are like.'
'Huh! I doubt it. Have you ever been along
there ... sir?' The word seemed to come as an
afterthought.
'No, I haven't been along there, but the stench
proclaims the condition of the houses.' Bernard
Thompson's expression was stiff now, as was his
tone. 'And although you might not believe it, I'm
well aware of the disparity between one end of this
town and the other. In fact, I could say that, in a way,
I'm as much concerned as Mr Engels is. And now
that I'm part-owner of a mill I shall do my utmost
to alleviate the situation wherever possible.'
He now turned and looked at Millie - his face was
flushed - and by way of explanation he said, 'Mr
Crane-Boulder senior, my godfather, died recently
and in his will was kind enough to leave me co-owner with his son. So' - he now jerked his head towards
Ben - 'whereas before I was somewhat restricted in
my efforts, not having anything to do with the mill, I
hope now to make some favourable changes, at least
where I can within the law.'
There was silence for a moment before Ben spoke,
and the sarcasm in his tone was evident as he said,
'Aye, of course, within the law. Well, I hope when
you count the young 'uns who die between five and
ten in your mill that you'll pop up to London and
have a word with Mr Disraeli, or Gladstone, or
one of 'em. Of course, they're all in deep mournin',
aren't they? up there and all over, because since
Prince Albert died, everybody is in black. Even I've read about the piano legs changing their stockin's
to black. One fella dies and, after all, he was just
a human being' like the rest of us, only he, of course,
was brought up with some form of sanitation. But
who mourns for those who are thrown into paupers'
graves by the dozen, aye, by the dozen? Or them,
too sick to work at nine years old, pushed up the
hill to the workhouse from where they can view the
stinkin' river? And... '
'Are you quite finished?'
'No, I could go on; but of course I can't explain
as well as Mr Sponge. Now he's a teacher along at
the Methodist Hall and he's been educated as much
as you, or more, and he's had first-hand knowledge
of both sides of the line. He was born over your
side, so he tells us, but that didn't stop him living
in The Courts for a while just to taste their bit of
comfort, you know.'
'Ben!'
'Aye, Millie?' He raised his eyebrows towards her
in mock enquiry. 'You want to stop me tongue?
Well, you should know better than that by now.
You know, as Mr Sponge has told us, once you
start thinkin' there's no more rest for you. It's like
a blackbeetle in a walnut shell; you know, tied on a
bairn's belly to make it cry in order to get sympathy.
It nags at you, scratches.'
'Perhaps your instructor, Mr Smith, has not yet
come by the axiom that a little learning can be a
dangerous thing. Now I will bid you good evening.'
After inclining his head towards Ben, he now
turned to Millie, saying in a most stilted and polite manner, 'Will you do me the kindness to walk wit
me to the gate?'
Millie did not answer, but she rose from the couch
and, as she passed Ben, she turned her head and
levelled at him a look that held disdain; then,
walking forward, she opened the door and led the
way through the other room and into the yard; and
it wasn't until they reached the locked gate and she
stood staring through the rusty bars that she said,
'I'm sorry. I... I must apologise.'
'There's no need. And do you know? I understand
how the.' He was about to say, 'the fellow', but
went on, 'How he feels in more ways than one,
believe me. Well now, look at me.'
She turned slowly and looked into his face, and
again it was brought to her notice that he wasn't
all that tall and that her eyes were almost on a level
with his; and in his eyes was a look that was bringing
into her throat that tight restriction which she could
describe as having risen from some place behind her
breast bone. It was like a pain.
'I'm sorry I won't be here to wish you a happy
birthday; I'm due in London over the next two
or three weeks. There is so much business to be
attended to. At another time I might have enjoyed
the free hours, after dealing with the business side
of my visit, but as our friend' - he turned his head
now and looked back across the yard towards the
house door - 'so aggressively put it, London is in
mourning and is likely to be for some time, as the
Queen is so distressed. However, as soon as I return
I'm going to come and ask leave of Mrs Winkowski
to drive you out to Aunt Chrissie's little house. I feel
sure you will like her, as dithery in all ways as she
is. And also, you may be taken with the house. If
permission were granted would you be agreeable?'
The answer was simple: 'Yes,' she said; 'yes, I'd
be agreeable.' And immediately he was comparing
it with the reception his proposal would have received
had it been offered to any other female of
his acquaintance. There would have been a little
simpering, a little hesitation and the answer would
have been coy, implying, how adventurous, if not
even naughty it was. But this girl's answer had
been straightforward. There was nothing false about
her, nothing frivolous, yet there emanated from her
something that was really indescribable, like joy. The
only thing he knew was, he longed to hold her, and
had done, he thought, since the time he had carried
her to William's house. William, too, had sensed the
quality in her.
Thinking of William, he recalled their last conversation,
in which he had told him that Raymond had
asked if he had heard anything further of the fair
child, and had probed him as to where she lived. And
William had answered that she used to live in one of
The Courts, the unsavoury Courts, but that she had
since moved, and he didn't know where. William
was wise. Oh, yes, William was wise. As had been
his godfather in leaving the Little Manor to William,
together with an acre of freehold land: he had known
that once he was gone Raymond would have got rid of him, because there was no love lost between them,
for William could never be subservient.
She had opened the gates, and he was now holding
out his hand to her; and when she placed hers in it he
held it tightly, saying, 'When we next meet you will
have come of age, at least a certain age. Goodbye,
my dear.' The last words were soft and deep with
feeling. But she didn't reply to them, she just stood
and watched him walking away, a gentleman in a
fine grey suit, high hat and carrying a silver-mounted
walking stick. And he had said he was coming back
when she became of age.
Not until he was out of sight did she leave the
gate. Then she almost marched across the yard and
into the kitchen, where she found that Mrs Aggie,
too, was present. But as if Mrs Aggie weren't there,
she went straight for Ben, crying, 'If it wasn't that we
live almost in the same house, I would never speak
to you again. Your behaviour was simply dreadful,
atrocious! Spouting your theories. He knows more
about them than you do, and he can do more for the
people than you can ever do.'
'Finished?'
'Yes. But I could go on.'
'Well, why don't you? I'm all ears. But I'm not
finished, because I'll tell you this much: he's no
good; none of his type are; in their own class, yes,
but not when they come from yon side of the track
to this side and smile at a young lass, and talk fancy
to her, and fill her head with ideas, and her knowing
nothing about life' - his voice was rising - 'but what
she's learned in this muck-hole. Because that's how
he saw it, isn't it? A muck-hole.'
As Aggie went to say something, he rounded on
her, crying, 'Shut up! I'm goin' to have me say and
I can start with you.' He stabbed his finger at her.
'You've got big ideas for her, haven't you? You think
that bloke's on the square. You think he's goin' to
come and say: "Mrs Winkowski" - his voice had
altered now - "May I ask you for the hand of your
ward.., in marriage, that is, Mrs Winkowski, and
not just leading her up the path with ideas of takin'
her behind the bushes?" Oh no.'
Aggie's voice was almost a scream now as she,
too, yelled, 'Ben Smith, shut your mouth! And get
yourself outside before I level something at you.
You'll be sorry for this night. Yes, you will. Oh,
yes, you will.'
Ben put up his hand and pulled his bootlace tie
tight under his collar. Then it appeared as if he had
now to force himself to speak, for his jaws clamped
two or three times before he brought out, 'Aye, I
might be; but there's two people that'll be sorrier.
That's a prophecy, and you'll live to see it.' And
on that, he did not hurry or march from the room
but turned slowly about and as slowly walked out,
closing the door behind him.
Blindly now, Millie stumbled towards Aggie and
threw herself into her arms; and as she sobbed, Aggie
stroked her hair, saying, 'There now. There now.
What does he know about it? He's an ignorant pig,
that's all, an ignorant pig.' Then after a moment she gently pressed Millie from her and, looking into her
streaming face, she said, 'Did he say anything to you
... well, you know?'
Millie shook her head, and then stammered, 'He's
... he's not like that. I mean, Ben's impression,
it's all wrong. Mr Thompson's a gentleman, kind
and... '
'D'you like him? I mean, a bit more than like
him?'
Millie bowed her head before she muttered, 'Yes.
Yes, I do, Mrs Aggie. I... I more than like him.'
'Well, me dear, if that's the case, we'll take it from
there an' see what happens. But look, you haven't got
to hold it against him; I mean, Ben, 'cos he can't help
it. He's jealous.'
Millie was drying her eyes on the end of her white
apron, and when she stopped, her face screwed up and she said, 'Jealous? Ben, jealous.,;?'
'Aye, lass. He's a man. His legs might be short but
he's all man. You take it from me.'
'But . . . but well, he's practically brought me up
and . . . and been like a brother.'
Aggie gave a short laugh as she said, 'Get it into
your head, lass, that no man will ever look on himself
as a brother to you. The mirror in our bedroom is
cracked; I think I'd better look out for a bit of decent
glass so you can see yourself.'
'Oh, Mrs Aggie. Life is not easy, is it?'
'No, lass; life's not easy. And you've been very
lucky so far, you know, because you're late in
learnin' that. With the majority, especially around
here, it comes soon after they can crawl.' And this
elicited no further remark or question from Millie;
instead she walked slowly to the couch and sat down,
the while thinking, she's saying the same thing as Ben
said, only she's not bawling it. She had said Ben was
jealous. How silly! How silly! Ben jealous of another
man? Then he must think... She almost sprang up
from the couch, saying, 'I'm going to change my
frock,' and went hastily from the room. And Aggie,
taking the gin bottle from the shelf, poured herself
out a generous measure and sat down to the side of
the fire, looked down into the mug and sipped at the
liquor, then said to herself, 'Aye, change your frock,
my beautiful dear. Change your frock.'


THREE


The hostility between Ben and Millie came to an
abrupt end three days later, and the bond that had
existed between them before became stronger. It was
brought about by the arrival of a stranger.
Being a Tuesday, the inhabitants of The Courts
were short of money for all commodities, so there
were only half a dozen people standing on the far
side of the long table. And two of these were small
children, each pushing a thin plate across the table
for a ha'porth of peas. And after Millie had put a
generous ladleful on each plate, the dirty and ragged
mites did not immediately pick them up and run, but
stared at her, until she smiled and, moving along the
table, took up a square of pastry and, breaking it
in half, dropped the two pieces beside the peas,
whereupon the urchins grinned at her, grabbed up
their meal, but without a 'ta', and ran off.
The next customer was a woman who said, 'Lucky,
those 'uns. It's a scandal. She's got five workin', but
the most of it goes in the gin shop, an' two of them
with her, an' they just ten. I ask you.'
'What can I serve you with, Mrs Bright?'
'Four pies, lass.'
'The fourpenny's?'
'Oh, no. No; not on a Tuesday' - the woman
laughed - 'he's lucky to get the tuppeny's. An'
I'll have a scoop of the broth. It sticks to your
ribs, that does. I can say this, I've never tasted
better, 'specially when you find a nice lump of fat
mutton in it.'
Millie took the hint and saw that there was a piece
of mutton in the ladleful of stew she poured into the
woman's basin. But as the woman moved away and
made room for the next customer, Millie became
aware of the man standing across the narrow roadway.
She had never seen him before, and she knew a
great many inhabitants now by sight, because it was
a close quarter and very few strangers made their
way here, at least to pass the gates and towards the
main Courts, unless they were unfortunate enough
to have just come to live there.
Yet there could be a man, or many men, who
lived in The Courts whom she hadn't seen. This
man, however, appeared different: he was dressed
differently from any of those round about. He was
wearing a black suit and a white collar; at least, it
looked a lighter shirt from this distance, and he had
a high hat on his head.
By the time she had served another four customers
there was no-one in sight but the man; and now he
was approaching the table.
As he came closer, she saw that he was tall,
almost six foot, and he was very thin and his suit
appeared baggy.
When he reached the other side of the table he
stared fixedly at her and when he spoke his voice,
too, was strange: it did not hold the rough and
loud hoarseness that she was used to among the
working class. Yet it wasn't the voice of a gentleman
of whatever station.
'Millicent Forester. That's your name, isn't it?'
'Yes, that's my name.'
'Well, my name's Forester an' all. Reginald Forester.
I'm your father.'
The ladle slipped from her hand on to the wooden
table. Then she took two steps backwards, saying,
'No; my ... my father's dead.'
'Well, she would tell you that, wouldn't she? But
... but I'm your father all right. I didn't expect to
find you so soon: the parson's wife said she had last
heard of you here; but then you could have been
anywhere by now. I recognised you as soon as I saw
you, you're the spitting image of your mother.'
Again she said, 'No, no,' because instinctively
she didn't want this man to be her father. She
didn't like his face. There was a thin scar running
down one side of it. The top of it was lost in the
shadow of the hat brim, although she could see
where it ended at his chin. She turned swiftly and
ran across the yard, and as she did so Ben came out
of the barn.
Seeing him, she turned and rushed towards him
and, clinging to his arms, she whimpered, 'There's
... there's a man at the gate, Ben. He... he says,
he's.., he's my father. He... '
"What?' He looked across the yard to the figure
standing beyond the table, then said, 'He what?'
'He... he said he is my father. I... I thought he
was dead. Will you come and see?'
'Stay where you are.' Ben now walked slowly
towards the gates and the man who was standing
there, and demanded, 'What's your game?'
'Who are you?'
'I'll tell you when I know who you are. You say
you're her father. Well, to her knowledge an' my
knowledge, he's dead.'
The man placed his two hands on the edge of the
table as if for support, and his head drooped as he
said, 'That's what she would want her to know, her
mother. I've been away for a time.'
It was some moments before Ben said, 'Aye, and
I can guess where you've been an' all.'
The head came up sharply. The voice, too, was
sharp: 'Well, if you can, then you'll know why I
haven't come for her sooner,' he said.
'Come for her? You've got no claim on her. She's
Aggie's, I mean Mrs Winkowski's.'
Ben turned his head as he heard Aggie's voice in
the yard, and he called, 'Come here a minute, will
you?'
When Aggie shambled up to them, Ben said,
'Here's a do that'll have to be tackled. This fella
says he's her father and he's come for her. What
d'you make of that?'
Aggie stared at the man, and she seemed to see
somewhere in the thin face a resemblance, and it was as if she had been waiting for this moment for
years. She said quietly, 'Let him in.' Then she turned
away and, hurrying as fast as she could towards the
house, she caught hold of Millie who was standing
under the porch, her eyes seeming to be staring out of
her head, and she said, 'Come away in. Don't worry;
we'll get this sorted out.'
'But he said, Mrs Aggie, he... he said... '
'Yes, and likely he is. Yes, likely he is your father,
so calm yourself down.'
A minute later, the man was standing in the
kitchen looking about him in as much amazement
as Bernard Thompson had done, and when Aggie
turned to him and said, 'Well, get off your legs,' he
sat on the settle. Then, looking towards Millie, who
was standing to the side of the window as if to keep
her distance between them, he said, 'I... I knew it
would come as a bit of a shock but ... it isn't my
fault that the truth's been kept from you for years. It
was hers: she should have put you in the picture from
the beginning. I heard yesterday that she did herself
in. Well, I'm not surprised.., nervy.' He was nodding
at Aggie now. 'Her mother was always nervy.
She'd had it too soft, you know. Well' - he laughed
now - 'we both had it too soft at one time.' He passed
his lips one over the other, before saying, 'D'you
think I could ask you for a drink of something?'
'Is it in the way of tea or beer you would like?'
'Oh, beer, please. Oh yes, a beer.'
Aggie nodded towards Ben, and he went to the
cupboard and brought out a bottle of beer and a mug
and placed them none too gently on the settle by the
side of the man, who looked up at this odd-shaped
fellow and said, 'Ta. Thanks.'
They watched him fill up the mug with beer, which
he then swallowed, almost it seemed in one draught,
then take out a handkerchief from his pocket and
wipe his mouth. It was an odd gesture from someone
of his appearance; it would have been more natural
had he wiped his mouth with the side of his hand.
He now placed the mug and the empty bottle on
the hearth and, looking towards Millie, he said,
'Come here. I'm not goin' to eat you. I think it's
about time we got to know each other, don't you?'
Millie made no move to comply; and what she
said now altered the man's expression, for she spoke
sharply: 'I don't know. I've always understood you
were dead; so why has it taken you so long to claim
the relationship? That's what I'd like to know.'
'Oh well, you see, that's got to be explained.
I was away.'
'He was in gaol,' Aggie said flatly.
The man half rose from the settle; then sank back,
saying, 'Yes. Yes, I was in gaol; but it wasn't my
fault. It was self-defence. I was nearly killed. Look
at this! I've got the mark of it.' He was pointing to
the scar on his face. 'It was to save her, your mother.
I could have swung for it, only they brought it in as
self-defence.'
'The man died then?'
He turned to Aggie, saying, 'Aye. Aye, he died
some time after.., well, a week or so; and I nearly did an' all. But still, they gave me twelve years.
My God!' They watched him grind his teeth now
and droop his head and look to the side, and his
eyes moved over the floor as if he were watching
something crawling. Then, his head snapping up, he
said, 'They cut me time a bit for good behaviour, and
I couldn't wait to get out to see you.' He nodded
towards Millie. 'But it's not much of a welcome I'm
gettin', is it?'
'What d'you expect?' Aggie was standing in front
of him.
'Well... well I could say that at least she could
give me a civil word and let me explain to her
how all this happened. Let me tell you, missis, I
wasn't always like this.' He drew his hand down
from his shoulder to his knee. 'I was in a good
position once, and she was brought up well until
the trouble. But anyway, as we're talkin' plainly,
because there already seems to have been a lot of
plain speaking--' he glanced now at Ben, then went
on, 'I've got a claim on her: she's mine and... '
'My God! mister,' Aggie interrupted him, 'you've
got to get your ideas straightened out, and I'd better
do it right away for you. You've got no claim on her.
I signed a paper years ago. She's what you'd call my
ward, and it was done by a legal man, and a friend,
who is now a police sergeant, was a witness.'
'Oh my God!' The man was on his feet now.
'Don't tell me I've stepped from one gaol to another.
Bloody police!' He was shaking his head in frustration.
'What d'you think it's like to see nothin'
'Well, if that's the case, I'll have to look about, won't I, for some place to lay my head?'
The last words were spoken almost in a whine, and
they weren't lost on Millie, nor yet on the other two.
And so no-one was surprised when he said, 'Since I
came out last week I haven't been able to pull myself
together - you can probably understand that - and ... and the bit that I had is... is gone. I wonder if
you could loan me a few shillings until...?'
Before his voice trailed off Aggie had gone to
the sideboard, and there, lifting the lid of the tin
cash-box, she took out a florin, which she handed
to him, saying, 'That should see you berthed for a
couple of nights.'
He looked at the coin in the palm of his hand
and the sound he made was like a huh! or a slight
laugh; then he picked up his high hat from a chair,
put it on, pulling the brim slightly to the side of his
face where the scar was. His eyes now on Millie,
he said, 'Be seem' you, daughter. I'll be poppin' in,
naturally, 'cos we've got to talk, haven't we? Settle
things, like.'
On this he went out, followed by Ben; but Millie
and Aggie remained where they were. When the
door was closed Millie almost threw herself on to the couch and, thumping the seat with her fist, she
said, 'I ... I've dreamed of what he was like for
years, and years, and years, Mrs Aggie, I've dreamed
of what he was like. He had a lovely face, his manner
was kind. He... he, in a way, was a gentleman. The
only resemblance left is that man's height.'
'Girl! ... Listen. You've got to face up to it, he's
not that man; he is your father, as he said. And, you
know, there's one thing: we can't pick our parents.
Oh, I wish to God we could. What different lives
we'd lead. Now, there's none of you in him; rather,
I should say, there's none of him in you. You're on
your mother's side.'
On this Millie sprang straight up and, thrusting
her face out and up towards Aggie, she hissed, 'And
she was a street woman! Sister Mary said that; she
was a street woman. I didn't know what it meant
then, but I know now. I've known for a long time.
I've a prostitute for a mother and a murderer for a
father. Oh, Mrs Aggie. Mrs Aggie.' The tears were
spurting from her eyes.
Taking her by the shoulders, Aggie shook her, the
while crying at her, 'Your ma was no prostitute! She
was a young woman who was reduced to doin' the
only thing she could do to keep you alive. But she
found she couldn't stand it. So don't you ever despise
her. Whatever you come to think about him, leave your mother out of it... '
Aggie suddenly found her arms pulled away from
Millie's shoulders, with Ben yelling at her, 'What
d'you think you're up to? Knockin' her brains out!
That's all she needs is some rough handling after
seeing that individual.'
'She was goin' into hysterics.'
'Well, it's not to be wondered at.' He sat down on
the settle beside Millie and, putting his arms about
her, he brought her head to rest on his shoulder,
saying, 'Stop it now. Come on. It's goin' to be all
right. You won't have to go near him again if you
don't want to.'
'Oh, that's marvellous advice you're givin' her.
Marvellous! Now, you get it into your head, Mister
clever bugger, the man's her father. He'll have a right
to see her. You won't be able to do anything about
that. And I should imagine he's here for some time
unless he gets up to something and goes along the
line again. And that really wouldn't surprise me.'
Millie drew herself from Ben's hold and, looking
from one to the other, she said, 'It's awful. It's awful
for me to say this, but.., but I don't want to see him.
Yet, he is my father, I know he is, so why should I be
repulsed by him? But... but I can't help it. I... I
can't see me ever getting to like him.'
'Oh my God! there's that bell again. But don't
you worry, lass, I'll go and see to it. Just sit there
and calm yourself down.'
As Aggie left the room Ben stood for a moment
and looked at Millie; then, turning swiftly, he went
out and caught up with Aggie as she was entering the
yard, and, ignoring the customer standing waiting to
be served, he said, 'Look here; how long is it since
you saw your friend.., the sergeant?'
'Oh, I don't know; weeks. Why?'
'Well, I think I would take a toddle down and
have a word with him, because, you know, I don't
believe that bloke's story, him gettin' twelve years
for protectin' his wife. No; there's something slimy,
sly, about that bloke. Now, people like your sergeant should have ways and means of connectin' with...
where was it? Durham, and he could likely get the
ins and outs of the real story. I think it would pay
you to take that little walk. What d'you say?'
'Aye, well, there might be something in it. And
if he can help, I know he will. But I can't see
it'll make much difference what he got the twelve
years for...
'Funny--' She now looked around her while nodding
to herself as she said, 'I've never gone more than
a few miles from this yard in me life, yet troubles
walk in from different quarters of the country; and,
when you come to think of it, none of it concerning
me. Life's funny. It is that. All right. All right!' she
yelled towards the impatient customer. Then giving
Ben her last words, she said, 'It was a mistake, you
know, startin' this game. You're at people's beck
and call from Monday mornin' till Saturday night,
and it's not me... not my way.'
FOUR


The man did not put in an appearance the next day;
nor the day following; and they began to question
the probable reason. It was not until the Sunday,
and then just as Millie was about to leave the house,
and escorted by Ben, to attend the Methodists Adult
Sunday School, that he came.
When he confronted them in the kitchen he looked
different altogether from on his first appearance
there: he was wearing a new suit which fitted him;
his boots, also, showed a newness; and one could say
his manner, too, was new; it was alert and cheery.
'Hello, there,' he said, addressing Millie. 'Off
some place?'
'I'm... I'm going to Sunday School.'
'Sunday School?' The words came from high in
his throat as if in surprise. Then he said, 'Oh, well
then, this will give me an opportunity to walk with
you. It will be like old days. I used to take you out
on a Sunday, you know: we would go along by the
river at Durham. Ah yes.' He nodded, as if recalling
those happy times. Then looking from Ben to Aggie,
he said, 'I hope I find you well?'
'Well enough, thank you.' And she added, 'You seem to have fallen on your feet since your first
visit.'
'Well, I said then I was lookin' for work, and
I've found it. Anyone can find work if they want
to. I knew that years ago, and it still seems to be
so.' And the manner of his speaking was another
surprise for Millie.
Aggie was saying, 'Well, what's this marvellous
job you've got that's provided you with a new
rig-out?'
'Oh, it's a kind of hotel, eatin' house. By the way' he
turned quickly to Millie again- 'there's a concert
in one of the main halls in the town. I see it's well
advertised. Up-to-date singers and entertainers, it
says. My knowledge of them, of course, is now
naturally scanty; but I used to like a concert. How
about comin' along?'
However, before Millie could answer, Aggie put
in, 'As you've just been told, she's ready to go
to Sunday School; so I shouldn't imagine one of
them concerts would hardly fit in. And anyway, she
doesn't go out at night.'
The man's whole manner and tone altered as he
confronted Aggie again, saying., 'Well, from what I
understand she hardly goes out any time, and she's
going on sixteen years old. You cannot keep her
tied up here for life. She is my daughter, and to my
mind she should be outside away from here seem'
and being seen.'
An odd quietness followed on this statement: it
was as if they were preparing themselves for a verbal
attack. Ben was the first in, crying, 'See an' be seen!
What the hell d'you mean by that? And where, may
I ask, did you get your information about tying her
up. The only tyin' up she's had is protection from
the likes of--' He swallowed deeply, and instead of
adding, 'you', he said, 'scum. And they're not all to
be found among this, quarter, let me tell you. See an'
be seen? As for being her father, you, mister, have
waived any right to that title. What's more, you have
no jurisdiction over her. It's Mrs Winkowski, there,
whose word goes with regards to her.'
Ben had used the word jurisdiction. Amid her confused
and mixed feelings that were not without fear,
Millie felt a certain pride at what he had achieved
from his reading and his learning. Then it was as
if she were aiming to show her learning, too, when
she said, 'Listen to me, all of you, and particularly
you, sir.' She could never call this man 'father'. 'I
don't wish to go out to see or be seen, and I haven't
been restricted by these kind people. I may say I have
been lucky to have, been brought up in this house
and under the protection of Mrs Winkowski. You,
sir, were irresponsible enough to do something that
caused you to be imprisoned. I can't see that you
could have been concerned about your wife and
child, although you tell us it was because of my
mother you committed the deed. I remember my
mother, very clearly. She was a loving person and
a gentle creature, and she would not have wished
you to go to such lengths in her defence.'
She felt that last bit to be silly because her mother would not have had an opinion on what her husband
should do in her defence.
'Well! Well! Well! I'm being' put in me place. I
can see that. My God! After all the years I sat in
that stinkin' cell just countin' the days when I'd be
free and be able to pick up me life again, a family
life. Yes, I thought of it as a family life, and this
is what it comes to.' He now pointed his finger
accusingly towards Millie. 'You've never given me
one kind word or shown me one scrap of sympathy
for what I've been through. Well, I can tell you now,
you're not a bit like your mother inside. Oh no. To
my mind you're a hard young bugger.'
'We'll have none of that language, not in my
house,' said Aggie. 'And now I'll ask you to get
on your way. And when you decide to call again,
see that you're sober. But then I'll be pleased if I'm
not to see your face again.'
'Oh, missis, you'll see me face again all right. I'm
goin' to take up the case. I might as well tell you I
haven't let the grass grow under me feet this past
week. I've had a word with a man who knows about
this kind of thing. He told me to take the matter to
court and she'd be mine until she's twenty-one.'
'Out!' Ben's threatening stance in front of him
made the man back two paces; even so, he sneered
down at Ben, saying, 'And what would you do?'
'Have you flat on your back before you know where
you are; and that would only be the beginnin'. Take
your choice.'
The man turned towards Millie and in a thick
voice he said, 'You know, I used to sit thinkin' of
the reception I'd get when we met; but never did it
strike me it would be like this. This fella here' - he
thumbed disdainfully towards Ben - 'has just said
"Take your choice". That's what the bobbies used to
imply in Durham, only they used to say, "Which way
d'you want it? Quietly or otherwise?" Well, good
day, daughter. We'll be meetin' again, and shortly,'
at which he turned from them and walked out; and
as if of one mind, Aggie and Millie dropped down
on to the settle.
Aggie was breathing heavily, and she had her hand
pressed tight against her side. 'That man upsets me,'
she said. 'I've never known anyone get under me skin
so much, and--' She reached out and patted Millie's
arm. 'Don't worry, me dear,' she said; 'you'll not
have to see him if you don't want to. And you don't
want to, do you?'
'Oh no, Mrs Aggie. I ... I'd be happy if I never
saw him again. Yet... yet he is my father.' She now
looked towards Ben, adding, 'I can't believe that, you
know. I keep telling myself he can't possibly be, yet
all the time I know he is, and I feel--' she paused,
then shrugged her body as if throwing something off
as she ended, 'well, ashamed.'
'You've nothin' to be ashamed of. Anyway, if
you don't want to miss half the class we'd better
be gettin' along.'
'I don't feel like going, Ben.'
'Now, we're goin' to have none of that.' Aggie was
pushing her from the settle. 'It's the only break you have in the week and you enjoy it. So, go on, get
yourself off and away. And once Ben sees you safely
inside, he'll take his usual dander round the town,
forgettin' to mind his own business and pokin' his nose in here and there.' She accompanied these last
words with a tight smile as she looked towards Ben.
'So go on; let me see the back of you both. I want a
little peace, because, you know, I don't get much of
either in the week.'
'I'm very sorry for you.' Ben took his cap off the
knob of a chair, pulled it on his head, and buttoned
up his coat; then with an effort at lightness he
grinned at Aggie, saying, 'Instead of puttin' your big
fat legs up, what about giving them a little exercise
and you comin' along to the Sunday School? It's
for adults, and you're an adult all right. And you
would learn something; and they would an' all,
wouldn't they?'
Aggie's answer took the form of her hand snatching
up a tin plate from a shelf to the side of the
fireplace and, with an adroit swing, letting it fly at
him. But just as adroitly, Ben lifted his hand and
caught it, saying, 'You never could see straight;'
then threw it on the table before pushing Millie
towards the door.
As they walked side by side the disparity in their
heights was hardly noticeable, for Millie was a little
taller than him; but he was wearing a long overcoat
that touched his calves and which made him appear
to be just a normal smallish man.
They had walked some distance before either
spoke; and then it: was Millie who asked quietly,
'What's going to happen, Ben? What's going to be
the outcome?'
'I'd be a relation of God's if I knew that, Millie.
But there's one thing I can assure you of: nothin' I
can prevent is goin' to happen to you. As for him,
your so-called father, leave him to me. If he tries
any of his tricks, he'll find himself back in one
of them cells.'
'Oh, Ben, don't: say that. It must have been
terrible.'
'Aye, it must be terrible for some men if they're
innocent. But I have no pity for them who set out
to murder a bloke.. And that's what he must have
done. And we haven't really got the rights of the
case; just his version. But, you know, Aggie saw
her dear friend.' He turned towards her, grinning
now, and interposed what he was going to say
with, 'I don't dislike the bloke, it's just what he
stands for, I suppose... Anyway, he'll do some
investigation. An' then, I hope one day we'll come
by the truth.'...
When they reached the hall, she said, 'Won't you
come in? It's just like the night class, except that they
sing a couple of hymns.'
'That would be the finishin' touch to the meetin'
because, you know, I've got a voice like a corncrake.
No, you go on. I'll do me usual dander and I'll be
back in ample time to pick you up. Enjoy it, and if
you get the chance to ask any questions, put it to
them that you'd like to know what happened to the rest of the apples in the Garden of Eden. I hate to
think of them all goin' rotten.'
She pushed him as she laughed, then turned from
him and went into the hall. He then made his way
purposefully towards the centre of the old town.

It was about five o'clock when he brought Millie
back into the house. Aggie had prepared a high tea,
and after they had eaten and cleared away, they sat
round the fire and talked, as they had done over
the years. Prior to the baking business, they might
have discussed what was happening in the rag and
scrap-iron world; or if Ben and Aggie should be on
their own, the discussion would be mostly about
Millie and her learning and, of course, her future
life. But it had become a sort of rule that Ben would
never leave them on a Sunday night. He would go
to his classes during the week or visit Annie, which
visits were becoming rarer, but Sunday night was
always for the house, so, naturally, Aggie showed
a little surprise when, about half-past seven, he rose
from his chair, saying, 'I'll be leavin' you for a little
while. I'm goin' to take a dander. I want some fresh
air; that's if I can find any roundabouts.'
'Where are you going?' asked Millie.
'Nowhere in particular; just as I said, a dander.
Want to come with me?'
'No.' She laughed.
What surprise Aggie felt she kept to herself. She
didn't even ask him where he was going, but she
knew he'd be going somewhere, and not just taking
a dander. She had learned that Ben Smith, Jones, or
Robinson never did anything without it had some
meaning, some purpose. So, after Ben had left the
house she chatted for a while with Millie until
nine o'clock, when Millie went up to bed, and she
promised to follow her in a very short while.
She didn't. She sat waiting, for she knew when he
returned he wouldn't make for his rooms above the
barn but would come to her.
It was ten o'clock when he knocked on the
door and she shambled quickly through the room
to let him in.
Seated opposite to her, he said, 'Is there any beer
left in that jug? I'm as dry as a fish.' And when she answered, 'No, I'm sorry; but there's a drop of gin
there,' he said, 'Well, you know what I think about
gin; but nevertheless, let me have it.'
She waited until he had drunk the gin; then she
said, 'Well, out with it!'
'I know where that fella's workin' ... Reilly's
Meat House.'
'Reilly's? You mean...?'
'Aye, Reilly's, Slim Boswell's place, where he feeds
all his pimp's and harlots, and his faggots; all the
ladies and gents of the street. They say Big Joe's
got shares in it an' all. Well, he would, wouldn't
he? 'Cos his lot must have some place to eat.'
'How did you find out?'
'Well, on me dander round, you know, this afternoon
I got talkin' to one and another. Fred Miller,
you know, in the fish market, an' Randy Croft, he deals with the vegetables. They're two decent blokes,
and I described the fella to them and asked if he
had been round there for work. Fred couldn't place
him but Randy did straightaway. He said, "I think
he's workin' at Reilly's, 'cos he came through here
yesterday with one of their suits on. Boswell, give
him his due, always dresses his crew decent, male
or female." He laughed; so I laughed with him. But
it's a fact, he is workin' there...'
'You didn't go in that place? They would have set
their bullies on you.'
'I didn't need to' - he laughed - 'there's a big
glass window and you can see the bar through it,
but not the eatin' place. They tell me it's very plush
behind there. Anyway, one of the ladies came out of
the door an' spies this handsome fella, not over-tall,
but standing glancin' through the window, and she
comes up to him and says, "Good evening, sir. This
is a good meat house, an' would you...?"' Ben
stopped and chuckled deeply before going on, 'Then
I turned to her and said, "Not at the present moment,
Nellie, but I wouldn't mind some other time." And
she pushed me an' said "Oh! Ben, Ben Smith, Jones,
or Robinson... " Aye she did, she gave me me full
title. Then she asked what I was doin' there, and so
I asked her if she knew of a new fella, a waiter, in
there called Forester.'
'"Oh aye," she said. She knew him all right and
who he was. And then, to use her own words, Aggie,
she said, "He says he's father of Raggie Aggie's
darlin' fair nymph over in the woods." She said
he was somethin' of a big-mouth an' he liked his
duckie and the more he drank the more his mouth
opened. And something else she said.' Ben paused
here, nodding his head. 'And Aggie, this sets the seal
on him for me, because he'd told them he hasn't
turned up before because he's been to sea and was
stranded with some shipmates on some foreign coast.
Can you believe it? Well, apparently they do, they've
swallowed it, at least some of them; but not Nellie.
You know what she said? "He may be her father
but I think the faraway foreign coast where he was
stranded was some clink or other. The first time I
saw him," she said, "I noticed he had a pallor on
him that spoke of the clink, an' you don't get that
unless you're stranded on that particular shore for a
long time." And then she asked me what I thought.
I said I thought along of her. And then she asked me
to walk along with her because, as she said, laughing,
in her business they don't stand about. Lie, aye, but
not stand. She's a good 'un really, you know.' He
now grinned at Aggie. 'Then you know what? She
walked as far as Bale Street, Aggie. They're not
small houses, an' that street's on the fringe of
respectability. Anyway, the first three, she said,
belonged to Boswell; in fact, the end one was where
she and the lasses are apparently housed. There are
six of his specials. But the other two.., well, by then
it was getting dark and I couldn't see her face when she was speakin'. There was enough in her voice,
though, to tell me that she wasn't quite in favour
of what they were used for. She said they were kept for special customers. Known as guests, relations or
visitors. As she laughingly said, nature had to have
its way, and one way or other it did: rich men havin'
strange pastimes had to be provided for.'
He drained his glass of the gin, then said, 'I was
daft enough to ask her why she stayed on the game,
for, after all, she's been picked up by the coppers
more times than I've got fingers an' toes. And, from
what I've heard, there's no gentle examination by
the police doctors. You know, Aggie, she can't be
thirty.., well, she might just be that. But the answer
she gave me dried up me mouth: "I started young,
Ben," she said, "even before I was made into a
woman. You understand what I mean? So, after
twenty years in the business, you haven't any time
to learn anythin' else." And Aggie, I knew she wasn't
laughing then.'
Aggie made no comment for some time; and then
she asked practically, 'Did you give her anything?'
'Yes. Yes, I did. I... I slipped her half-a-dollar.'
'Oh, half-a-dollar! That was generous. Enough for
two and a half tries.'
'You've a mucky mind, Aggie. But anyway, I know
this, an' we can both be grateful for it, it's good to
know somebody workin' on the inside of that lot.'
'Huh! Don't bank on it, lad. They don't give their
own away; they know if they did, they would wake
up in a gully somewhere. Look at the young lad who
stood as witness against Big Joe. He was supposed
to've hung himself. Well, if he did, it was because
he decided he was for it in any case an' he might as
well do it himself. So don't bank on any help from
Nellie Pratt, or go soft in the head 'cos she relates
her life story to you. I've got little time for any of
them; an' less for them that live off them. But I don't
like what you tell me about that fella workin' in
Reilly's, although it does fit in with him somehow.'
She now pulled herself up from the couch, saying,
'Well, here's one off to her bed. I'll let you out.
I hate Sundays. There's something about Sundays;
they're weary days. I'll be glad when the mornin' comes.' She paused as she was opening the back
door and, turning and looking at him in the dim
light from the candle lantern hanging from a nail
in the wide wall, she said, 'But can you understand
him breedin' her?'
'No, Aggie. No, I can't. But it's been known afore
that a pip from a rotten apple can start a good tree.
Good-night to you.'
'Good-night, lad.'
She bolted the door top and bottom, then took the
lantern from the nail; and went back into the kitchen,
where she turned down the wick of the oil lamp. As
she pulled herself wearily up the stairs with the aid
of the banister, she thought, She must get married.
She must get married. We've got to get her married;
and he's there ready and waitin'.


FIVE


Millie's birthday came and passed without much
fuss. Aggie gave her an envelope in which there
were two sovereigns: enough, she said, to get her
a new coat and bonnet; only to feel outdone in her
generosity when, after breakfast, Ben went back to
his room and returned with a box, a fancy box
with stripes on the lid and tied with a brown
cord; and Millie, in some excitement, opened it to
reveal a really beautiful large, pale-blue, silk shawl
with motifs of flowers worked in each corner and
edged with a deep fringe, and she held it up, saying
in genuine amazement, 'Oh, Ben. It's beautiful. I've
never seen anything so beautiful.'
'Well, it's for a bonny lass.'
'Look, Mrs Aggie, look.'
'Aye, I'm lookin'.' Aggie now turned to Ben,
saying, 'You must have travelled a bit up to the
top end to come across that.'
'And... and it must have cost.., oh... oh... '
Millie shook her head, then impulsively rushed at
Ben and placed her lips against his. It was the first
time she had ever kissed him. She had, on occasions,
hugged him, and on occasions he had held her when
aiming to soothe her crying, but never before had she
touched even his cheek in a kiss.
His arms hanging limply by his sides, he made
no attempt to return the embrace; but when she
drew herself back from him, saying, 'I'll treasure
it all my life; and when I'm very old I'll still
wear it,' he managed to gain a little of his composure
and say, 'Well, it'll likely be in shreds by
then.'
After the excitement of the shawl the day was to
pass as any other: there was baking to be done,
the customers to be seen to, then more baking to
be done; and then the short sit round the fire, and
so to bed...

It should happen on a Saturday and into the fourth
week of her seventeenth year that they should have
three male visitors, and none had come to buy any
pies or pastries.
The first was Sergeant Fenwick. He'd had to ring
the bell because the gates were never opened now
until half past eleven of a morning, and after the
long table had been set out.
It was Ben who answered the ring and greeted the
sergeant with a joke, saying, 'I know nothin' about
the diamonds, the pearls, or the tiara;' and assuming
a very stiff countenance, the sergeant kept it up by
saying, 'Well, my man, if you don't, then nobody
does. So, until you get your memory back I think
you'd better come along with me, because we must
find that tiara.'
For the first time in their acquaintance they exchanged
a laugh. And now Sergeant Fenwick said,
'Where is she?' and Ben answered, with a jerk of his
thumb, 'She's over in the barn there.'
'Is Millie with her?'
'No. She's indoors, cookin' as usual.'
'Well, from all accounts I hear she's good at that.'
They were walking towards the barn door now and
as they entered, the sergeant said, 'Pity she hasn't a
shop. She'd do well in a shop.'
'Who'd do well in a shop?'
'Your ward, Mrs Winkowski, your ward. With
the proper help and the proper settin' she'd make
a go of it.'
'She has the proper help. What's the matter with us too?'
The sergeant looked from one to the other: 'Oh,
I wouldn't know where to start on that question,'
he answered; and he shivered, saying, 'It's
freezin' in here.'
'Yes, I know it is,' responded Aggie; 'and that's
what you call an asset to the business because it
keeps the food fresh ... Well, have you come to
tell us anything?'
'Yes. Yes, quite a bit, Aggie, quite a bit. But I can
only give you the bare details. Part of what that
fellow said was true; he was a butler and his wife
was a lady's maid. But she wasn't his wife at the
time the jewellery went missin'.' He turned now and
cast a laughing glance at Ben, saying, 'I think it must
have been that tiara you seem to know about.'
'What's that? What tiara are you talkin' about?'
'It's a joke, Aggie. It's a joke. Your assistant here
has a sense of humour. I've always known that, but
I haven't experienced much of it until this mornin'.
Anyway, there was this jewellery missin'. The fella
denied takin' it and the family didn't bring a case
against him; it seems he was the son of an old retainer
who had recently died. But the lady's maid believed
in the fella's innocence, and so she left with him and
they got married. But not havin' a reference, it was
difficult for him to find work. Eventually he must
have succeeded, because he became a shopwalker.
He also became enamoured of one of the women
on the staff; and apparently she wasn't the first.
Her husband, so it appears, was on a boat trading
between the Tyne and London. It was a rough
passage and could take anything from two weeks
to two months, all depending on the weather and
the blockages in the river. Anyway, the crux of the
matter is he must have returned one day and found
the two of them together, and he sets about him with
the definite intention of killing him, as the scar on
his face shows. But our man must have been stronger
for he managed to relieve the outraged husband of
the knife and stab him in several places. The fella
eventually died. At the trial, the woman in question
stated that our fella had followed her home and had
assaulted her and it was then that the husband had
found them. Well' - he smiled - 'as my informant
wrote to me, if you told that tale to the cat it would
scratch your eyes out. Anyway, the court didn't believe her either, and it's as well for him that it
didn't. It was proved the affair had been going on for
many months. So it was brought in as self-defence,
which saved him from the rope and he got twelve
years. Well, what have you got to say, Aggie?'
'That I'm not surprised; in fact, I never believed
his version of it. But all I can say is that that lady's
maid was a damn fool. Yet, I've got to look at it in
another way. If she hadn't been, I wouldn't have had
Millie's company for the last nine years and I would
have been the poorer for it.'
'Yes, Aggie, I think you would, because she's a
bonny lass, and a good lass into the bargain.'
'But what's goin' to be done about him? Can we
stop him comin' here?'
The sergeant turned to Ben and, shaking his head,
said, 'I can't see how that can be done, he's her
father. He's done nothing, at least so far, that
can bring him under the law. Now if he were to
threaten... '
'Well, he's done as much as that. He says he's seen
somebody. It sounds like a solicitor man, and he's
under the impression he can get control of her until
she's twenty-one.'
'Well, he'll have to fight that out in the court, and
with his record I doubt but that he'll come off second
best. I shouldn't worry. Well, I must be off,' and he
added, 'before I freeze to death in here. It's warmer
outside. How does it keep so cold?'
Aggie smiled. 'It's likely the draughts comin'
through the cracks of the old timbers,' she added.
'Even years ago when it was stacked with hay, as I
remember, it still remained cold. Anyway, will you
come in and have a hot drink?'
'No. No, thanks, Aggie. I must be on me way. But
I thought you'd like to know the facts about that
fella.'
'Yes. Yes, I wanted to know the facts. Somehow,
though, they don't surprise me. Nevertheless, thank
you very much, sergeant. And if at any time there's
anything I can do... '
He turned to her, laughing now and saying, 'What
can you do for me, Mrs Winkowski, unless you
get-that cart out and get on the road again? I
bet you don't hear much gossip over that pea
and pie table.'
'Oh, you'd be surprised. Oh, you would indeed.'
'Would I now?'
'Yes, you would.'
'Well, would you like to surprise me?'
'Not at the moment, not at the moment.' She, too,
was laughing now, loudly. 'But pop in again, any
time, when you're stuck an' you want something
solved, you know.'
He left with a wave of his hand and his broad smile
and when, at the gate, he turned to Ben, saying, 'She
doesn't change,' Ben answered, 'No, she doesn't; and
it's a good thing... Thanks for comin'.'
The sergeant turned a look on him, and he said
quietly, 'You're a good fella, Ben. Take care of her.
Take care of them both.' And with that he walked
away. And Ben, crossing the yard towards Aggie, who was about to enter the house, said to himself,
he's one of the decent ones, as she says; but they're
few and far between, I'd say.

The Saturday rush was over. Again they had sold
out, and it was not yet two o'clock. They were in
the kitchen now and Aggie was answering Millie:
'Well, if you had help could you bake twice as
many?' And Millie came back impatiently, saying,
'No; I've told you, it's the oven. It isn't so much the
making of the stuff, it's the cooking of it. The oven
won't be hurried.'
'What she's sayin',' put in Ben, 'is that you need
a new kind of fireplace. I've said it before and I'll
say it again, you should spend out and get in a
new range.'
'Would you like to go to hell and mind your
own business?'
'I wouldn't mind; it would be warmer than here.
Anyway, I've been under the impression for some
time that this was part of my business.'
'Be quiet, both of you, will you?' There was a
weary note in Millie's voice, and they both turned
and looked at her, and Ben, glancing at Aggie, said,
'She's tired.'
'Tell me something I don't know,' Aggie said; 'And
anyway, who gave their blessing to her becoming a
cook? I didn't want it; I was happy enough with me
yard as it was.'
'Look, both of you, I say again, be quiet,' said
Millie. 'I'm not tired, and I'm happy enough with
the yard as it is now. We can talk this thing
out quietly.'
'Can we? Listen to that!' Ben thumbed towards
the door. 'The bell again.'
'Well, go and tell them to get the hell out of it.
There's a sign out there says "closed" and if they
can't read they still know what it means.'
As Ben left the room muttering to himself, Aggie
turned back to where Millie was sitting on the settle,
her head leaning back into the corner of it, and she
said softly, 'Look, I'm not goin' to ask you to take
to drink, but when you're feelin' like that, just a
little nip of gin does you the world of good. Now
will you have it?'
'No, thank you, Mrs Aggie. You know I've said
so many times I don't like gin or beer. And I'm not
tired, I'm just a little weary.'
Yes, that was the word. She was weary. She was
weary of the daily routine. She was weary of the
house as it was now, for she couldn't keep it as
spruce as she used to. She was weary of that
lonely feeling inside her, that longing feeling, that
wanting feeling.
Suddenly as if touched by a magic wind, all
such feelings were swept away, for there, coming
through the door behind a stiff-looking Ben,
was Mr Thompson ... Mr Bernard Thompson
... Bernard.
She rose from the settle, her hands pressing down
her ruffled apron before going to her hair. But he
wasn't looking at her, he was addressing Aggie, saying, 'How are you, Mrs Winkowski? It seems
such a long time since I saw you.'
'As you see me, sir, as you see me. No better,
nor worse. Take a seat, will you?' She pointed
to the settle.
Now he did look at Millie, saying, 'And you, Miss
Millie, how do I find you?'
She managed to keep her reply cool as she said, 'I
suppose I could answer the same as Mrs Aggie; no
better, no worse.'
'She's tired. She's overworked and it's all her own
fault.' Aggie's voice was louder now. Then speaking
to Bernard again, she said, 'Have you just come back
from the city, sir... London?'
'Yes. Unfortunately, I was kept down there longer
than I anticipated, although I wasn't in London all
the time. It's very dismal there now. But I had to
drive into Sussex to visit some friends. It was to be
only a short visit, a matter of two or three days,
but it stretched into a week or more. You know
how things are when people get talking and' - he
shrugged his shoulders - 'and arranging everyone's
life but their own.'
'Can I offer you a drink, sir?'
'No, thank you, no. But there is something you
can do for me, Mrs Winkowski; I have come with
a request.'
The, sir? Now you tell me what I can do for you.'
'Well--' He inclined his head towards her, then
towards the stiff countenance of Ben, before looking
at Millie and saying, 'You could grant me permission
to take your ward on a little journey to inspect my
new abode. I have a house ... well, it's really a
cottage, on the outskirts, you know. It's a very small
affair and presided over by an aunt of mine. She
would be delighted to entertain Miss Millie to tea.'
Aggie was standing next to Ben, and whatever
movement he made she checked with the pressure
of her elbow; then, her head wobbling on her
fat shoulders, she said, 'Well, now, sir, put like
that, could I refuse your request? I ask you. But
it's up to the lady in question. Don't you think SO?'
'Yes. Yes, of course.'
Millie warned herself to remain cool and to
keep looking at this wonderful man and not to
take any notice of the look on Ben's face, and
to resist jumping forward and throwing her arms
about Mrs Aggie, who recognised the direction in
which her heart was now pointing and had been
for some time.
'That would be very nice. I shall be pleased to take
tea with your aunt, Mr Thompson.'
She took no notice when Ben swung round and
left the room; but went on to say, 'I shall have to
change. Would you mind waiting?'
'Not at all. Not at all. I'm sure I shall be amply
entertained by Mrs Winkowski here during your
absence.'
She inclined her head slightly towards him, then
walked from the room, forcing herself not to run.
She didn't, until she reached the stairs, and then she
bounded up these and into the bedroom. And there,
once the door was closed, she leant back against it
and cupped her face in both hands. Her lips were
pressed tightly together for a moment until they
sprang apart and, her mouth opening wide, she
drew in a long gasping breath before flying now
to the wardrobe.
Pulling open the doors, she gazed at the clothes
hanging there. Then she almost snatched a dark
green skirt and short coat from a hanger; grabbed
up a pair of brown buttoned boots from the bottom
of the wardrobe, and these she dropped on to the
floor before throwing the suit on to the bed. Finally
from the top drawer of the old chest she took a
white blouse. Then she almost jumped out of her
working clothes.
She now tipped some cold water from a ewer into
a basin and washed her face and hands; then, telling
herself she wouldn't have time to undo her plaits,
she arranged them on the top of her head. Anyway,
her bonnet would hide most of her hair, and so
she simply and hastily combed down a tiny fringe
of hair on to her brow and two curling strands on
to her cheeks.
When she was dressed, complete with a brown
velour coat covering her suit, she took from one
of the two drawers to the side of the dressing
table's cracked mirror, a handkerchief, and, from
the second drawer, a pair of gloves. Lastly, she
picked up a bead bag, and, bending, she surveyed
herself bit by bit in the upper half of the mirror.
She did not pass any opinion on her reflection,
yet when she was about to open the door she
stopped and her eyes travelled down the green suit
that was showing between her open coat. And she
asked herself if she had chosen rightly. But it didn't
matter. It didn't matter.
She made herself walk down the stairs, across the
hall and into the kitchen, where Bernard immediately
rose to his feet. And he gazed at her for a moment
before he said, 'I'm ... I'm glad you've dressed
warmly; there's a bitter wind blowing. I hope you
don't mind walking as far as the ostler's where I've
left the horse and trap?'
'Not at all. I like walking.'
'And what time may I expect you to bring her
back?' Aggie was asking now.
As he paused before answering her, there came the
sound of the bell ringing again, but neither Aggie nor
Millie took any notice of it. They were looking at
Bernard who, taking out his watch, said, 'It is now
just on two o'clock. It is a good half hour's drive to
the cottage as it's beyond the outskirts. Let us say
I will return her to you just after six o'clock. How
does that suit you?'
'Well, it'll be dark soon after then but she'll be
safe with you, I trust.' Aggie was stepping towards
Millie now, her hands outstretched as she added,
'We'll button that coat up,' when the door opened
and Ben entered, followed by Millie's father. And
if Ben had brought in a bucket of iced water and thrown it over them both the effect could not have
been more deadening.
The sight of the man caused a groan inside Aggie
which said, Oh, God! No! Just when things were
goin' well for her.
As for Millie, she wanted to close her eyes to shut
out the sight of him. The only thing she could be
thankful for at this moment was that he didn't seem
to be in any stage of drunkenness.
She was asking herself what she could say. Could
she say to Bernard, 'This is my father'? But the
man forestalled her, having to do so by introducing
himself.
He had taken in immediately that she was dressed
for the road, as was the gentleman, and although the
words 'Aye, aye' jumped to mind, he didn't express
them. What he said was, 'Well! well! daughter. I
see you're ready for out. And is this gentleman
your escort?'
Bernard looked from the man to Millie, and back
to the man again, and he said, 'Yes, I'm about to
have that pleasure.'
'Well! well! And where are you takin' her?'
'That's none of your business.' Aggie was stepping
forward now. 'Get out of the road; they're
about to leave.'
She now turned to Bernard, saying, 'I'd like to
point out, sir, that this man isn't welcome here.
And...' Before she could say anything further,
George Forester exclaimed loudly, 'I have business
here. As long as my daughter's here nobody can stop
me seem' her. I made that plain to you before, missis.
And since I've come to give her a birthday present,
I'm givin' it to her.' And with this, he put his hand
inside his breast pocket and pulled out a small box.
It was unwrapped but it was unmistakably a ring
box. And pushing past Aggie, he thrust the box out
towards Millie.
Sick at heart now, Millie glanced from Aggie to
Bernard, and then to Ben, whose expression, even if
she had been asked, she couldn't have described.
Slowly she took the box from the extended hand,
saying, 'Thank you.'
'Well, open it.'
And still slowly, she lifted the lid and looked down
on the gold ring with the three stones set at an angle
across it: the middle one was red, the other two
looked like pieces of pale glass.
'Put it on.'
'I... I will some other time.'
'No, now. I want to see it on you.'
She looked helplessly from one face to the other,
but no-one moved. And so she took the ring from
the box, then hesitated on which finger to put it.
When she tried it on the first finger of her left
hand it slipped off, but when she put it on the
middle finger of her right hand it stayed. Grabbing
her hand, he said, 'Now, look at that! And
that's no cheap ket, I'm tellin' you. And always
remember that I gave it to you.' He now turned
and looked at the others, saying, 'Seem' I'm not
wanted, I'll make me way out the way I came in; but I'll be back;' then turning back to Millie,
he addressed his last words to her: 'did you hear
that? I'll be back. And by the way' - he pointed
to the ring - 'that's only the beginning. You take
my word for it.' Then hunching his coat over his
shoulders, he pushed past Aggie and Bernard to the
door, already being held open by Ben, who then
followed him out.
'I'm sorry, sir, you've had to put up with him.
I'm very . . . '
'Oh, please, don't worry. But--' He was looking
at Millie now as he said, 'I understood your
father was dead?'
Her head slightly bowed as she answered, 'Yes,
I thought so, too. We all thought so. But he's very
much alive and it's awful of me to say, unfortunately.
But ... but that's how I feel about him.' And she
tried to pull the ring from her finger, but it stuck
against her knuckle. 'I'll have to get some soap to
ease it off,' she said to Aggie.
. 'Don't. Don't do that; let me have a look at it.'
Bernard Thompson lifted her hand and looked at
the ring; then moved it gently around her finger and
back again. And he stared at it for some time before
he said, 'It's a beautiful ring.'
'It'll be an imitation, sir. That's all he could
afford.'
'Oh, I don't think it's an imitation. I'm no authority
on jewellery, but this one looks genuine. I
should leave it on. And it enhances your hand.
Anyway, shall we go?'
Instead of answering him directly, she walked over
to Aggie and, bending, she kissed her on the cheek.
And they stared at each other for a moment before,
straightening up, Millie walked towards the door,
whilst he, taking Aggie's none too clean outstretched
hand, said softly, 'It will be good for her to have a
change, don't you think?'
'I do indeed, sir. I do indeed,' she said in a
conspiratorial whisper.
Why, Millie wondered, had she to stop halfway
across the yard when she met up with Ben and say,
'I won't be all that long.' It was something in his
face that drew the words from her.
Ben merely looked at her hard for a moment
before he turned and walked towards the barn.
'He's... he's very protective of you.'
'Yes. Yes, he is; he always has been.'
They were outside the gate now, picking their
way along the ridges of dried mud. He had his
hand on her elbow, guiding her, not only because
of the roughness of the road but in order to avoid
the numerous unsightly children who were milling
about. When a small boy, one of a crowd of about
a dozen, cried, 'Hello, Millie,' and the others took
it up, almost in a chant, crying, 'Hello, Millie,'
she forced herself to smile at them and lift her
hand in a wave.
'You are well known.'
'I should be; they're among my best customers,'
she said and curtly, for she felt his words to be
unnecessary.
When he laughed softly she turned and looked at
him. He was smiling at her and she smiled back,
thinking, he understands, he really does. He doesn't
look down on them or on Mrs Aggie, or Ben.
Ten minutes later, seated in the trap, he jerked
the horse into a trot, and she said, 'It's a very
smart outfit.'
'You like it?'
'Yes. I like horses. We had one called Laddie. The
name was misleading: I think he must have been
in his late twenties when Mrs Aggie bought him
because we found him dead on his bed one morning.
She said it was because she had overfed him. But she
was as distressed by his going as I was.'
'Did you drive the horse?'
'Yes; but he wasn't a horse, he was really a
pony.'
'Well, you can drive this outfit whenever you like.'
She did not respond to his suggestion, for some
reason feeling that the offer suggested more than the
words implied.
They were going through a district that was new
to her. It wasn't as poor as The Courts but it was
certainly full of low-class dwellings interspersed
between mills, and she said, 'I have never been
this way before. Mrs Aggie had certain routes she
kept to but she was never as far out as this.'
'This is The Hulme district,' he said. 'But don't.
worry, we'll soon be out of it.'
'Oh, it doesn't worry me.' She turned her head now and looked along the warren of streets going off this
main one. Two up, two down, the backyards leading
into narrow alleys, piled high here and there with
rubbish. She imagined the insides of the houses to
be really no different from The Courts, except that
they were terraced instead of going upwards.
They crossed a main road, one that was thick
with traffic of all types of vehicles from barrows
and handcarts, through the cheap straw-floored
hired cabs, to carriages and chaises.
'Now it will get better,' he said; 'we are approaching
the residences.'
The first residences were still terraced houses, but
all neatly curtained and brass-knobbed. These led to
the detached houses, each set in a small patch of
garden, and gave way to larger ones still, each with
two entrances, one double-gated, the other single
and holding a board which read 'Tradesmen' in large
painted letters. Beyond these residences was open
country with here and there a stretch of woodland;
and, passing one, she exclaimed, 'That puts me in
mind of the Quintons. Do you ever hear of them?'
'Not much; I very rarely go that way. I sometimes
see William, that is, Mr Quinton, in the town, and
he gives me news of the children. And he always asks
after you.' He inclined his head downwards. 'They
missed you very much, you know; and the children
were quite unmanageable after you left.'
Recalling why she left she did not go on to
further the conversation in that direction, or to
say Mr Quinton had said he would bring the children
to see her, but that he never did. What she said was, 'Your house is quite a way from the'
town?'
'We're almost there, another few minutes;' and
it seemed almost instantly he was saying, 'here we
are.'
He drew the horse to a stop, jumped down from
the trap and opened two small iron gates; then he
mounted the trap again, turned the horse and trotted
it up a short drive and round a curve. And there
she saw his house. Or was it a cottage? Or was it.
a palace? As she sat staring at it, he held out his'.
arm towards her, saying, 'The outside is pretty but;
the inside is much prettier.'
She stood on the gravel drive looking at the leaded
windows gleaming in the sunshine, and the thick root
of the creeper climbing up the wall by the side of the
porch. When he took her hand as if to run her into
the house, the appearance of a young man round the
corner stopped him, and he called to him, 'See to,
him, Geoff. I'll want him again about half past five.'
And now he was pulling her through the doorway
and into a hall, and he was actually untying her
bonnet; but when he went to unloosen the buttons
of her coat she smacked his hand gently, laughing
and saying, 'Please!' which made him stand back
from her, his teeth nipping his lower lip. And then
he said, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but I'm so excited.
You're here at last. I've always imagined you being
here.., well, since I got the place.'
Her Coat and bonnet off, she stood gazing about
her. It was a small hall, about the same size as the
one in the Quintons' house, not more than 'fifteen
feet wide and perhaps twenty feet long, but it was
beautifully furnished. At the moment she couldn't
distinguish one colour from another, only that there
was a maze of rose and gold from the floor coverings
and the draped curtains at the small arched windows.
The staircase rose from the end of the hall, and she
could see that this, too, shone with colour. And now
he was leading her towards a door, and when he
pushed it open Millie saw a tiny doll-like woman
rise from a blue-satin upholstered chair, and she
was crying, 'Oh! my dear. My dear. I didn't hear
the carriage. Oh! how nice to see you. My dear boy.
Is this the young lady?'
'Yes, Aunt Chrissie, this is the young lady.'
Millie found her hands taken between two tiny
white ones, which were so soft she felt they would
melt within her firm grasp. They hardly seemed real,
not quite human. Nothing about this little person
seemed real; certainly not her voice, which was like
a high thin musical note and sang as she said, 'Tea's
all ready. It's been ready this hour. I love my tea.
Don't you like tea, Miss... Miss...?'
'Millie, Aunt Chrissie.'
'Millie. Oh that is a sweet name. Of course, Millie.
But, as I said, don't you like tea?'
'Yes. Yes, I enjoy tea very much.'
'Shall I ring for Fanny?'
'Aunt Chrissie, sit yourself down and behave
yourself and stop your chattering or you'll frighten
Millie away.'
'Oh' - the tone of her voice sank - 'I wouldn't
frighten you away, would I?'
'No, I'm sure you wouldn't, ma'am.'
'She called me ma'am.' Her laughter made a
tinkling sound. 'I am not a ma'am or a missis, I am
merely Miss Christine Lavor. But dear Bernard here
has always called me Aunt Chrissie. The others--'
She turned now and looked up into Bernard's face
as she added, 'You remember, Bernard, the others
always called me Lavy. I never liked that. That was,
of course, with the exception of your dear mama,
not Berenice's mother, no, your mother... '
'Aunt Chrissie, you will be entirely confusing
Millie. She is not acquainted as yet with the family
history. Now will you hold your tongue and let
us be seated?'
'Oh my!' The slight figure now tripped up the
room, saying, 'I was playing patience; I must move
the cards. I don't want to disarrange them, it was a
good hand. I've had it out twice today. Do you play
patience, Miss Millie?'
'I haven't done so yet--' She paused before saying,
'Miss Christine,' which she noted brought an appreciative
smile from Bernard, but passed as though
unnoticed by Miss Lavor, who was now carefully
moving the tray on which her patience cards were
set out.
Bernard now led Millie to another blue brocade
chair, and when she was seated he put his hand out
and pulled on a bell-pull to the side of the open
fireplace. And Millie noticed that here again, even
in the bell-pull, the pattern of rose and guiltt was
carried through, because on a long strip of rose
velvet was placed another of gold braid, ending in
a gold and rose tassel.
She looked about the room. It seemed that everything
that was made of material had been chosen to
fit in with its partner: the carpet with the curtains;
the curtains with the upholstery on the chair; the
voluminous ladies' dresses in the two paintings, one
at each side of the fireplace wall. The whole had
really taken her breath away. She felt that she would
like to be alone in this room lust to savour the colours
and finger the material and pass her hand over the
patina on the furniture. It wasn't a large room, not
much bigger, she thought, than the kitchen back in
that place she had just left; and the thought led her to
ask herself if that was her home, a place that she had
loved and in a way still loved. But this was different.
This was like stepping into a fairy-tale world. One
could live a different life altogether in a room like
this, in a house like this ... and with people like
this. Yes, even with this dainty little chattering lady.
Bernard might be related to those in The Grange, but those people lived a different kind of life from
that which was led in this house. It could even be
better than her experience at the Quintons' house.
Oh, yes; because there she had just been a servant ... and here she would be...
'You are far away.' Bernard's hands were resting,
one on each side of her chair; his face was hanging
above hers: 'What were you thinking?' he asked.
She looked back into his eyes, her own soft and
unable to hide her feelings, and she said, 'I was
thinking that this is a beautiful room and that I
have, for this afternoon, stepped into fairyland.'
The smile went from his face, and his voice came
deep from within his throat as he said, 'You could
live in fairyland, my dear, if you so wish.'
'Oh, here's Fanny with the tea. Have you rolled the
bread and butter, Fanny? I always like it rolled.'
'Yes, Miss Chrissie, I've rolled it.'
The woman who was speaking and who was now
placing a heavily laden tray on a side table, straightened
her back and looked towards Millie; and in a
quite cheery voice, she said, 'Afternoon, miss.'
'Good afternoon.'
'Will you get me that table, Mr Bernard, the one
near the window with the pull-out leaf?'
'Yes, Fanny. Yes.' As if he were a small boy,
Bernard hurried towards where the spindle-legged
table stood and brought it to the maid. And Millie
told herself that this woman was a maid and she
had spoken like that to Bernard as a mother might
have done. Oh, the atmosphere in this house! And
the woman herself, she was far from young. She
must be well into her fifties and she looked so
cheery, so bright.
The tea was set out, the rolled brown bread passed
round, followed by minute scones filled with a fruit
preserve, and the whole covered with the chatter
from this little lady. And if Millie hadn't liked her
from the moment she saw her, she endeared herself
now when, laughing her tinkling laugh, but rather
ruefully, she said, 'I talk too much. I chatter too
much. Everyone says I do. But then, you see, I
haven't always had people to talk to, and when the
opportunity arises I make up for lost time. But since
I have found dear Bernard, or Bernard has found me.
I can talk to my heart's content. And it's so nice to
find someone who remembers the books that I once
read and we can discuss them. But I can't always
remember them ... Do you want this last piece of
brown bread, Miss Millie?'
'No, thank you. I've had a wonderful tea.'
'Then you won't object to my having it?'
For answer, Millie merely smiled, then glanced
at Bernard; and he smiled back at her. It was
an appreciative smile as if he were thanking her
for something.
The tea over, he now got to his feet and, standing
before Millie, he said, 'Inspection time. I want to
show you the house. It won't take very long because,
-compared to the usual residence, it is but a doll's
house. But I would like you to see it and tell me
what you think about my choice.'
'Shall I come along, or shall I stay here?'
'You stay here, Aunt Chrissie, and finish that
game of patience, and see if you can beat yourself. You've never worked out three games in a row
yet, have you?'
'No; just two. But I will one day, I will.'
They were in the hall now, where he not only took
her elbow but her arm, and, drawing her to a halt, he said, 'That's Aunt Chrissie. What do you think?' 'I... I think she's sweet, most unusual.'
'Yes. Yes.' But there was no smile on his face as he
said further, 'Yes, she's most unusual. I'll tell you all
about her later, when we're upstairs. But now come
and see Fanny's kitchen. By the way, Fanny has been
her maid for forty-two years. She has never left her,
no matter where she's been. She's devoted to her.'
'She seems a very nice person, very warm.'
'She is, and a very understanding woman.'
He pushed open an oak door, and then they were
in the kitchen. It was a long room with whitewashed
walls, and at the far end was a large window, not
lead-lined or mullioned, but with three long clear
panes; on a side wall was a fireplace with an open
grate and with an oven to each side of it; on the
opposite wall was a delfrack holding what she saw
at a glance must be a complete dinner service. To
the side of this was a glass-fronted cupboard full
of tea china.
Her heart swelled and she could see herself in this
kitchen, at this table, which had a white scrubbed
top but mahogany legs; she could see herself baking
here morning after morning, and afterwards sitting
in that easy basket-chair to the side of that oven and
putting her feet on that brass and steel fender. Of
course, that would be when Bernard wasn't here,
because then she would be in the drawing-room.
'You have that faraway look in your eyes again.
Were you looking at them out there?' He pointed to
the window through which could be seen the maid
talking to the man whom Bernard had called Geoff,
and he said, 'They get on well together. As Fanny has
been Aunt Chrissie's woman, Geoff has been my man
for years. He'll turn his hand to anything.'
She hadn't noticed them; she had been taken up
with the kitchen; and her comment was: 'You're both
very lucky.'
'Yes.' He nodded. 'I've always been lucky. Sometimes,
I'm rather fearful that my luck might turn;
it seems too good to be true. My most recent
experience of it was when my godfather left me
a half-share in the mill. You couldn't know what
that did for me. And then, of course, he also left me
quite a sum of money, which enabled me to buy this
house. Anyway, we'll go into more details as time
goes on. But there's another room here downstairs,
in fact, two.'
One room turned out to be a small book-lined
study, the other was unfurnished, and about this he
said in an aside, 'Could be a ladies' toilet room.'
Then they were upstairs. There were four bedrooms
on the first floor, and a steep staircase that
led from the landing to two attics. These, he later
informed her, were Fanny's domain. Geoff had a
room above the stables. And, he had added, all very
comfortable.
When he opened the door of the first bedroom
she just glanced in, and he said, 'That is a guest
room.' Of the second one, he again just opened the
door and said, 'We won't disturb Aunt Chrissie's
privacy; but you can see it is like a doll's house.
She loves dolls and stuffed animals. But I insisted
that they don't wander all over the house, and she's
very good in that way.'
The third bedroom was a single room, and this
time he just partly opened the door and said, 'So
far, this is my abode.' But he pushed open wide the
door of the fourth room, saying, 'This is the best
bedroom. I... I keep it select.'
When she stood in the doorway hesitating, he
said, 'It's all right, my dear. I ... I just want to
see if you appreciate it as much as you do the
drawing-room.'
'It's a beautiful room.' Her voice was low. She did
not mean to pretend any demureness, but she found
that she couldn't raise her eyes to his until, taking her
hand, he said, 'Come and sit by the window; I want
to tell you about Aunt Chrissie.' The words were so
matter of fact, the tone too, that she allowed him to
lead her to the window seat.
When she sat down at one end, he did not sit
close to her but left a space of perhaps three feet
between them; and what he said was, 'People can
be very cruel. You wouldn't think, just because that
little creature downstairs chatters as she does, and
merely it would seem because of her manner and
inconsistencies and the lack of a good memory, that
her relatives would put her away for years.'
'They put her away? In a...?'
'Yes. Yes, in a form of asylum. She was lucky, I
suppose, for, together, they were able to send her
to a private place; just so that they wouldn't have
to put up with her. She hadn't previously been badly
used; no, she had just been ignored, left. My mother
used to take her for a few months every year, until
she became ill, when, of course, my father wouldn't
put up with her; he wouldn't allow her even to visit
my mother.'
He paused and sighed here; then went on, 'Well,
after I came into the money and part of the mill, a
plan began to form in my mind.' He paused and
looked away from her for a moment, then back
again, and he said, 'It seemed to be not quite
complete; and then I suddenly felt Aunt Chrissie
could be the key to it. And she's so grateful for a
home, and she understands the situation. She's had
a tragic life, really. My mother told me that until
she was seventeen or eighteen she was perfectly
normal; in fact, she was shy; and then she fell in
love with a neighbour's son and he with her, but
his father would have none of it. You see, Aunt
Chrissie was tiny, small; she didn't look as if she
would be a good breeder' - he had stressed the
word as if with bitterness - 'so he whipped his
son away. Following this she developed a nervous
illness: where she had been so quiet before, she
now chatted about anything and everything. She's
much better now than she was, at least in that
way. And you know, given the opportunity, she
would likely, as well as anyone, have bred a fine
family. She still has two sisters, you know. They're
both married, and they're both unhappy, although
no outsider would guess it. Their marriages were arranged, made in the cradle, so to speak. It's still
happening.'
He turned to look outside again; then with a
sudden jerk he lifted himself over the space between
them, caught her hands and, pressing them tightly
and his voice coming as if being dragged from some
depth within him, he said, 'Millie, I love you. Oh
God, how I love you! You know that, don't you?
You know I love you.'
She had to bend her head forward, her brow
almost touching his, before she could swallow and
mutter, 'Yes, I do, and.., and I love you.'
'You do? Really, really love me?'
'Oh yes, and ... and have for a long time.
Perhaps from when you carried me home; I mean,
to the Quintons', that night. I don't know. I don't
remember ever not loving you.'
'That--' He was pressing her hands against his shoulder now and saying, 'That night was the night,
too, for me; I knew it then. But you were just a
child, a girl; I knew I'd have to wait, and it's been
hard waiting, Millie.' His lips were near hers, and
their gaze was linked with longing; then they were
enfolded, their lips pressed close.
How long they remained like that she didn't know;
she was aware only that she really had entered a sort
of fairyland and life was stretching away before her
in the blue and gold haze of this house.
When he pulled her to her feet she swayed, and he
had to steady her. His face was bright with laughter.
'Millie! Millie! I'm the happiest man alive. You have
no idea. But come along; let's get out of this, at
least for the time being.' He drew her towards the
door and on to the landing. 'We must have a little
decorum, mustn't we?'
She, too, laughed, but aloud now, saying, 'Oh,
yes, sir. Yes; we must have a little decorum.'
'I'm going to take you home now,' he said; 'it will
be safer for you.'
'Oh Bernard. Bernard.' She leant against him. 'I'll
always feel safe with you, always.'
'My dear, dear, Millie. You've always looked
like a golden angel. That's why I had the drapes
done in gold. Besides that, you are an angel, so
understanding. Come, come; there's a lot to be
talked about. And I must talk with your dear Mrs
Aggie. She understands the situation already. She
knew how I felt.'
'And she knew how I felt, too.'
'You think so?'
'Oh, yes. I might as well confess I've had the
miseries for the past month because I didn't see
you.'
'Millie! Millie!' He stood in the hallway cupping
her face. 'Look,' he said, 'I don't want you to
go, and I want to see you tomorrow and the
next day, and the next day and the next day,
but ... oh dear!' - he now closed his eyes and
tossed his head from one side to the other - 'I've
got to be away into Cheshire tomorrow, and I'll
likely be kept there for a week. I'm not looking
forward to it.'
'You have business there?'
'I suppose you could call it business. For the rest
of my life you could call it business ... Oh, let me
get you away from this house, because if I don't, I
won't let you go at all.'
'I must say goodbye to Miss Chrissie.'
'Well, make it quick. I'll tell Geoff we're ready.'
He went out the front door and she went into the
drawing-room and approached the table where the
little woman was playing patience, and she said, 'I'm
leaving now, Miss Chrissie.'
'Oh, you are, dear? You are? What a pity! I
thought you were staying.'
'No, no.' She laughed. 'Not yet, anyway.'
'But you will, won't you?'
'Yes. Yes, I will.'
'And soon?'
'Yes' - she paused - 'and soon. Oh yes' - her head
was bobbing now - 'yes, and soon.'
'I'm so glad. It'll be wonderful to have you here.
You are a very lucky girl, you know, to get a man
like Bernard. He's very exceptional is Bernard. And
he arranged all this, and so kind.'
'Yes, he's very kind.'
'You'll be very happy, dear.'
'I'm sure I shall. Goodbye for the present, Miss
Chrissie.'
'Goodbye, my dear ... You may kiss me if you
like.' She held up her tiny cheek, and when Millie
bent down and touched it with her lips, she felt as
if she were kissing a large china doll.
Outside, the trap was waiting. Bernard lifted her
bodily into the seat, then took his place and, with
a 'Gee up! there,' they were off on the return
journey...
It was almost half an hour later, as they were
nearing the livery stable, when she exclaimed, 'Oh,
dear me. I've talked as much as your aunt. Wouldn't
it be dreadful if you had to live with two of
us like that?'
'Dreadful?' he said. 'It would be wonderful. And
it will be wonderful. Oh yes, it will.' He passed the
reins to one hand and, reaching out, he gripped hers.
'As long as I live I'll remember this day, and this
drive, for never before have I held reins in my hand
and felt like this.'
It was as he was leading her out of the livery
stable yard that a man stepped forward, saying,
'Hello, there.'
'Oh! Ben, Ben; what's the matter? Anything wrong
with Mrs Aggie?'
'No, no. Nothing's wrong, but I got to thinking
that your escort' - he glanced towards Bernard 'Well,
after he had set you home he'd have to walk
back on his own. And I doubt if anybody dressed
like he is--' He did not say, 'as you are, sir,' but,
'he is, would get out of that quarter without being
stripped, an' not only of his wallet. So I thought
I'd relieve you' - he was looking straight at Bernard
now - 'of the trouble, and take her home.'
'I think that was very unnecessary.' Bernard's
voice was cool. 'I'm quite able to take care of myself. And this walking stick' - he lifted up the walking
stick that he had taken from the back of the trap 'is
not only part of one's dress, it's a weapon.'
'Aye, it might be, if you're face on, but not if the
blows come from behind, or a dozen or so kids trip
you up first. Well, you can walk back if you like,
but that's up to you.'
Millie now turned to Bernard, saying, 'He's ...
he's right, Bernard, he is. It is dangerous in that
part at night. Please don't be offended; he ... he
means well.'
'I don't mean well, I'm being' practical.' Ben had
snapped the words out.
A short silence followed before Bernard said,
'Goodbye, dear. I'll write.'
'Yes. Yes, do. Goodbye, and ... and thank you
for a wonderful day.'
'I thank you, too.'
It was all so formal, so stiff an ending to a
beautiful fairy-like day, and all through Ben. Oh,
Ben! At times he got on her nerves. At times she
wanted to strike out at him; at other times she felt
so deeply for him.
They had gone about a dozen steps when she said,
bitterly, 'You do spoil things for me, don't you? You
set out to do it.'
He didn't answer her until they had taken another
dozen steps or so, and then he said, 'Well, far
better spoil the night for you than spoil his face
for him, 'cos you wouldn't have liked to see him
with it bashed in, would you? You know what
happens down that lane, especially on a Saturday
night.'
Yes, she knew what happened in the lane, and not
only on Saturday nights; and the mobs of children
and young boys seemed to smell a stranger. Oh,
she wished she was miles away, miles away in that
lovely house. And she would be soon. Yes, she
would be. And she couldn't get in quickly enough
to tell Mrs Aggie.
Once inside the gates, she ran across the yard and
into the house. Aggie was sitting in her usual place
and she greeted her with, 'Well, you've got back
then.'
'Yes. Yes, I've got back. Did you know that Ben
was meeting me?'
'Aye, yes; he said he would. And I thought it
was sensible.'
'Oh, Mrs Aggie, he makes me mad. He ...
he's practically spoilt my day. But ... but no, he
couldn't.' She now threw off her bonnet and her
coat, then flopped down beside Aggie and, gripping
her hand, said, 'I'm so happy; I feel I could burst,
explode.., go into fragments.'
'Well, what's made you so happy?'
'You know.'
'He's spoken?'
'Yes.'
'Ah, lass, lass. I'm glad for you. Oh, I am glad for
you. Did he give you a ring?'
'Ring?' She lifted her hand and looked at the ring
her father had put on her finger, and she said, 'Oh, no, no. It... it was all of a sudden, just before we
came away. We seemed to... not to be able to hold
our feelings any longer. And he said he's coming to
see you. Oh, Mrs Aggie, you should see that little
house. It's a palace, it's paradise, it's beautiful. And
he's had it all done out with me in mind, he said.'
She turned her head away now. 'Oh, I can't believe
it, I can't believe it. He's done it out in rose and gold
because.., because of my hair and.., well... Oh,
Mrs Aggie, he's wonderful. And... and you know,
Mrs Aggie, he didn't seem to really mind about him ... I mean, my father. He just mentioned him when
we left the house, and ... and I couldn't tell him
the truth. I will sometime, but I know it wouldn't
matter to him.'
'What is the aunt like?'
'Oh... the aunt. Oh, Mrs Aggie, imagine a large
china doll who prattles all the time. She is really
sweet, so dear. Slightly, I should say, what you
would call eccentric. Poor thing, she was crossed in
love when she was eighteen; then she had a nervous
illness and, from being a shy girl, she started to talk
and chatter. He says the family couldn't put up with
her and they put her away privately for years. But
he's brought her out and to this house; and she's got
a maid, and she, too, is such a dear, so kind.'
'How many servants have they?'
'Oh, only. the maid and Bernard's man, who, as
he says, is a jack of all trades. And it's only a small
house. There's a drawing-room downstairs and two
small rooms and a kitchen, and four bedrooms and
a couple of attics. It's just a small house, but it's
beautiful, exquisite.'
'Well, when's he comin' to have a talk with me?'
'I don't suppose it will be until next.., perhaps a week today. I don't know. He's going to write. We
couldn't say much to each other, could we now?' she
thrust her chin out towards Aggie -- 'with Ben
standing over us like a bear. Oh--' She jumped up
from the couch and, standing on the old mat, she
spread her arms wide as she said, 'Oh, I wish we
had some music, Mrs Aggie, a piano, anything; I
want to dance.'
With the sound of the far door opening, Aggie
said, 'Go on now, dance yourself upstairs and change
your togs. Then come down an' we'll have something
to eat. Did you have anything to eat there?'
'Yes, tea, with rolled bread and butter.'
She ran from the room now, chanting, 'Rolled
bread and butter. Rolled bread and butter.'
Ben came in and, taking his usual seat, he looked
across at Aggie and said, 'Well?'
'It's done, lad. They're goin' to be married.' She
watched him now gazing into the fire; then, when
he rose to his feet and made for the door again, she
said, 'You've got to face it. Where're you goin'?'
'Where d'you think?'
'Now, don't you go off and get sozzled.'
He turned and looked at her. 'I wouldn't waste
me money,' he said.
'Well, where're you off to on a Saturday night?'
'Believe it or not, I'm goin' to school.'
'Like hell you are!'
'Aye, like hell I am, Aggie. You've had one surprise
tonight, you're not ready for another. I'll wait a day
or two. But, by the way, do you know that if a fella in his class took a lass out without her having what
is called a chaperone, the lass would lose her good
name; in fact, from what I hear an' read, any bloke
who had respect for a lass wouldn't risk it... Think
on that, Aggie. Aye, think on it.'
She stared at the closed door for a moment; then
she put her hand to her brow as if to support her
heavy head, and she said aloud, 'Oh God! why didn't
You give him decent legs? At bottom, he's worth a
streetful of gents.'
SIX



'He's like a fly in the ointment.'
'Aye, lass, a fly in the ointment. There's always a
fly in the ointment in everybody's life. But you've
got to understand why he's actin' like he does.'
'Oh, Mrs Aggie, I can't take that in. He's had
Annie for years.'
'Well, from what he tells me, Annie wasn't what
we think she was to him, at least hasn't been for a
long, long time. Anyway, lass, you haven't got to let
him spoil your happiness. No, this is a chance of a
lifetime, because nothing like it will ever come your
way again. He's a fine man, and once you're married
to him you'll go up in the world.'
'It seems too good to be true at times because you
can't imagine it ever happening before, can you, not
with a gentleman and someone like me and...?'
'Oh' - Aggie flapped her hand, thrusting the suggestion
widely aside - 'don't you believe it. There's
those titled Johnnies up in London, an' just recently
it was in the news-sheet, one of 'em married one of
them actresses, not real actresses, just one of those
dancing girls, an' now she's a Lady something or
other. And don't you remember ... well, you'd be old enough, it was the talk of the town, when one
of the Broadhurst family took up with a mill lass?'
'Yes, but he didn't marry her.'
'No, he didn't; but Mr Abel Rundell did in the
same situation.'
'Who was he?'
'He was afore your time. No, he wasn't; it was just
about when you came on the scene. It was said he
was from a ship-ownin' family, and he married this
girl who worked in Mullens, you know, the milliners
yon side of the market. Oh, you're not the first, an'
you won't be the last, my dear, to be lifted out of
the lower end.'
'But ... but what's going to happen to you? I
mean, the business will go. How are you going
to manage?'
'Look, that's the least of your worries. I've wanted
this business to go for a long time now, although I
must say it's been very profitable, an' that's been
through your efforts. But once you're gone I'll get
back into me old seam.'
'You'll not; you'll never be able to go out with
a cart again.'
'Oh, I have no intention of doing that, but the
gates will be open and they can bring what stuff they
like. And if there's any writing out to do Ben'll see to
that. He'll stick by me, come rain, hail, or shine.'
'While I leave you.'
'Oh, lass, you're a different kettle of fish altogether.'
Millie now asked thoughtfully, 'Where do you
think Ben's going at night all dressed up if he's
not going to Annie's? And he didn't dress up to go to visit her.'
'I don't know, lass. The only thing I know is he's
not comin' home drunk. And what's more, he's taken
to smokin' a pipe.'
'Smoking a pipe?'
'Yes. Of course, there's nothing strange about a
man smokin' a pipe, but I've never known him being'
at it. I smelt the waft of it coming down the stairs.
And when he was out.., well, I made me way to his
abode an' there it was. An' not a clay one either, oh
no; it was a wooden one. And I recognised the type,
too, a meerschaum. My dad used to smoke one of
those, an' they don't come cheap. You can get two
clay ones for a penny, but you'll not get one of those
under a bob. And you know, lass, I've got it in me
mind he's up to something. If you're puzzled as to
where he goes off to at night, I'm more puzzled, I
can tell you. He's never sat down with us one night
this week, and here's Thursday.'
Millie's thoughts were not on Ben now, but on
how near Thursday was to Saturday and Bernard.
Oh, she couldn't wait for Saturday. She was literally
ticking the hours off. She hadn't had a full night's
sleep this week: she had lain in bed imagining she
was in another bed, in that lovely bedroom set in
that wonderful house which would soon be hers.
Could she believe it? Could she believe it?
Yes, she could, because, as Mrs Aggie said, there
were men such as Bernard who, through love,
stooped and lifted people like herself out of the mire; although, she must give credit where it was
due: she had never considered this house and the
company of Mrs Aggie and Ben such as would come under the name of mire, even if it was set in a district
amid the dregs of society, working dregs maybe, but,
nevertheless, dregs.
She was brought from her musing by Aggie having
a bout of coughing which seemed to rack her broad
chest; and it caused her to say with concern, 'I've
told you, you should be in bed.'
The bout over, Aggie sat gasping for a moment
or so before she could bring out the words, 'Bed?
I've never taken to bed yet with a cold an' it'll have
to step itself up before it gets me there now. Look;
pour that bottle of beer into a pan and warm it, and
put a spoonful of ginger in it. That'll do the trick.'
'It hasn't so far this week, has it? You must be
burnt up with ginger inside you.'
'Well, I'm dilutin' it now, miss, havin' it in the hot
ale. So, get on with it.'
Millie now hurried into the scullery and returned
with a pan, and, as she was about to pour the beer
into it, the door opened and Ben entered.
In the ordinary way, after glancing at him, she
would have carried on with the job in hand; but now
she straightened her back, as did Aggie. Why, neither
of them could have explained, only that he looked
different. It wasn't his face. Perhaps it was the new
top hat he was sporting or the good secondhand
coat that had a bit of astrakhan on the collar. But
no; not even the coat and hat made the difference.
'What you lookin' at?'
'You, of course,' said Aggie. 'Who else is there
to look at?'
'Well, why look so surprised; you've seen me
before.'
'Aye, I have, more times than I want to, I can tell
you. But what have you done with yourself?'
'Oh, you've noticed. Is it me new coat?'
'No. No, not quite, it isn't your new coat, it's... '
'Oh! Oh!' He looked down at his feet now. 'It's
me boots. They're new, you see.'
Both Aggie and Millie looked at his boots. They
were new.
'I had them specially made.'
'You had them specially made?'
'Aye, Aggie, that's what I said: I had them specially
made. An' the difference you're findin' in me is ...
well, me legs are still the same length, but I've gone
a little taller, a good inch and a half. Oh yes, a good
inch and a half, which makes a difference."
Aggie's voice was low as she asked, 'How did you
manage that?'
'Oh, it's somethin' I should have thought about
long before now if I'd had any sense. But of course,
you've got to have the boots made, an' they don't
come cheap. An' they haven't got to be heavy, so
as you can't lilt your feet. And the uppers have got
to look as if they come down within a sole distance
of the floor; they've got to look natural like. And
you'll notice, if I turn round,' which he did now,
'there's a good bit of heel on the back. And, you know, the best part about it is they're not even a,
heavy as me workin' boots. Fred Pasternack is area!
good snob. He'd have to be, wouldn't he, to make
ridin' boots for the gentry. And what's more, he's a
very understandin' man, and he likes a challenge.'
' Well! Well! We're certainly goin' up in the world,
so to speak, aren't we?' Millie had mouthed the
words without making any sound; but, as if he
had heard them, he said, 'Yes, you're goin' up
in the world an' into a new position, Millie; I'm
goin' teachin'.'
'Teachin'? You?'
The bark he now gave startled both Aggie and
Millie: 'Aye, teaching. Me!' he said. 'I haven't wasted
me time all these years, Mrs Winkowski: me body's
lived in this warren but me head's been somewhere
else. You mightn't, but other people have noticed
it. Aye, they've got their wits about them, they see
beyond the clothes, an' the height, not forgettin' the
voice that knew nowt at one time about speakin'
properly. It's some years now, Aggie, since I learned
that a noun is a name of anything.'
Aggie didn't come back at him with a protest
louder than his; instead, her answer was, 'Well,
now that you've got that off your chest, you can
tell us how all this has come about.'
After a moment of hesitation, he said, 'Well, in
the first place it was Mrs Sponge.' He was looking at
Millie now. 'She asked me if I'd like to take the little
'uns. Of course, I laughed at her and said I wasn't fit.
But she said I was fit enough to learn them their ABC.
And... well, I found I liked it. I got interested.' He
now glanced towards Aggie, saying, 'They wanted
to know if I would take the morning class, but I
explained I had a job to do. So they decided I could
go there at nights, an' suggested that I could rake in
a few youngsters from this end.'
'Huh!' The sound came from Aggie, and she
added, 'That'll take some doin'. You'd have to have
a pocket full of coppers to bribe them.'
'You'd be surprised, Aggie, you'd be surprised.
I've got four, I'll bet, waitin' for me outside the
gate now. Of course, it could be the mug of cocoa
they get at the end; but they've been regular over the
past few months.'
'You've been doin' this for months?'
'Oh, aye, for months. But...' He now looked
down towards his new boots and his voice was
just above a mutter as he said, 'But the learnin'
of the bairns only proves one thing, I've got a lot
to learn meself. But I'll get there ... They wanted
to send me away, you know, to learn proper; there's
schools for such as me; but I said, no.' His chin was
up now and he was staring at Millie. 'You'll see,
I'll get there. And on me own, with a little help,
of course. I might even become another Terrence
Sponge and stand on a box in the park on a
Sunday. Anyway,' he ended, on a short laugh,
'that's me life all set ahead. Now we all know
where we're goin', don't we? And I hope it turns
out as we intended. We'll just have to work at it,
won't we, Millie?'
She didn't answer, but her mind was crying, Oh,
Ben. Oh, Ben. He was so bitter and so sad. The
sadness was in his eyes and behind the bitterness in
his voice. If only . .. What was she talking about?
As he said, their lives were set out before them.
'Good-night, Aggie. By the way, I'd go to bed
early if I were you, with that cold. You can lock
up 'cos I won't be callin' in later. But I'll see to the
back gate.'...
After he had gone the room seemed strangely
empty, and neither of them made any comment for
some time until Millie said, 'He's right, you know:
you should go to bed, Mrs Aggie.'
'Oh, shut up, girl. Don't turn the conversation.
But there's only one thing I'm glad about concerning
him: he's workin' it out of himself. An' because of it I
shouldn't wonder he'll make something of himself in
the end.' Then, her voice lightening, she said,' But he
did look taller, didn't he? Couldn't tell what it was
at first, but it's made a difference. It's a wonder he
never thought of it before. Amazing what an inch or
two will do. But when you think of it, I bet you a
shillin' there's not a man over five foot six in all The
Courts. Aye, but now--' Her voice changing, she
muttered, 'But what a difference six inches would
make to any man.'
SEVEN


'I shouldn't be going.'
'Look, we've had this out, haven't we? And you're
all dressed up.'
'Well, let him come in just for a moment. I think
he wants to speak to you. He said he did.'
'Lass, I can hardly get me breath. An' the place
stinks of camphorated oil, besides other things. And
it's like a hovel, because you can't be in three places
at once: at your cooking, at the gate, and here lookin'
after this big fat hulk. Now, just tell him I'm under
the weather and I'll see him next week, or when he
would care to come, once I've got. over this bout.
Anyway, lass, it's you he wants to do the talkin'
to. And look, I want to see you come back with
a ring on your finger ... on your other hand.

one on again?'
Millie looked at the ring on her middle finger,
saying, 'I don't really know, but it's very pretty. I
only wish it hadn't come from where it has, but--'
She pulled at it now, trying to get it over her knuckle,
saying, 'It's odd how it will go on but I can't get it
off again without using soap.'
The door opened, and Ben, standing there, said,
'Your escort's arrived. I haven't opened the gate; you
can do that for him.'
Millie turned to Aggie and bent over her with the
intention of kissing her cheek, but Aggie pushed her
away, saying, 'You don't want to carry this cold, do
you?' Then she added, 'Well, mind, be back at five
or before that, because Ben there, as he's told you,
wants to be gone by half-past five. Although I don't
know why he's stated a time; it must be something
special.' She now heaved at her breath, then called
to Ben, 'Is it? Is it something special?'
'Yes, you could say it is, at least, it's special to
me.'
As Millie attempted to pass him at the door, he
didn't move out of the way - she had to press
herself against the stanchion - but even so their
bodies touched and their glances held, and when
she was past him, she turned and said quietly, 'I
hope your new friends have manners and you learn
from them.'
He made no rejoinder, and she marched through
the outer room and into the cool air, then hurried
across the yard towards the gates. And as she unlocked
them she was apologizing through the bars:
'I'm sorry. I'm sorry. He should have let you in.'
'Is something wrong?'
'No, not wrong, but Mrs Aggie has a dreadful
cold;' and she added tactfully, 'as she says, colds
are infectious and she wouldn't like you to... well,
have gone away harbouring a cold like hers.'
'I've never suffered from a cold in my life. Anyway,
how are you?'
'I am very well, thank you.' Then glancing at him,
she said, 'Except that I have been lonely and.., and
longing for today to come.'
He had taken her arm, and now he pressed it to his
side, saying, 'Not more than I have been, my dear. It
has been a long, long, tedious week.'
When three scantily dressed boys ran in front of
them and began jumping backwards, calling, 'Got a
copper, sir? Got a copper, sir?' he took his crop and
waved it, saying, 'Get yourself away. Off with you!
Off with you!' And they scattered. But one of them
stopped and shouted to the others,' 'Tis Millie.' And
a voice answered him, ' 'T'isn't.'
' 'Tis, I tell you... Millie! Millie!'
She did not turn round or wave her hand as she
would normally do, but allowed Bernard to hurry
her on; and as they emerged from the lane, he said
stiffly, 'Oh, how glad I am I'm going to take you out
of this, my dear.'
At the ostler's stable, he apologised as he again
lifted her up to the seat of the trap: 'This is no vehicle
for this time of year,' he said; 'I must see about a
carriage. It's all right for me trotting backwards and
forwards into the town, but you need protection.'
She laughed. 'My looks belie me,' she said; 'I'm
very hardy; in fact, I'm tough.'
The 'Gee-up! there,' came out on a deep laugh.
'Hardy and tough. Oh yes, madam, you give off the
impression of both qualities.' He slanted his glance at her. 'Pull that rug well around you. It's surprisingly
cold today,'
Arrive home. Arrive home. Each turn of the wheel
sang the words: Arrive home. Arrive home.
As they drove through the lower part of the town,
he said, 'I've never seen so many people about;
but then, it's the new factory law, I suppose. The
Saturday half-day starting at one o'clock makes all
the difference; although it also gives more time for
the gin shops.'
'Did you get all your business finished in Cheshire?'
'Business?' His head jerked towards her, then
away again. 'Oh, it wasn't business in that sense;
more, family conferences: one can never really untie
those strings that tie you to a family. But I did have another journey to make, to visit a friend's house.
I'll . .. I'll explain all when I get inside.'...
It was as if it were but yesterday and not a
week since she was in the house and had met
Miss Christine Lavor, for there she was in the
hall, her arms outstretched, saying, 'Oh! how nice
to see you. I've been thinking of you. Are you
ready for tea? Fanny has rolled some extra brown
bread. I've been watching her in the kitchen: she
has made some tarts and filled them with a lovely
conserve. Oh, do take your things off. Let me
have them.'
Bernard laughed, because he had already taken
Millie's coat and bonnet and her bag and gloves
and laid them on a chair; and so, turning to his
aunt, he said, 'Now you run into the kitchen,
dear, and tell Fanny we are here and we want
tea right away, because ... because we are both
hungry and cold.'
'Oh, yes, yes, of course, Bernard.'
After she had trotted away, Bernard took Millie's
hand and drew her towards the drawing-room. And
after hastily closing the door behind them, he put
his arms about her and looked into her face for
a moment before placing his lips on hers, but in
no mild fashion: it was a hard and hungry kiss,
and when it was over she laid her head on his
shoulder, gasping as if at the end of a long run.
As for him, he let out a deep sigh as he held her
tightly to his body and muttered, 'I've been longing
for that all week, more and more.' Then pressing her
from him and gripping her shoulders, he said, 'Have
you any idea of the depths of my feelings for you,
Millie Forester?'
'No, sir; but I hope to find out, during which time
I express mine for you.'
'Oh, Millie' - he was walking her up the room
now - 'just to hear you talk. It is this, not only
your appearance, your beautiful, beautiful, beautiful,
beautiful face, and that marvellous hair' - he
gently flicked the fringe on her brow - 'but it's
the way you deport yourself and how you speak
... and coming from that place! Oh, I'm sorry,
I'm sorry. I shouldn't denigrate it, but.., but how,
I've asked myself, and keep asking myself, how have
you remained so beautiful, so pure, so good, amidst
all that mire?'
Her voice was quiet now as she answered, 'I
had Mrs Aggie and Ben to guide me and protect
me. I can't say that too often, Bernard. I owe
them everything. I certainly owe them what I am
and how I am today, for without their care I
don't know what might have happened to me.
Something ... something terrible. I must tell you
about it sometime. But enough it is that you take
me as I am.'
'Oh, Millie, yes, yes, I take you as you are, and
always shall ... Oh dear! Here we go!' The door
had opened and Miss Chrissie entered, followed
by Fanny with the laden tray. And again Millie's
thoughts were that it was as if she had never moved
from this room, that everything was the same as it
had been last Saturday.
And Miss Chrissie chattered as before, remarking,
early, 'I like the colour of your attire, Miss Millie.
I've always liked green. I suppose it is because I used
to play in the green fields when I was a child and I
used to make long, long daisy chains. Do you know
how to make a daisy chain?'
'No,' Millie answered; 'I'm afraid I don't.'
'Oh, then I will show you. There are lots of fields
behind the house. I've never been out in them yet,
but we will walk in them and I shall show you how
to make a daisy chain. I used to put them round
my dolls, but there were always one or two that
didn't like them. I said to them, you can't please
everyone. Do you agree with me, Bernard, that you
can't please everyone?',
'Oh, yes, Aunt Chrissie, I do agree with you
there.'
'There won't be any daisies for some time, it being
autumn; but that will soon pass, because you'll be
staying with us from now on.'
Millie laughed and said, 'Well, not from now on,
Miss Chrissie; and today I must be home on time
because Ben - he is,' she paused, 'a friend of mine
- he has an appointment for early evening, and you
see, my guardian, Mrs Winkowski, she has a cold,
and it wouldn't be nice to leave her alone with a
cold, would it?'
She was talking to the little woman as if she
were a child, and as a child Miss Lavor answered,
'Oh, no, no, it wouldn't. You mustn't leave anyone
alone if they've got a cold or are sick. But I
thought you would be staying tonight. Still, perhaps
next week.'
Millie smiled kindly and said, 'Yes, perhaps next
week.'...
A short while later she was a little surprised when
Bernard drew the little woman to her feet, the while
saying to her, 'Run into the kitchen, Aunt Chrissie,
and tell Fanny to come and clear. And I want you to
help her because I've got a lot to say to Millie. You
understand?'
'Oh, yes, dear boy. Oh yes, I understand. Of
course, of course, I will help Fanny. Of course,
she will not let me dry up the teacups because I'm
apt to drop them.' She giggled as she went tripping
down the room.
Bernard now sat down beside Millie, saying, 'Oh,
I wish I could have had a word with your Mrs Aggie.
I did want you to stay tonight.'
She looked at him, puzzled for a moment; then
she said, 'There'll be other nights.'
'Of course, of course, I know, but.., but I'm so
impatient. And it is ridiculous that I can see you
for only a few hours a week. But all this will soon
change, won't it?'
She smiled up at him as she answered softly, 'I
hope so, Bernard. I hope so.'
The tea things were quickly gathered up, the
pleasant-faced Fanny beaming all the while. And
after lifting the heavy tray, she turned about, her
arms still outstretched, and she bobbed her head
towards Millie, as if saying, there now, I couldn't
have been quicker. And Millie felt inclined to say,
thank you, but she knew it wasn't her place: she
wasn't the mistress of the house yet.
Bernard now pushed the two single chairs back
and, pulling the small lounge sofa forward towards
the fire, he said, 'Come, dear.' And after seating
her on it, he put his arm about her and again
he kissed her, pressing her to him so hard that
a button on her costume made itself felt through
the bottom of his cravat and fine undershirt. Laughing,
he took hold of it and twisted it, saying,
'You are stabbing me through the heart, do you
know?' Then he added, 'Wasn't it funny about
Aunt Chrissie and the daisies and the colour of
your costume?'

'Well, it showed she liked it.'
He pulled a face, as he responded, 'She may have
but, my dear, I shall dress you so differently, and in
gold colours to match your skin.'
She pressed herself from him and her indignation
was slightly mocking as she said, 'You do not like
my attire, sir?'
'Oh, madam, it would be all right on another
person; very smart, but on you, it does nothing to
enhance, not that you need enhancing at all. Your
beauty wants to be matched, and I shall see that it's
matched. We shall go to London one day - there are
some splendid, splendid shops there - and I shall sit
in a satin chair and you will parade before me' - he
swept his hand back and forth - 'in the gowns that
have taken your fancy.'
Why she should feel slightly perturbed she didn't
know, except that perhaps her costume was not of
the smartest; but it was good thick homespun cloth
and of a nice shape.
'Have you ever thought of going to Paris?'
'To France? No, never. I think I should like to see
the sea, though.'
'You have never seen the sea?'
'Never.'
'Oh, my dear, dear, Millie. Oh, what pleasures
there are in store for you. But there are places and
places from which to view the sea. Especially so are
there places across the channel, in France and Italy
and Venice. But you have to go on the sea in a ship
to go to France.'
Her face was straight now as she said, 'You have
been to all these places?'
'Yes; I spent some time abroad, from when I was
seventeen to almost nineteen. I had family connections
in Holland.'
'In Holland?' Her head was nodding now.
'Yes, in Holland. Then last year I did a short tour
of about six months in... Oh, but Millie' - he was
holding her again - 'imagine if we could travel those
places together for six months.' He looked over her
shoulder now, away down the room, and his voice
lost its high excited note when he said, 'But what
am I saying? Our visits now would indeed have
to be on occasions. But what will that matter?'
He was again holding her at arm's length, and he
leaned towards her as he said, 'We have this, this
great, great mansion, this seven-roomed castle, this
secret cave, to which I can escape from the world
and to you and as often as I can. Oh, yes, as often
as I can, Millie. Believe that every minute I can I
shall spend with you. Oh! my dear' - he was now
stroking her face - 'if only things were different
and we could be married. But you understand the
situation. We have the next best thing though, a
freer thing without ... What is the matter? What
is the matter?'
She had edged from him and was pressing her
back against the wooden arm of the couch; then,
slowly and as if sliding from something that she
was afraid might spring upon her, she rose to her
feet, and she looked at him, where he still remained
seated, a puzzled expression on his face, and again
he said, 'What is it?'
Her voice wouldn't come. She tried to get words
through her throat, but they just stuck there. Her
brain seemed to have stopped working; yet no, its
thoughts were flying, dashing themselves against
each other.
She watched him get to his feet and put his hand
to his brow, then say, 'Oh, no, no. You must have
understood. Mrs Aggie understood. Of course she
understood. She's not a fool; neither are you. Millie!
Millie! please, have sense. See the situation. And...
and there would be no scandal, none whatever. I've
worked it all out. That's why I took the house and
brought Aunt Chrissie here. You are to be known
as her nurse. No-one would know any different.
Please! Please, Millie; don't look at me like that.
And don't move away from me; stay where you are.
Look! Listen to me!' His voice was loud, hoarse.
'I love you. Every word comes from my heart. I
love you, and ... and I'd marry you tomorrow if
it were possible. But... but I've been promised for
years; I told you. Last week we talked about the
breeding business and families and how things are
arranged. When I was eighteen I made a mistake
of promising myself to someone. All I can say is, it
had been arranged in the cradle. We were brought
up together, a neighbour's daughter. I ... I've got
to go through with it. It's not only the families, it's
to do with business and my godfather who left me
the money and the shares in the mill. It's all bound up together. It's... it's his niece.. '. Millie!'
He had taken two steps towards her before she
found her voice, and it didn't tremble: it wasn't a
whine and it made a statement that even surprised
herself, for what she said was, 'I've been what Ben
would call a bloody fool. I should have known
there was no such man as I thought you to be.
Mrs Aggie said there were men here and there who
married beneath them, gave the name of Lady to
dancing girls, but she did indicate they were few and
far between.'
'Millie. My darling Millie, believe me when I
say, if I'd had the slightest inkling that you didn't
understand the situation I ... I would have never
gone ahead. Believe me in this. I thought, coming
from that' - he swallowed - 'quarter, there
would be nothing you would be unaware of in
such matters. That you were pure, oh, yes, yes, I
never doubted that for a moment, but I thought
you would gauge the situation in its true context,
if you know what I mean.'
'Yes. Yes, I know what you mean: I was to be
your mistress; I would be here for you to use at
odd times. You have seen my father. To my mind
he's a man of low character, and he has only come
into my life these last few months. But my mother
died when I was seven. She died by her own hand;
she hanged herself because she was used. You didn't
know that; that was what I meant to tell you later on
when we married. Oh my God! You have a right to
be astounded at my ignorance, at my stupidity, but
let me tell you this, no matter how life deals with
me I shall never become any man's mistress. Never. Never!' The last words came out as a shout. Now,
Mr Thompson, I shall take my leave. But one last
word I will give you. Do you know who you remind
me of at this moment? The son of your half-sister.'
He had been standing with his head lowered, but
now he jerked it upwards as he cried at her, 'Don't
you dare say that to me, Millie! I'm no better nor
worse than most men, but in character I'm not in
any way connected with my half-sister's offspring
or her husband.'
She now walked behind the chairs in order to
avoid him, but when she reached the door he was
there before her, his hand on the knob: 'Please,
Millie,' he said. 'Please try to understand. And I'll
say again, I love you. I do.'
'And can you describe the feelings you have for
your future wife?'
'Yes. Yes, I can. They are, in a way, loving,
bred on liking and kindliness, but in no way can
they reach the passion that I have for you, nor
would our association ever permit of that, I am
sure.'
'Well, you have plenty of time to find out. Will
you please let me pass?'
Slowly he opened the door for her, and in the hall
she dragged on her coat and bonnet, but when he
was about to call to his man to get the trap, she
said, 'You need not bother with your conveyance,
I am used to walking.'
'Don't be silly!' His voice was harsh now. 'It will
soon be getting dark. You could never make your
way back home.'
'I am used to walking among the poor, as you
have already experienced; so the journey holds no
fear for me.'
'Wait a moment.' He went to grab her arm, but
she brought her other hand down on to his wrist,
saying, 'Don't touch me!' That it had been a hard
slap was evident by the way he gripped his wrist;
then grabbing up her handbag and gloves, she was
out of the door and running across the gravel front
and then down the drive.
As she reached the road she could hear him calling
loudly, 'Millie! Millie!' It was then she lifted up her
skirt and fled.
The light was going and she knew it would take all
of twenty minutes to reach the built-up area, through which she would have to pass before reaching the
main streets and the district that she knew.
When she could no longer hear his voice calling
her, she drew in her run to a stumbling trot, then
into a walk.
Between trotting and walking she covered about
a mile before twilight really settled in. Her breath
coming in gasps, she was hurrying along a stretch
of open road which she could still make out had
fields on both sides when she saw, in the distance
coming towards her a vehicle of some kind with
its carriage lights already on. Then hearing the sound of a trotting horse behind her, she turned,
thinking that he had brought out the trap after
all.
In order to pass on the narrow road, the drivers
had brought the horses to a walk. The oncoming
vehicle passed her first; the other she recognised now
was a cab.., and cabs were for hire.
Its driver was still walking his horse, and she
stood on the verge and called up to him. 'Are you
for hire, please?'
When the man drew the horse to a stop and bent
forward, she could make out that he was a big man,
and he said, 'What's that you say, miss?' And she
called back, 'Are you for hire?'
'Huh! Am I for hire? Well, well, well. I've already
got a passenger, miss. I'll have to hear what he
says about it.'
The passenger was looking out of the window and
he couldn't believe his eyes. He must be dreaming, he
told himself. But he believed in luck, and this was his
lucky day: he had just made a very nice deal with a
gentleman who lived away back along this road, a
regular customer.
He opened the door of the cab and stepped down,
and, his tone assuming what he imagined to be that
of a gentleman, he said, 'At your service, miss
... or madam. Do you wish to be taken into
town?'
'Yes, if you please.'
'It is very late for a young lady to be out on her
own and on this lonely road.'
'I... I missed my friends.'
'Where do you wish to go, miss?' The man on the
box was now speaking, and she said, 'If... if you
would just drop me near the market place; I can find
my way quite well then, thank you.'
It was as she went to pass the passenger that his
face showed clear in the light of the carriage lamp
and her body stiffened; then, and for the second time
on this day, she walked backwards, and, gasping
now, muttered, 'No. No, thank you. I will walk.'
'As you wish. As you wish.' The man did not seem
at all put out by the answer, but said, 'It is a very
lonely road, you know, and we are coming into a
rough district. So, if it will be any help to you, you
can walk by the side of the cab, and the driver will
walk his horse and you can take protection that way.
And may I add, you have nothing to fear from me;'
and much to her surprise, he got back into the cab;
then putting his head out of the window, he called
up to the cabbie, 'You can take the short cut through
Caxton, cabbie.'
'Yes, sir. Yes, sir. As you say.'
The cab had moved forwards some yards before
Millie could force herself to follow it.
She was sure that was the man with the thin face
who had been after her all those years ago. She would
never forget his face. And yet he seemed changed,
different altogether.
Walking as it were in the tracks of the cab, she
realised that long before they reached the built-up
area some mishap could easily have befallen her."
there was a ditch running along each side of the
road, and she could tumble into one or other.
By this time, she was actually holding on to the leaf
springs, as much for support as for guidance, because
she was so tired. But more so she was miserable, and
heart-broken. And as on that occasion when she
was brought back from the Quintons, and she had
promised herself that once inside the yard and that
house with those two people she would never leave
them again, never! so she was doing now, and with
equal fervour.
They were now in a district where lights were
hanging outside the taverns and shop windows. She
thought she recognised the street, but then again,
at night, everything looked the same. When they
entered a narrow road with people coming and
going, she would have slipped quietly away, but here
and there were groups of men and youths whom she
could see and hear were the worse for drink.
Outside one tavern, a number of men seemed to be
arguing, and when one pushed another, causing him
to stumble, he landed against the side of the cab and
gripped her in order to save himself from falling. And
then, peering into her face, he said, 'Hello, lovey.'
'Leave go of me! Go away!'
But her cry brought another two men shambling
forward, one of them crying, 'What've we here? Oh
my! My! A nice piece all dressed up, an' left on her
own, an' hangin' on to the back of a cab. Eeh my!
Where've you dropped from, love?'
The cab continued moving, and neither the driver
nor the passenger seemed to take any notice; but when she screamed, 'Leave me alone!' and kicked
out at one of her would-be molesters, and he came
out with a string of oaths and, lurching towards
her, missed her and fell heavily against the side of
the cab, it was stopped and its passenger hurriedly
alighted. Pressing herself tightly against the wheel,
Millie watched him lay about the men with a walking
stick. It would be a pliable stick, because she could
hear the swishing of it. When others, drawn from the
bar by the narration, would have assailed them too,
he grabbed her arm, saying, 'Get in! Get in! Quick!'
And he followed her, banging the door shut.
The driver yelled, 'Up there! Up there!' and the
horses were off into a trot. Even so, some of the men
continued to beat on the back and side of the cab.
She lay gasping against the back of the seat and
staring before her.
'I'll have to send you a bill in for a new hat,' the
man said, pointing to his bare head.
'I'm... I'm very sorry.'
'Oh, you needn't be, Damsel in distress. Anyway,
tell me, why were you on that road alone?'
'I... I had gone to visit someone. They... they
weren't at home.'
'Am I to believe you?'
'Doesn't matter if you do or not. Will you please
ask the cabbie to drop me off at the market?'
'He knows where he's going.'
She sat in silence. Sometimes she could see his
face when they were passing a well-lit shop or an
inn, otherwise they were sitting in semidarkness,
for the coach lamps sent merely a mist of light
into the cab.
She knew now that the cab was going over a
cobbled area and she voiced this by saying, 'We're
in the market now, I think.'
'No, not quite. You'll know time enough where
you are when we get there.'
It was shortly after this that the man put his head
out of the window and called up to the cabbie, 'Go
straight round the back and into the yard, Will.' 'What? What yard? Please! I want to get out.'
'You'll get out in a minute.'
She heard the horses being drawn back to a walk
and she felt the cab turn at an angle, turn again, then
stop. Immediately, the man got out quickly; then
held out his hand to her. And when she stepped on
to the ground and saw they were in a walled yard,
she opened her mouth; but the scream never had
voice because he was behind her and his hand came
tight over her mouth; at the same time, his knee was
pushed in the middle of her back with such force that
her arms sprang out. And the man she had imagined
to be the cabbie had hold of them in an odd way: he
had his back to her, and he gave a heave, and the
next instant she was thrust up practically on to his
shoulders. Her mouth was free now but she couldn't
cry out for she was frozen with terror. Her head was
bobbing, her eyes, staring wide, were blinded for the
moment by a bright light shining from a room. Then
they passed through a dark passage and into another
room, which she was surprised to recognise was a kitchen. Two women were in it. And when, with an
expert swing, she was brought from the man's back
and into a high-backed wooden chair, she could not
utter a word; all she could do was stare and listen.
The thin man was talking to the women, saying, 'I
tell you it's unbelievable. There she was on the road
alone. Talk about luck. Anyway, Nell, you come and
see to her. There's things to be done. And Rosie, you
go along to the bar. Tell Peter to go to Firman's club
and ask to see Mr B.'
'Mr B?' the woman said.
'Aye, just say that. Peter'll know. But tell him to
change his togs, go very decent like. He knows how
to go about it.'
'But what message has he got to give him?'
'Oh, the usual. There's a parcel for him. Well,
let's get going.'
'You don't want a cup of tea?'
'No, Rosie; I don't want a cup of tea. Go on.'
The woman laughed now and said, 'All right,
you don't want a cup of tea, but I'll say this: by the look of her, you'll have to give her somethin', else she'll be dead of fright before he gets here.'
Then in a laughing tone, 'And that would upset
you, wouldn't it, dearie?'
He made a playful rush at her, saying, 'Go on; off
you go!' Then turning to the woman he had called
Nell, he said, 'Bring her up,' and made for the door,
saying as he passed the supposed cabbie, 'Quick
thinkin', cabbie. Yes; nice piece of acting. You can
stable him now; I won't need that any more tonight.'
'Aye, boss,' said the man.
Millie did not resist the woman's hands on her as
they followed the man from the room; they were
firm but not rough, not even when she was pulled
to a stop at what appeared to be a double door.
The man opened it, to reveal, not a room, but what
seemed to be a blank wall. But he twisted something
and the wall opened.
They were now in another hall and she had the
momentary impression of the house from which she
had recently escaped: everywhere in this place was
pink .. . no, red, deep red: the carpet, the heavy
hangings, the upholstery of chairs.
They were crossing this area when, to one side, she
noticed another door. Life seeming to flow back into
her, she swung round from the woman and dashed to
it, tugging at it and yelling now. But then the futility
of her efforts came to her, not at the size of the two
heavy bolts and the large lock without a key, but
with the realisation that her two captors had not
moved: there were no restraining hands on her.
She swung round and pleaded with the man: 'Let
me go! Please, let me go!'
'Why should I? You walked into this; I didn't
ask you to stop my carriage. Anyway--' His voice
dropped, and he moved slowly towards her: 'I've
been waiting to meet you for a long time - you
remember me, don't you? - from when you first saw
me. But that was a long time ago. You've grown. Oh
my! you've nearly grown past being any use to me.
Do you understand that, dearie?'
When his face came close to hers, instinctively her
hand came out in the form of a fist and she banged
it into his face. Then, bringing up her knee, she
caught him in the groin, causing him to step back
for a moment; but the sounds he was making were
outdone by those of the woman, because she was
crying, 'Oh! my. Oh! my.' And it wasn't evident
whether the words were emitted in laughter or in
amazement.
The man straightened and thrust up an arm, but
the woman's voice checked its coming down as she
cried, 'You don't want to mark her, do you, not with
him comin'? That can wait.'
Reluctantly, he stepped back; then, fingering his
cheek, he turned to the woman, saying, 'Am I
bleeding?'
'It's only a scratch,' she said. 'She must have a ring
on.'
Millie's arm was jerked almost out of the socket,
and he was looking down on her hand now; and then
he came out with a string of oaths, and, thrusting
Millie's hand towards the woman, he cried, 'Look
at that! Do you see what I'm seeing? I can't believe
it. Look at it!'
He began to pull the ring off her finger, and when
she cried out, he took no notice. Then the ring was
in his hand and he was twisting it from side to side
as if to examine the light of the stones.
'You sure?'
'Am I sure? Bugger me! I know me own. Twenty
years I had it... Who gave you this?'
He was now gripping her shoulder and he repeated, 'Who gave it to you?'
'My... my... it was a present.'
'Who... gave.., it... to... you?' 'My ... my father.'
After a long moment the hand left her shoulder
and he turned to the woman and in another explosive
fit of exasperation, he cried again, 'Bugger me!' and,
following another string of oaths, he said, 'Her
father, she says. He was the one: he nicked the
lot, and the rest. My God! I thought I was too old
a fox to be hoodwinked by a rabbit. And he was
going to sell her to me, remember? He had it all set
up in his own mind. He was taking her for a walk,
a fake fight and that would be that. He'd have his
thirty quid and I'd have someone I'd been wanting
to get my hands on for years, because her mother
owed me a lot. My God! Yes, she did.'
He now turned to Millie. 'Do you know, my rag
nymph, you're just the spit of your mother? She
double-crossed me, she did, using a rope, just before
she was due to sail. My God! I could have hung her
meself when I had to give that money back. Things
weren't as flush then as they are now. But I'll get
it back with interest, on you! Come here!' Gripping
her again, he hauled her forward and pushed her
towards the stairs. And as he did so she screamed;
but his only answer to this was, 'You can scream
your head off, dear; nobody will hear you in this
quarter because this nice house was made especially
for little girls like you; although you're a little girl no longer, more's the pity. Still, he's had his eye on you
for a long time and he'll pay good money. Oh aye, he
will, before I let him set his eyes on you. He couldn't
get you on his own and I didn't seem to be able to
oblige him ... get up there!' She had gripped the
banister, and he had to push her over the top stair.
When she fell on her knees, the woman helped
her to her feet, saying quietly, 'Come along; it's no Use.'
The landing, too, was all red. They had passed
three doors on one side, and the woman said, 'You'll
want number eight?'
'Where else?'
She opened the fourth door, then said, 'Stay there,
ducks, until I turn the lights up.'
After attending to the two oil lamps the woman
returned and pulled Millie into the room, leaving
the man standing in the doorway, and he said, 'Strip
her ready. If he's at his club, he could be here any
time.' And with this he turned away, closing the
door behind him and leaving Millie and the woman
looking at each other. Millie began to whimper. Her
voice like that of a child's, she pleaded, 'Please!
Please, let me out. Please! Mrs Aggie has money;
she will pay you. Please!'
'It's no use, lass. Come on, get your things off.'
When the hands came on her, she slapped them
away, still as a child might, saying, 'No! No, don't
touch me. I won't take my clothes off. I won't!' Then
again she was pleading, 'Please, miss. I have never
done anything like... I mean, I know nothing.'
'I know what you mean, love. I know well
you mean. But you're a big lass and it's got to happen
sometime. And you could have worse ones than
you'll have tonight. Oh aye, I can tell you that. He's all right. In fact, nothin' might happen at all with
him. You never know. He's just that kind: he wants
to play a bit. Come on, let me have your coat.' 'No!'
'I'll have to get rough then, because you've got
to get your things off. And look, I'm tellin' you' - her voice changed - 'there's worse things than
what you're in for. By God! yes. And you should
be thankful for small mercies. Now come on.'
With an expert twist, Millie was swung round;
her coat ripped off her; her bonnet, which was
already hanging by its strings down her back, was
thrown aside.
By the time the woman reached the last petticoat
Millie had no fight left in her. When she was stripped
naked and sitting on the side of the bed, crouched
forward, the woman gathered up her clothes, took
them to the door and threw them outside; then
came back and, opening a cupboard, took out what
looked like a small shift. It was a flimsy thing of very
fine lawn, and when it was slipped over her head,
reaching only to her knees, Millie crouched further
forward and began to moan.
The woman placed her hand under her chin and
lifted her white terrified face towards her, and she
whispered, 'I know who you are. You are Ben's lass,
aren't you? Listen. I'll try to get word to him. It won't be tonight. I'm on duty tonight, but if I can,
I'll slip him the wink tomorrow, somehow. I don't
know what he can do. He'll likely want to go for
the polis, but that'll be fatal. You could disappear
altogether if that happened. Anyway, I'll try.'
Millie was unable to make any response; she was
shivering from head to foot; and the woman, throwing
back the silk coverlet to expose fine sheets and
lace-edged pillow cases, said, 'Jump in, lass, and keep
yourself warm. I'll make up the fire.' She nodded
towards the end of the room, and Millie followed her
gaze, so frozen with fear she hadn't noticed there was
a fireplace in the room. She hadn't noticed anything
about it, but she was to have plenty of time to take
in every little detail of it during the next hours, the
coming night, and its following day.
EIGHT



It was seven o'clock and Millie hadn't returned. Ben
stood by the couch and looked down on Aggie and
she said, 'Well, she would keep her promise, I know
that. They could have been held up on the road. Anything
could have happened; more so, they could have
been set upon gettin' here from the stables where his
trap's left. But you say the trap isn't there?'
'What am I tellin' you, woman? Have you gone
soft in the head? I was there on time to meet her,
as I was before, because when you come to think
about it she's got as much knowledge of life outside
these gates as he has of life in this quarter.'
'And you're blamin' me for that?'
'No, I'm not. If there's any blame it goes to
both of us. But we did it for the best; she had
to be protected.'
'Well, I didn't think I could give her any better
protection than the man she's with now. He's a
decent fella, Ben. Look around you; look where
she's been brought up; and yet he's so taken with
her he's goin' to marry her. It seems to have been
his intention from when he first saw her, by what
she tells me. And he's been waitin' until she was sixteen. So, I think that's very honourable.'
'I have me doubts.'
'What d'you mean, doubts? What could you
doubt in a fella like that? He's been open and
straightforward.'
'Aye, apparently. But it's all been too nice and too
straightforward. These things don't happen, Aggie.
Let's face it, the sleeping beauties are only in fairy
tales by the Brothers Grimm.'
'Who? What brothers?'
'Oh, it doesn't matter.'
'No, it doesn't matter, but what matters is, I'm
worried, Ben.'
'Well, you're not the only one.'
'And here's me stuck in this bloody kitchen, with
me chest burnin' when I should be out lookin'.'
'Where you goin' to look? We'll just have to
sit and wait.'
'How long d'you propose to sit and wait?'
'Another hour. And then if she's not back then,
well... '
'Well what? What d'you intend to do then?'
'Well, I intend to hire a cab and go to this
wonderful house he took her to, and likely where
she still is and being' persuaded to stay the night.'
'Oh! you are a bitter pill, Ben. You would think
the worst, wouldn't you? I'm surprised at you, even
when I know that this is the best thing that has
happened to her, or could happen to her.'
'Aye, perhaps you're right; but time will tell ...
Will I heat you some beer?'
'Aye, you could. Put extra ginger into it. Oh God!'
She lay back. 'I wish I had me life over again. I would
never have got to this stage, eatin', eatin', eatin'. I
was big to begin with, but I could have controlled
it if I'd had any sense or will power. But no, I had
to comfort meself in food.'
'It could have been worse. It could have been the
gin, whole hog.'
'Aye, you're right there, it could have been the
gin... Ben?'
'Aye, Aggie?' He turned from where he was putting
the pan of beer on the fire.
'I'm worried. In a number of ways, I'm worried;
and it hasn't been made better by the dream I
had last night, because I saw her--' She heaved
twice now before she finished, 'She was floatin'
down the canal.'
The beer splashed over into the fire causing a great
hiss. And after Ben had plonked the half-empty pan
on to the hob and turned to her, it was as if his voice,
too, hissed as he said, 'For God's sake, woman! You
would say things like that, wouldn't you?'
'Look; don't take that manner with me. In any
case, let me finish: she wasn't dead, she was sort of
clingin' to a plank and I tried to reach her. I couldn't,
and she went on past me.'
He turned from her and poured what was left of
the beer into a mug and handed it to her, saying,
'Now, I'm not waiting. If they're not there I'm
getting a cab. It'll take me an hour and a half to
two hours, so you can lie there worryin' yourself; but don't go to sleep and have any more of your
damned dreams. 'I'll take one of the keys with me
and lock it from the outside.'

Ben found no-one at the ostler's stable. The cabs
were all out; there wasn't even a trap for hire. All
that was left was a small flat cart and a work-worn
pony. He was more used to this kind of conveyance
anyway. But the pony turned out to be not so old
as it looked; it was spritely on the road.
Just before leaving the built-up area of the town,
he stopped at a public house, and ordered two pints
of ale, one of which he himself drank, the other he
took outside and gave to the pony, who made short
work of it, and then thanked him by trotting briskly
for the rest of the journey. Laddie, too, used to love
his ale, and he guessed that all his breed were alike
and that they worked better on it.
He found difficulty in locating the house. He had
to take the lantern from the cart and investigate the
number of each one. Then, there it was, number 7. The
low gates were open and he walked the pony
between them and up the drive and on to the gravel.
There were lights in the ground-floor rooms of the
house, and when he knocked on the front door, it
was opened almost immediately by a maid, who
stared at the short man holding a lantern head-high
and saying, 'Is Miss Forester here?'
'Oh, come in, come in. Please, come in.' Fanny
pulled open the door, and immediately Ben realised
the effect that this place would have had on Millie,
because it really was bonny. Aye, very bonny.
As he was looking about him a door opened and
there appeared a woman whose height would make
him look tall and whose voice brought his mouth
into a slight gape as she said, 'You've brought her
back? You've brought Millie back?'
'No ... no, ma'am. I thought she was here. She
hasn't come home. I . . . I've come for her.'
'Oh, dear me, dear me. She's a naughty girl, and
so silly. Don't you think so, Fanny? She was so silly.
Everything was arranged.'
The maid broke in now, saying, 'It's a great pity.
It's a great pity.'
'What is a great pity, miss?'
'Oh. Well, that all arrangements have been...'
But her voice was cut off by the little creature
chirping in, 'That's why I came, you see. That's
why I came. Dear Bernard had it all arranged.
There would have been no scandal, no scandal. He
explained it all to me and I understood the situation.
Yes, I did. And she should have; he made it plain.
Oh, yes, he made it plain. How could she imagine
otherwise? He couldn't marry her, now could he?
He couldn't marry her. But she was to come as my
nurse, and it would have been all very discreet.'
Ben's mouth had grown into a much larger gape,
and his head had dropped forward, his chin pulled
into his neck. He had been right. He had been right.
Dear God! And she had thought he meant marriage.
And Aggie? Oh, Aggie had been sure of it. And
all he wanted was a mistress. He wouldn't take a whore for a mistress. Oh no; it would have to be
someone untouched, like his Millie. Where was the
fella? If he were here he would throttle him. Oh yes,
without the slightest compunction, he would throttle
him. The thought struck him that he had used the
word compunction. He was learning, wasn't he? Oh,
yes, he was learning all right, but more things than
English and a better way of speaking. Oh, yes, he
was learning; and yet it was something that he had
known all along.
The little creature was still chirping: 'Bernard was
so distressed. He ran after her, right down the road,
and he was without his hat or coat, and even his
walking stick, but she was gone. Then he met Mr
Tyler's carriage. Mr Tyler lives in the next house,
you know, and he said he had passed a hired cab; in
fact, he was annoyed that his carriage had had to go
practically into the hedge to let the cab pass. And he
remembered seeing Millie hurrying along the road.
At least, he didn't know it was Millie, now did he?
he just knew it was a young lady. But his footman,
who was also with his coachman, said he happened
to turn round because he thought it was surprising
to see a young lady hurrying along the road in the
dark. He naturally thought she had stopped and
hired the cab.'
She had hired a cab. She should have been home
by now. Which cab?
'Where is he?' he asked the little woman.
'Bernard?'
'Yes, Bernard.'
'Oh, Geoff packed his night bag and they went off
together. Geoff was taking him to the train. Would
you like to wait and talk to Geoff?'
He did not reply either yes or no, but with a
withering glance he turned from her and, addressing
the maid, said, 'When he comes back, tell him
I'm goin' to call and see him, will you? And tell
him something else. Remember this: tell him to be
ready for me.'
'Yes. Yes, I'll do that.' Fanny's face was without
a smile for once. And as he went out of the door the
bell-like voice from the little woman came at him,
saying, 'You are a very rude young man. I couldn't
be fond of you.'
And he thought, My God! And that was part of
the plan for Millie, to look after that one.
It took him until ten o'clock to visit the various
ostlers, the hostelries, and the plain stables along the
way, but not one could remember any of their men
bringing back a young lass. In fact, as one proprietor
said on a laugh, 'When the cabs come back, they're
empty, lad. The customers don't live here.'
When Ben arrived back, Aggie was up and pacing
the floor, every step bringing a wheeze from her
chest, and the first words she said were, 'My God!
Where've you been? I thought you were lost an' all.'
'Sit down.'
'I've sat down long enough. Tell me.'
'Sit down, will you? 'Cos I'll have to.'
She dropped back on to the couch, and he sat in
his usual place on the settle, and bending forward, he leant his forearms on his knees and said, 'She's gone.
Get it into your head straightaway; it's no use beatin'
about the bush, she's gone. How she's gone and
where she's gone, I don't know, but she's gone.'
'Ben, look; tell me and quietly, tell me what you
know.'
'I'll put it briefly, Aggie. She found out that your
dear friend Mr Thompson didn't want to marry her;
he wanted her for a mistress. He had it all planned
out with a barmy little woman there whom Millie
was to be nurse to as a cover-up. Apparently, from
the beginning he'd had no intention of marryin' her.
He bought that house and planned it all, your dear
Mr Bernard Thompson.'
Aggie did not say a word, but she heaved herself
up on the couch, lifted one leg after the other on to
it, then lay back. It seemed a long time before she
said, 'And she's gone off with him?'
He sprang up from the couch, saying, 'Bloody
hell, no! We'd know where she was if she'd gone
off with him. She ran away from him, apparently.
An' from what I can gather, she hired a passing cab
of some sort.'
A cab ... of some sort. She turned her head
towards him now, saying, 'Well, cabs have to be
housed. Have you...?'
'I've been around about here where she might have
got off. Nobody's had a cab that brought any young
lass back; nor do they remember picking one up. And
as I've worked it out, whatever cab came into the
town from that district would be nearly sure to come
through the market. And she would know where she
was then, and would have got out if she could. Aye,
if she could.'
Looking at the mountain of flesh heaving on the
couch, Ben wanted to cry out, 'Oh, Aggie! Don't
cry. For God's sake, don't cry.' He had never seen
her cry, not during all the long years he had been
with her. Her lips trembled, aye, but never a tear.
But wasn't that what he wanted to do himself? He
wanted to lie on the mat there and beat his head on
the ground and cry. Oh aye, cry out with love and
his loss, the loss that had happened before tonight.
For weeks and months now he had been striving to
better himself in his mind so that he would come
up to her, or even surpass her so that she would be
able to learn from him; and if it should never come
to anything else, they'd be able to sit and talk ...
or walk and talk. And that was as far as the dream
went, because his mind was sensible enough to know
that he couldn't finish it, even to himself, and lie in
bed and talk.
What were they going to do? What were they
going to do without her? Of course, if there had
been marriage in the air they would have had to do
without her. But marriage and what she might be
going through now was a different thing... What
she might be going through now.
He sprang up from his seat and went over to
the couch, and kneeling down by the side of it, he
took Aggie's hand in his and said brokenly, 'Come
on. Come on.'
She took a none-too-clean piece of rag from the
pocket of her apron and rubbed her face with it,
and, her voice breaking, she said, 'From somewhere
in the Bible, I once heard it read out that the things
you fear come upon you. An' God Himself knows
that I've feared her being' picked up all these years.
Whoever's hands she's fallen into, God help her this
night. But I pray to Him that it's not Slim Boswell's.'
She now looked at him pityingly as she said, 'Is there
anything more you can do, lad?'
'Well, as I've said, I've raked most of the town
where she might have landed if she'd been in a hired
cab, so I think it was likely a private carriage that
picked her up. A lot of the moneyed blokes have
ordinary-looking cabs; they use them for business.
But there's still that one quarter I haven't been to
yet. Anyway, it's half past ten now and it would be
near on eleven when I got there. And what's more,
the place would likely be swarming with drunks; and
with only those street lasses hanging around who had
been told off to clean out the pockets of them lying
in the gutters, probably tripped up by their pimps. I can't see us doin' anything till mornin', Aggie,
. anyway. Then I'll make for the polis station.'
Neither of them said, 'If she doesn't turn up before
then,' for they both knew it to be a fruitless hope.
After a moment Aggie said, 'If you could see
the sergeant.'
'Aye, if he's anywhere about I'll talk to him. But
no matter which one of them I talk to, I know the
answer will be the same: What do I think they can
do? There's bairns being' picked up every day. They
all know it, but they do little or nowt about it. Look;
are you goin' to manage the stairs?'
'No, lad, no, I couldn't. I feel I must stay down
here tonight. You go on up to your bed; you'll need
it.'
'No. I feel the same as you, so I'll bring a chair in
from next door, and I'll keep the fire goin'.'
She put out her hand and gripped his, saying,
'What I did, Ben, I did for the best, in lettin' her go
with him. Before me and God I never thought... '
'It'll be all right. It'll be all right. Somehow, it
sort of had to happen; she was fated right from the
first. That's why we tried to protect her. She was
like her mother.' He stopped here, for the thought
had entered his head that, rather than go through
with it, she might take the same way out as her
mother had.
On this he swung about and hurried into the other
room, and lifted up an old armchair as if it were only
a featherweight and returned with it to the kitchen.
Then, with the riker, he drew some pieces of coal
from the back of the grate and on to the fire. He
then dusted his hands, sat back in the chair, put his
feet on the fender, and closed his eyes, telling himself
that if he pretended sleep she would soon go off, too.
In any case, it was going to be a long night, and one
in which he knew his imagination would run riot.

NINE


It was still dark when he went into the police station.
The constable on duty blinked at him, yawned, and
said, 'Aye, well, what's your trouble?'
'I... I want to report a missing person.'
'Oh. Well, give me details.' He pulled a book
towards him, wet the end of a pencil in his mouth,
then said, 'Go ahead.'
'She is sixteen years old; she is Mrs Winkowski's
ward.' The constable looked up now, and the tiredness
seeming to go from his face for a moment, he
said, 'Oh, her? When was this?'
'Last night. She had been to a friend's house. She
was walkin' back. Somebody saw her gettin' into
what they thought was a paid cab. That was the
last that was heard of her. I was waitin' for her she
was to be back at five o'clock. I went round all
the ostlers; but nobody's seen hilt nor hair of her.'
'That's the fair lass, isn't it?'
'Yes. Yes, she is, she is very fair.'
'Oh. And you say she stays with Mrs Winkowski,
better known as...?'
'Aye, I know what she's better known as, but her
name is Mrs Winkowski.'
The tone brought the constable's chin up. 'Very
well then,' he conceded, 'she's the daughter of...'
'No. The ward.'
'The ward. All right; she is the ward of Mrs
Winkowski.' He took a long time to write the name,
his lips spelling out what he thought the letters might
be; then he said, 'She could have gone to friends
or anything; I mean, that's after she left the house
where she had been visitin'? What was the name of
the house, sir? And where was it situated?'
Ben looked at the hand holding the pencil; then
he looked up into the man's face. It was expressing
enquiry. 'It was a house on the outskirts of the town:
Elm Road, number seven,' he said.
So the constable repeated, 'On the outskirts, Elm
Road, number seven. And it was from there she
was leaving when she was last seen. Is that what
you mean, sir?'
'That's what I mean.' They exchanged a hard
look.
Ben now asked, 'When will Sergeant Fenwick be
in?'
'About nine o'clock, I would say.'
'Well, would you mind telling him about this case

'I'll do that. Certainly, I'll do that. As
soon as he comes through that door I will inform
him.'
'There's nothin' funny about this.'
The constable's manner quickly changed, and he
said, 'I'm aware there's nothin' funny about this.
And I would warn you to keep a civil tongue in
your head. I don't like your attitude.'
'Nor me yours. And when I see the sergeant I will
relate to him the substance of our conversation, and
ask him if it is usual for his officers to use a mocking
manner to members of the public reporting serious
cases.' For a moment, Ben had taken on the manner
and voice of Mr Sponge; in fact, he had imagined
himself to be Mr Sponge.
Following this, he inclined his head towards the
astonished man, then abruptly left.
He began to walk the streets: first in the vicinity
of Reilly's Meat House; but everyone could have
been dead, for there was no movement, not even
of a cleaner. He then went as far as Bale Street,
and as he passed Slim Boswell's place he could not
help but question whether she would be there. But
no; he couldn't see Slim Boswell riding in a carriage
or even a cab in that area where Mr Bernard
Thompson resided.
At the end of the street he turned into the short
lane which led into a back lane. This, too, was
broad, unusually so, and showed that there were
gates to most of the houses on both sides of the
lane. And the place was clean, with no excrement
or litter lying about.
Seeing the hatches in the walls, he realised these
were the newer innovation of dry closets. They
would be half-filled with ash, and the scavengers
would come and clean them out once a week. What a
pity, he thought, they didn't put them in The Courts.
But, of course, it would require twenty or so in one of the square yards.
He emerged from the alleyway, feeling desperate.
There seemed to be no way he could plan ahead, but
just go on aimlessly searching.
At twelve o'clock he returned home. Aggie was
up. Her chest, she said, was a little easier. She had
put on a pan of broth and heated some pies left over
from the previous day. When she set it before him,
he said, 'I'm sorry, Aggie, it would choke me, I can't
get a bite down. I'll have a drink of beer.'
'What have you done?' she asked him.
'I've travelled the town,' he said; 'but there's
hardly anybody out this mornin'. Being' Sunday, I
suppose. I've been up and down the workin' street,
but it's too early for the lasses to come out. In fact,
there's not many make an appearance till dark on a
Sunday... any Sunday. Odd that.'
'Well, what d'you intend to do now?'
'I think I'll hire the cart again and drive out an'
see if that fella's man has come back, and hear what
he's got to say.'
'Don't do anything that's goin' to cause more
trouble. If he can only help to get her back I'll forgive
him everything. Ben' - her voice was low - 'I've had some rough times in me life. You could say that all
me life has been rough. There were times, when I
was a young lass, that I ached physically almost
daily from what work I had to do, but the hardest was to accept the inside bit and what I looked like.
But all the years of pain combined couldn't come up to what I've gone through since six o'clock yesterday.
And you an' all. Oh yes, you an' all. Our lives will
never be the same again, lad. D'you know that?'
He took his coat from where it was lying over
the back of the settle, put it on, and picking up
his cap from the seat, he pulled it tight on his
head, before saying, 'I'm off. Look after yourself.
I'll lock the gate.'
After the door closed on him she looked at the
table. She couldn't be bothered clearing it, so she
returned to the couch and lay down.
Closing her eyes and joining her hands together,
she began to mutter prayers.
It would have been about two o'clock when
she heard the gate bell ring, and she turned her
head towards the door, saying aloud, 'Get on with
it! Get on with it!' But when the ringing went
on continually for almost ten minutes, she pulled
herself up, saying, 'Oh! my God, they never let
up.' They could keep ringing; she wasn't fit to
go out there. If she crossed that yard the cold
would kill her.
How long after it was when she was almost
startled out of her wits by somebody knocking on
the kitchen window, she didn't know. The back of
the couch faced the window and she pulled herself
up and peered towards it. There was someone out
there beckoning to her, a woman.
She lumbered to her feet, walked round the couch
and, stopping, she looked at the face that was close
to the pane and the hand that was beckoning to her.
It was Annie Blackett. What did she want? How
had she got in?
She shambled down the room and into the scullery
and to the side door that led into what had once been
the garden. And when Annie came running towards
her, she called to her, 'What's the matter? How did
you get in?'
'I... Oh, Agg... I mean, Mrs Winkowski, I've
been ringin' the bell but couldn't make you hear,
an' so I came round the back here. I had to climb
over the wall.'
'You climbed over the wall? Come in. What is it?
What's the matter?'
'Ben mustn't be in else he would have opened the
gate, wouldn't he? Well, I've... I've got news, I...
I mean.., er... can I sit down?'
'Aye, yes, of course.' Aggie led the way back into
the kitchen, and there she pointed to the settle,
inviting Annie Blackett to sit down.
Nervously, Annie did so, but at the end of the
seat, for she felt she had really bearded the lion in
its den; it was the first time she had stepped foot in
this house and she didn't know what to make of it.
It was a muddle and it wasn't clean. But she must
tell her what she had come about. She said, 'It's...
it's about Millie.'
'What about her? You know something?'
'Well, it's like this, Mrs Winkowski. You know
my cousin... I mean, I've got a cousin. She's Nellie
Pratt, an' I'm not proud of her, but she's not a bad
sort. Sometimes she looks in on me when she can.
It isn't very often 'cos... 'cos they are kept down
to that quarter, you know. Well... well, she came
in like a devil in a gale of wind not half an hour
gone, and she wasn't there two minutes; I tell you,
she wasn't there two minutes, an' she was gabblin'.
An' what she said was, tell Ben that Millie is in
the middle house in Bale Street, upstairs in the end
room. But he can't get in that way; he would have
to come in through number one. She said, being
Sunday, there won't be many kickin' about, but
Slim will be there in number one. That's where he
lives. Number two's the middle house and it's been
proofed against noise. An' she went on and on and
I didn't get half of it. She said she'd be there till
half-past six; then she would have to leave. But if
Ben came in the end one' - she now put her hand
to her head - 'I don't know whether she meant
the first one or the third one; I don't know, but
she said, the end one, and got over the wall, she'd
try to leave the kitchen door open. But what she
seemed so firm about was not to go to the polis, 'cos
they've got ways and means of scarperin'. There's a
hidden cellar there. Take him unawares, she said, if
he's there. That's the only way. She was in a state,
'cos they'd murder her if they found out. She said to
tell Ben the quicker the better, 'cos there was a client
comin'. That's what she said. Where is he? I mean,
Ben?' She now got to her feet and walked across
to Aggie who was supporting herself by leaning
against the table, and she asked, tentatively, 'Are
you all right?'
Aggie turned and looked at this woman whose
name had irritated her for years, but it was many
a long year, too, since she had seen her. She had
considered her plain with nothing about her, but the
face she was now looking into was quite homely, and
she was clean and tidy, and she said, 'Yes, lass, I'm
all right, but I'll be more all right when he gets back.
He's gone lookin' for her, taken a cart and horse out
into the country, where she was yesterday when she
was picked up. But the minute he comes in I'll tell
him. Oh aye, I'll tell him. If only I had the use of
me limbs, like once upon a time, I'd be down there
meself. And Annie' - she said the name gently 'thank
you, lass. And if you see your cousin you
can carry me thanks to her an' all. I don't know
what may have happened to my lass, but whichever
way it goes I'll always thank you for your help. And
be she what she may, that goes for your cousin an'
all. An' you can't go climbin' back over that wall.
My goodness! I don't know how you made it.'
'There's a couple of stones juttin' out at yon side,
but there's no help this side.' She smiled weakly,
and Aggie said, 'There's a little back gate to the
side there, but you'll have to go round by the barn. I'll get you the key. It'll be a bit rusty 'cos it's never
been opened for years.'
She rummaged in the scullery cupboard now and
brought out a large iron key; then, dipping the
end in a bowl of fat that was standing on the
wooden bench, she handed it to Annie, saying,
'That'll help.'
At the door, Annie said, 'I hope he gets back soon,
'cos the way Nell was talkin'--' She looked down to
where her long coat was resting on the top of her
boots, and she moved one foot after the other as if
scraping them on a piece of flagstone that formed the
step. Then she asked, 'What'll I do with the key?' and
Aggie replied, 'Just throw it over the wall.'
After closing the door, Aggie turned to the kitchen;
but she did not sit down, she walked the length of
the room from the door to the couch and back
again. And she did so over and over again until,
almost collapsing, she dropped down on the couch
and, her hands clasped, she actually prayed aloud,
saying, 'Oh, God, bring him back soon.'

It was six o'clock the same evening. Slim Boswell's
guest had just arrived by the same means that had
brought Millie to the house the night before. And
now Boswell was leading him through the first
house and into the hall of the second, which was
brilliantly lit.
Smiling, Boswell said, 'We sent to your club last
night, but you weren't there, but, knowing of your
keen interest, I took the liberty of sending my man
to you with a message; also of arranging for you to
be picked up by my conveyance, because it wouldn't
have done for you to come from your home in your
own conveyance, now would it, sir?'
'No, not at all. Not at all. And thank you, thank
you very much. You will be compensated for your
trouble, I can assure you... Is she all right?'
'Well, she is a little nervous, naturally.'
'And you say she has been here since yesterday?'
'Yes.'
'What a pity! What a lot of wasted time.' He
smiled.
'Indeed, sir, indeed. I don't know whether you're
aware that she had been visiting a Bernard Thompson,
whom you know, I believe. Oh, yes, he's had
a keen interest in her. I learned this from ...
well, her father.'
'I understood she had no parents.'
'Her father turned up, sir. He had been doing a
long stretch. He told me this young gentleman was
in the habit of taking her to his house.'
'I can't believe it.'
'Oh, you can, sir, you can.'
'And she has a father?'
'Oh, you needn't worry about him, sir. He's been
dealt with. Oh, yes, yes; he's been dealt with. A wily
piece, if ever there was one.'
There was an almost ecstatic look on the man's
face as he said to Boswell, 'I never imagined this
would come about - you know how interested I was
some years ago.'
'Yes, sir; yes, I do. But then I had to wonder
if your interest still held, because she is no
longer a little girl; in fact, you'll be surprised,
but she's very attractive. Oh, yes, very pleasing.
But I took the chance of sending for you, sir,
because, you see, unless arrangements are made
she won't be able to stay here permanently. If you aren't interested it would benefit me to send
her on to... '
'Oh, don't you worry, Boswell. Don't you worry.
I'm interested, and for her future, too, if she'll
be amenable.'
'You may find her a little quiet and perhaps
unresponsive, because this morning we had to give
her a slight dose, although Nell tells me it's mostly
worn off. You know the way, sir. I leave the
rest to you.'
TEN


The terror in Millie that had frozen her into silence
for a time disappeared with the morning, and frantically
she examined the room, only to find it
was windowless. The curtains were covering not
a window but a bricked-up window space. She'd
heard tell of this kind of thing having happened a
long time ago to avoid a window tax. Nor could she
find an implement that she could use. There were no
vases or candlesticks on the narrow mantelpiece. The
only article on the wash-hand stand was a large china
bowl with a jug standing in it, and to the side, a small
dish holding soap. The bedstead was brass, although
it was draped in the same material as the bedspread.
At each end of the bed and looped over a knob was
a piece of rope about half an inch thick and all of
three feet long, the ends frayed like a tassel. There
was a chamber pot under the bed, and against the
wall was what looked like a mahogany seat with a
loose lid, which she lifted and saw contained a china
pail. There was nothing in the wardrobe except two
other shifts similar to the one she was wearing.
She had been too terrified to sleep, although she
must eventually have cried herself to sleep, because she woke up to hear a key turning in the door and
see the woman who had spoken kindly to her last
night enter. She was carrying a tray on which was a
cup of tea and a plate holding a slice of bacon and
a fried egg, and, beside it, a small plate of bread and
butter. The woman smiled at her and said, 'Did you
sleep, dearie?'
She couldn't answer her, but she pulled herself
upwards when the tray was placed on her knees,
and the woman said, 'Eat that up; you'll need it.
Then I'd have a wash, and use the slop pail.'
It was now that Millie pleaded, 'Can't ... can't
you do anything for me, please? Please get me out
of here. I'll go mad, I will. Do you know that my
mother committed suicide because of that man? And I'll do the same before anybody touches me... I'll
do the same.'
'You'd better not say that, lass, or he'll have you
tied up. Now that's a good warnin'. Anyway, you'd
have a job to commit suicide in here.'
With an impatient movement Millie pushed the
tray away from her, saying, 'I don't want that. I'm
not going to eat.'
'Well, that's up to you. You'll eat it before it eats
you, and you might find you'll be glad to in the end.
Now, what I'm sayin' to you is for your own good.
It's got to happen, an' the sooner you get it over
with the better.'
'What... what are they going to do to me?'
'Oh' - the woman smiled now - 'it won't be they;
it will be just one fella. And I happen to know who
it is, and it'll be all right. As I told you last night,
nothing at all might happen, not at first, but you've
got to co-operate, like.'
As she was speaking, the door opened again and
Boswell entered, and on the sight of him Millie pulled
herself back against the pillows.
And she watched his approach until he was standing
close to her at the side of the bed and pointing
to the breakfast she had pushed aside and saying,
'Aren't you going to eat?'
'No, I'm not; and you'll get into trouble when they
find out. You'll get into a great deal of trouble.'
'Well, I'm used to trouble. I can always handle
it, especially when I get trouble from little girls like
you.' He now bent forward, picked up the tray and
pushed it on to her knee, and instinctively she picked
up the plate and levelled it into his face. There was
a scream, but it was from the woman, and then she
was standing between the bed and the man, saying,
'Don't... don't mark her. You'll... you'll be sorry.
He'll be comin' today. Don't mark her. Don't mark
her. Look, give her a dose to quieten her down. Bring
it up and I'll get her to take it.'
'Take it!' He ground out the words between his
teeth. 'I'll take the skin off her. If we don't get him
today I'll take the skin off her, and then she'll be
for the boat, and before long she'll wish to God
she was dead.'
Trembling so much now that she had to grip a
handful of the bedclothes, Millie watched the man
walk to the end of the bed and grip the rope that was hanging from the post, then swing it backwards and
forwards for a moment. Then he left the room.
'That was a bloody silly thing to do, girl. It was
the worst thing you could do. I'm tellin' you--'
The woman bent forward, her face close to Millie's
now, and said, 'He's a devil when he's roused.
There's nobody worse. You should never have done
that. My God! it was the worst thing you could
have done. Look, when the client comes, now I'm
givin' you good advice here, and listen. When your
client comes... '
'I have no client. I have no client. I don't care; I
won't be handled.'
'Shut up, girl! Shut up! Listen to me! For God's
sake and your own, be nice, and co-operate. That'll
mean he'll come back and back again and Slim won't
be able to touch you. At least he'll be well paid to
keep his hands off you. Now that's all I can say to
you. That's all the help I can give you.'
She now bent down and picked the plate and the
bacon from the floor; but when she came to the egg
and its broken yolk, she muttered, 'I'll have to go
and get a flannel for that.'
She locked the door behind her.
When she returned with a pan and brush and a wet
cloth, she was also carrying a small mug, which she
laid on the dressing table. After cleaning the floor,
she picked up the mug, went to the bed, and said,
'Here, drink this.'
'No. No, I won't!'
'Look, lass; I don't want to force you. Drink it.'
'It's got something in it?'
'Yes, it's got something in it, but it won't make
you sleepy, it'll just make you feel better.'
When her hand came out to knock the cup away,
the woman yelled at her, 'Don't do that! I don't want
another spill. And I tell you I won't be able to stop
him goin' for you again if you do that.'
Something in her voice checked Millie's hand, and
she again gripped the bedclothes. But with a quick,
practised movement, the woman nipped her nose,
jerked her head back, and so forced her to swallow
the contents of the mug, and Millie coughed and
spluttered and sent a small spray flying on to the
counterpane.
The woman now gathered up the pan, brush,
flannel and mug and left the room; and again the
key was turned in the lock.
Millie lay back on her pillows, and for the next few
hours she knew a feeling of contentment, which was
strange and not unpleasant. And when the woman
brought her a meal at dinner time, although the
feeling was wearing off, she ate it, and the woman
said, 'That's more like it. Now you'll feel better.
I'd have a doze if I were you.' And she did. She
didn't know how long she dozed and because of
the bricked-up window she didn't know what time
of day it was, or even if it was day; what illumination
there was came from two lamps.
But as the hours wore on, the feeling of calmness
disappeared, and she was once again herself and tiff
with fear. At about this time the woman appeared with a scuttleful of coal, and as she was leaving,
she said, 'It shouldn't be too long. And you mightn't
have me the morrow, so I'd advise you to behave
yourself. D'you understand me?'
Millie didn't answer, but after the door had
been closed and locked she began pacing up and
down the room.
She was still pacing when she heard the key being
turned in the lock, and she stood rigid, her hands
clenched by her sides. When the door opened slowly
and she saw the man whom all the Quintons had
called 'master', her jaw dropped, her eyes widened
and a strange creeping feeling spread over her scalp
as if the hairs were rising from it. She could feel his
arms about her in the dance, and him lifting her from
the ground, and she could hear Jane say her dress
had come up so far that she was exposing her white
stockings. And then, after she had lain for those
three days on the Quintons' couch downstairs, he
had come and stroked her hair, and she had wished
he wouldn't. Raymond Crane-Boulder.,. I
'Oh, Millie.'
At the sound of her name coming from his lips in
that strange way, she screamed. It was a high scream,
and she turned and ran to the other side of the bed.
But he remained where he was and his voice was soft
and soothing as he said, 'I'm not going to harm you,
dear. I would never, never harm you. Do you know,
from the first moment I saw you I loved you? Oh, yes,
yes, I loved you; and you were just a child then, but
how you have grown. You are more beautiful now.
But come, let us sit down and talk, eh? Trust me,
dear. Trust me. I wouldn't harm you for the world.
We could have wonderful times together.'
He was now sidling along by the bottom of the
bed; and with a spring she jumped on to it and off
the other side and, in a rush, she made for the door.
But he was there before her. And now he was holding
her by the trembling shoulders, saying, 'That would
be no good. He is downstairs. There is only one way
out, dear. I must be brutal by telling you that. But...
but I could take you out, I could take you away. Oh,
yes, let us talk. Come, let us talk.' He was drawing
her towards the bed, and with a swift movement, he
thrust an arm undeir her knees and lifted her up and
laid her on it. Then he sat on the edge of it, holding
her hands in his, patting them together as he would
a child's, saying, 'Millie. Millie. You're not afraid of
me, are you? You mustn't be, because we're going
to spend quite a lot of time together. You wouldn't
want to stay in this room for ever, would you? Or,
as he could do, be sent away by Slim? He's not a nice
man, you know, Millie, not at all. But I'll see to you
if you'll only love me a little. That's all I want, just
for you to love me a little.'
A faintness was coming over her: she couldn't
protest, she couldn't scream; she felt she was going
to pass out. She mustn't. She mustn't pass out. Mrs
Aggie. Mrs Aggie. Ben. Oh, Ben, Ben, Ben. Ben.

Ben had arrived home at five o'clock to Aggie's
greeting of, 'Where've you been, man? For God's sake! where've, you been? I know where she is. I
know where she is. Look, Annie said you hadn't
to get the polis, but I think you'd better go to the
station; you can't do it on your own.'
He had to take her by the shoulders and push her
back on to the couch and yell at her: 'Steady! Steady!
Now give it to me word for word.' And so, doing her
best, she repeated Annie's words.
Before she had finished he had left her, at least
he had got as far as the outer room when he sprang
back again and said, 'That old knife, like a cutlass,
the one you used to have in the case, where is it?'
'No, no; don't take that. There'll be murder.'
'Yes, and it could be me. Yes, it could be murder.
Where is it?'
'It's in that drawer, there.' She pointed to the
sideboard. 'At the back of it.'
He pulled open the drawer so quickly the whole
lot spilled on to the floor with a crash, but it revealed
a brown leather case with a curved end and an
ornamental handle sticking out of the top. And
when he pulled on the handle it revealed a dagger.
He ran his finger along the curved blade. It was as
sharp as on the day, many years ago, when Aggie had
picked it out from a load of rubbish that was being
thrown out of a house. He had wanted it then but she
wouldn't give it to him. But now it was in his hand, and he thrust it in his broad leather belt, leaving the
shaft supported by the strap of his braces.
'Take care and don't use that unless you have to.
It's like a razor.'
He did not seem to hear her, for he had started
to run, and he ran until he came to Bale Street; and
there he slowed up, panting, when he saw the lights
of a cab approaching the end house. When it turned
into the lane, he hurried silently up by the black wall
and was in time to see a figure getting out of the cab,
and another at the house doorway. Then he could see
by the carriage lights the horse being manoeuvred in
order to get it out and into the lane again, and he
guessed it must be a sizeable yard for the cabbie to
be able to do that; likely the three back yards had
been knocked into one.
He pressed himself against the wall as the cab
came into the lane, and remained so until it disappeared
from his view.
He had the urge now to rush up the yard and into
the house, but he warned himself to take it easy; he
didn't know how many he'd have to contend with.
On the way, he had paid a flying visit to Annie, and
she had said that Nell had indicated it was quiet there
on a Sunday night, but that Boswell was likely to be
about. Well, he hoped he met up with Boswell. By
God! he did.
He waited a few minutes; but then the thought
struck him that the back door might have been
locked or, worse still, somebody might come out
and close those gates. He now shot across the lane
in the direction of the yard. The only guide he now
had in the gathered darkness was a glimmer of light
coming from a window. He guessed that the door
would be near there. Hugging the wall, he soon came to a doorway; but it was far from the window,
and when he tried the handle it did not move. He
continued towards the window and when he neared
it he could just make out where the wall ended and
another door began. His heart was thumping against
his ribs and he was holding his breath as he gripped
the handle and slowly and quietly turned it. And his
breath seemed to become still when the door gave
way to his touch.
He was in a dark passageway now, but there,
at the end of it, was a light showing beneath
another door.
He moved silently along the passage to the door,
and listened. He could hear no sound. He gripped
the handle and turned it quietly, but then pushed
the door swiftly open; and there, smothering a
gasp, was Nell.
She had been doing something at a table; she did
not, however, cry out, but turned her head quickly
away and, thrusting out her arm, pointed towards
a door as though she were speaking to someone
just across the table, and she muttered, 'Careful in
the hallway.'
Within seconds he had opened this door and was
in another passage; but this was illuminated by a
light coming from a half-open door at the far end.
And what he saw through it was a movement as if
someone were crossing the room.
As he thrust the door fully open, so the figure
swung round; and now they were staring at each
other, with neither uttering a word.
Ben was prepared for an attack - his heavy upper
body was bent forward - but he wasn't quite prepared
for the leap that Boswell gave, for it was like
that of a wild animal, and it gave him no time to
withdraw the knife from the sheath under his belt.
He was wrestling with a man who seemed to have
as many arms as an octopus and who was groping
for his throat. He, too, was groping for a throat,
and as his fingers clawed the thin neck, Boswell's
foot came out and kicked at his shins; then his knee
found Ben's groin. It was then, as automatically his
hand should have gone to his pain-racked lower
stomach that it went to his trouser belt. The next
minute the knife was free from its sheath and
he was striving to bring it home into Boswell's
narrow chest.
Amid groans and gasps, the struggling brought
them on to the floor and, unfortunately for Boswell,
he was the first to hit it, and when Ben's heavy
weight struck him it forced him to relax his hold.
And it was in that instant that Ben brought the knife
down into the man's neck, and the gush of blood
from his action almost blinded him, and he rolled
off the contorted figure.
He lay gasping, but only for a second, before he
managed to get to his knees, then drag himself up
and stumble towards the far door, then into darkness
again, except for a gleam at the end of what seemed
to be a passage.
This led into another hall; and there were the
stairs. As if galvanised by new life, he was up them and across the landing, making directly towards the
fourth door. Thrusting it open, he saw a tall man
leaning over the bed, his hands on the stiff, still,
white figure. And he let out a guttural cry as he
sprang towards him with almost the same agility
as had the man downstairs, minutes earlier. But
whereas Boswell had been silent and not much
taller than himself, this man, though slight, was
head and shoulders above him. The knife was still
in his hand, but he was unable to use it, for the
man was aiming to batter his face. However, his
own stature and a natural instinct to duck, enabled
him to avoid the blows, and automatically he bent
his body forward and, as if it were a battering ram,
he thrust his head into Crane-Boulder's stomach,
causing him to fall back gasping against the end
of the bed; and to save himself from falling, he
clutched at the end rail, and as he did so, his hand
came into contact with the rope looped around
it. In a split second, it was off the knob and he
was whirling it.
When the tasselled end splayed across Ben's face,
it blinded him for a moment; and then he gave
a great gasp as the rope came round his neck.
Having to use his two hands in a struggle to release
himself from its grip, he was borne to the
floor.
Kneeling on Ben, and his face like the devil's, his
mouth wide, his teeth clenched, his eyes seeming
to stare from his head, Crane-Boulder pulled the
crossed rope tight...
On the first sight of Ben, the paralysing faintness
brought on by fear left Millie and she had crawled
from the bed and stood transfixed, watching the
struggle. But now it seemed that all the fight had
gone out of Ben and that he was on the point of
dying. Looking wildly about her for some implement
she might use, she could see nothing, apart from the
hand-basin on the wash-hand stand. It was a large
basin. It held no water, and the jug wasn't in it.
As she grabbed it up, she was instantly aware that
Crane-Boulder had taken off the rope and had picked
up the knife that had dropped from Ben's hand, and
she screamed as she saw him raise it above Ben's
head. It was as he brought the knife down, his aim
just missing Ben's own neck but striking his shoulder,
that she crashed the basin on to his head.
It stunned him, but at the same time her action
would have toppled her had she not fallen against
his back. When he made an effort to straighten up
and shake her off, she pulled herself away and,
lifting the basin again and using all her strength,
she brought it down once more on his head. This
time the action not only split the basin in two
but also brought the blood flowing through his
hair.
The pieces had dropped from her hands, and now
she was staggering back, watching him toppling
to the side. He seemed to go slowly, or perhaps
she was imagining it; but she wasn't imagining
that Ben had now raised his head and was gasping
for breath.
She rushed to his side, crying, 'Oh, Ben, Ben.'
'Mill ... Millie.'
He turned his head to look at his left arm where
his coat and shirt were ripped from the shoulder to
the elbow, and at the blood still running freely and
flowing over his wrist on to his hands.
She helped him to his feet, but he stood swaying
for a moment before he could gasp: 'The knife.'
She picked it up from where it lay near the
prostrate form.
For a matter of seconds Ben stood staring at the
man: then, clutching at her arm, he muttered, 'Come
on.'
On the landing, she had to steady him before they
made their way to the stair-head.
When they reached the bottom, she murmured
fearfully, 'There'll be others about, Ben. There'll be
others about.'
'No... there won't. There won't. Come on. Come
on.'
He pushed open the door into the first hall, to
see Nell standing some way from the grotesque and
blood-covered body of the man who had been her
master for years, and as Ben staggered towards her,
holding Millie with one arm, she said, 'My God!
Ben, you did it thoroughly. Eeh! my God!'
Then she added sharply, 'Come on! Get out of this
before they murder you.'
'What... what about you?'
'I can take care of meself. I'll have a tale ready.'


And she did sound in control of herself.
They were passing through the kitchen when she
looked at the scantily clad young girl, and she said,
'You can't go out like that. Wait a minute.'
She pulled what looked like an antimacassar from
the back of the big chair set in the corner of the room,
and she was putting it round Millie's shoulders when
her head went up and she said, 'Oh God above!'
Then without another word, she gripped them both
and pushed them towards a door while hissing at
them. 'Don't make a move. Stay still! Still! I'm
telling you.'
Millie knew they were in some kind of a cupboard
as her foot came in contact with what she
recognised as a broom. She had her arms around
Ben and he had his uninjured arm around her
shoulders holding her tight against him as they
now listened to Nell's voice, saying,. 'Oh! am I
glad to see you, Rosie. There's been hell to pay
here. They've got her.'
'The lass?'
'Aye. Four or five of them. I think it was five.
I'm not sure. They scared me to death. An'... an'
they've done Slim in.'
"Wh . . . at!"
'Yes; dead as a door-nail. Now don't start an' say
you're sorry; don't be a hypocrite. But I don't know
what's happened to the one upstairs; likely he's gone
an' all. They were a terrible lot.'
'Eeh! What does it mean, Nell? The polis?'
'Don't be a bloody fool, Rosie. Get the polis in
here an' you know what would happen; they'd close us up. An' where will you go? 'cos your legs won't
take you back on the street again.'
'Was it Big Joe's lot?'
'I ... I don't know. But listen, listen carefully.
Get yourself back to Reilly's. They'll all be in the
back, but don't make any fuss, 'cos the quieter this
is kept the better for you, an' me. Yes, an' all of us.
Get Ted's eye, get him alone; an' remember, it'll be
him in charge from now on. Tell him to bring Mike
and Sonny. Tell him.., well, just say that Nell said
there's trouble, an' for them to come on their own;
there's things to be done. He'll understand. Now get
yourself away. An' stop shakin'. Everything'll be all
right. There's only one thing: he can't be found here;
it'll have to be like an outside job. As for the other
one up there, I don't know. It'll likely be the same
with him. Now go on. Go on.'
It was a full minute later when the door opened
and she pulled them into the kitchen, saying now,
'For God's sake! get yourselves away from here.
Take the long way round. Oh, lass, you need something
on your feet. Here!' She rushed to the end of
the room, picked up a pair of old slippers and helped
Millie to put them on, saying, 'They're a bit big but
better than nothin'. Now go on. For God's sake! go
on. If you were found they'd do for me straight off,
'cos nobody gets in here except through me.'
She took them to the back door and thrust them
into the yard, saying, 'Keep to the side ways, else
that blood'll give you away or bring a polis on you,
that's if the sight of her doesn't.'
After the brightness of the kitchen, and in spite
of the indifferent light from the window, outside in
the yard seemed very dark, and Ben muttered, 'Hang
on to my coat,' and thrust his arm out towards the
wall and guided them to the gateway and so into the
lane. When they reached the road the light from the
few lamps made it appear almost like twilight. And
now he began to stumble more quickly forward,
while she shuffled beside him, trying to keep the
slippers on her feet.
It was fortunate it was a Sunday and that there
were few people in the streets; even the side road
and alleys were clear, apart from urchins gathered
in doorways; and these presented no danger to them,
for at that moment they must have looked like two
individuals no better off than themselves.
When he fell against her she had to gather all her
strength to support him, and she muttered, 'Oh, Ben,
Ben, don't fall,' and she half dragged him towards a
wall, and he leant against it, his head drooping as
he endeavoured to recover himself; and when she
begged, 'Try, Ben. Try; it isn't far now,' he muttered
something and dragged himself away from the wall,
and they went stumbling on.
It was Millie who had to push open the gates,
and as they made their way across the yard towards
the light of the open door, Aggie came stumbling
towards them, crying, 'Thanks be to God! Thanks
be to God! Oh, lad, what's happened to you?
What's happened?'
'Let's in. Let's in, Aggie.'
It was only by the light of the kitchen lamp that the
sight and plight of them both became evident. Her
mouth wide and her head shaking, Aggie muttered,
'God in heaven! God in heaven!' because by now
Millie had stepped out of the slippers and dropped
her covering on to the floor, so exposing the slight
figure in the flimsy shift. And when she threw herself
into Aggie's embrace, the old woman hugged her and
rocked her, crying, 'Aw! child. Aw! child. Aw! me
poor child. God strike them down dead, every one
of them.' And Millie, her face streaming with tears,
whimpered through them, 'If it hadn't been for Ben,
Mrs Aggie. If it hadn't been for Ben... '
Ben had dropped on to the settle and Aggie,
standing over him, looked in horror at the ripped
sleeve and the blood still oozing, and she exclaimed,
'Oh, dear God! Let's have your coat off, lad, and see
the damage.'
Being relieved of his coat brought no sound from
Ben, but when Aggie went to take his shirt off, the
frayed ends of which were sticking here and there
to the torn flesh, he groaned aloud. And when the
extent of the damage was exposed, he turned his
head to look at it.
Millie and Aggie were looking at the arm with
amazement that was tinged with fear, both aghast,
and it was Millie who said, 'He should have the
doctor. It'll have to be sewn.' What Aggie muttered,
was, 'Another inch higher, lad, and it would have
started at your gullet, an' that would have been that.
My God! Look at the length of it.'
'Well, it was me own knife. It had worked well
on Boswell.'
'Did Boswell do that?'
'No, no; the knife had put the finishing touches
to him before I went upstairs and met the gentleman
... Oh, what did you do with the knife,
Millie?'
'I stuck it in your pocket. Look, it's still there.'
She pointed.
'The gentleman, you said? Who?'
Ben glanced wearily at Millie and she, bowing her
head, said, 'Mr Crane.'
'You mean Boulder-Crane? Where you went to
the party?'
Millie made no reply; but her head drooped
further and Aggie exclaimed, 'Oh, my God! lass. My God! And when did this happen? When did he
get at you?'
'Mrs Aggie, please.' Millie was covering her face
with her hands as she rocked herself from side
to side. 'I'll ... I'll tell you all about it later,
but...' She became still and, aiming to be calm,
she exclaimed, 'We must see to Ben's arm, it needs
bandaging. Will... will I get a sheet?'
'Aye, lass, aye. Can you make the stairs? Are you
all right? An' put something on.'
As Millie ran from the room, Aggie thrust the
kettle into the heart of the fire, saying, 'That'll have
to be cleaned out before any bandage goes on it. Aw,
lad, it seems a miracle that you're alive an' that she's
back here again.'
'You never said a truer word, Aggie.' His voice
was weary. 'Never a truer word... Give me a drop
of something, will you?'
'Oh, yes, lad, yes. I don't know where I am. I've
been out of me mind.' I
She went to the corner shelf on which the gin bottle
was kept and poured a generous measure into a glass..
And when he threw it off without even a shudder,,
she said, 'I'll get some whisky in, lad. I'll get some
whisky in for you. An' look; you can't sit like that.
Come over to the couch and lie down.'
He didn't need a second bidding and stumbled
towards the couch, but as he was about to lie down
Aggie said, 'Put your head towards the foot, lad; it'll
be better to get at your arm. I'll pack you up with
pillows at that end.'
He lay down as Aggie had bidden, his arm over
the edge of the couch; but the blood began to
drip from his fingers on to the floor, and Aggie
pulled a towel from the rail and wrapped it roughly
round his hand.
When Millie came back into the room she was
wearing a dress, a short woollen jacket, and a pair of
her own slippers on her bare feet. While she tore up
the sheet, Aggie gently washed the gash that started
at Ben's shoulder and went down to the front of his
elbow. But the bathing with hot water, which made
him grind his teeth, brought the blood flowing more
quickly from different parts of the gash; and when
Millie said, 'I think we'd better tie it up tight,' Aggie
agreed: 'Aye, lass, aye, we'd better,' she said.
It was as they were finishing the bandaging that
there came a knock on the outer door. They all
looked at each other for a moment, and when the
fear leapt back into Millie's face Ben said heavily, 'I
know who that'll be. It'll be Annie.'
A minute later, Aggie opened the door, to see
Annie standing in the light of a lamp held by a
man; and Annie said to her: 'I just wondered, Mrs
Winkowski, if ... if he had got back. Mr Burton,
here, was kind enough to bring me round.'
'Come in. Come in both of you.'
As she closed the door on them, Aggie said,
'Aye, he's here, what's left of him. Go in and see
for yourself.'
When Annie stood by the couch looking down at
this man who was her friend but whom she held in
her heart as something more, she said simply, 'It was
bad, then, Ben?'
'Aye, it was pretty bad, Annie. But thanks to you
and Nell, she's here.' He lifted his eyes towards
where Millie was standing near the table and ended,
'She's back.'
Annie looked at the thin, but beautiful, white
faced girl who, since she was a child, had captivated
the heart of her friend, the girl who had changed
him from a lover into a friend, and she looked
back at Ben and said under her breath, 'I hope you
were in time.'
'I hope so, too, Annie. Aye, I hope so, too.'
'Is your arm very bad?'
'He did a good job on it.'
Annie now turned to Aggie, saying, 'Mr Burton,
here, looks after accidents in the factory, things that
don't need the doctor. Perhaps he could help. You
would, wouldn't you, Alfred?'
Alfred nodded, saying, 'Aye, only too pleased to'
'Well, we've bandaged it up now,' said Aggie;
'thanks all the same; but by the look of it I think
it'll have to be stitched.'
'Well, if it's a bad gash, missis, it should be done
as soon as possible.'
'Aye, perhaps; but I can't see old Wheatley comin'
out tonight even for the Queen, 'cos as it's said,
and truthfully, he's tight most of the day, but
paralytic after six.'
'He's got a new assistant now,' said Alfred Burton,
'and he's a good fella. He comes round The Courts
and he doesn't ask for his tanner before enterin' a
house. And 'tis said, if they can't pay he'll come
back, not like old Wheatley. This one, he would
come out all right.'
Ben's voice broke in on them now, saying, 'Leave
it. Leave it. Tomorrow will be soon enough. All I
want to do now...' he paused, then ended, 'is sleep.'
Then as he closed his eyes he said, 'Thanks, Annie.
I'll owe you till the day I die.'
Annie turned quickly away, and as she passed
Millie she stopped and said quietly, 'I'm glad you've
got back, lass.' And Millie said softly, 'I say with
Ben, I'll ... I'll owe you, too, till the day I die.
Yes; yes, I will.'
Without further words, Annie turned to go, and
her companion nodded to Millie, saying, 'Good
night, lass,' and she answered, 'Good night, Mr
Burton.' Then they went out of the room, followed
by Aggie.
Left with Ben, Millie went and knelt by the
couch again, and, gently touching the hand that
was protruding from the rough bandages and lying
across his waist, she said, 'Oh, Ben; I daren't think,
I just daren't think what would have happened if she
hadn't come to tell you.'
Ben still had his eyes closed when he said, 'Or what
would have happened, lass, if Nell hadn't gone to her
first and given her the message to bring to me. We
must never forget Nell. D'you hear?' His voice trailed
away; 'Never forget Nell. Now go to bed. Be a good
lass, go to bed.'
On his last words Aggie came back into the room,
and she repeated them, saying, 'He's right, lass, get
yourself upstairs to bed and we'll talk the morrow.'
Millie walked over and stood before the old
woman and asked softly, 'Will you come up soon?'
'Aye, lass; I'll be up soon, but I'll stay a while
with--' and she indicated Ben's slumped figure,
but the next moment she almost overbalanced as
Millie threw herself once more into her arms, whimpering
now, 'I'm still afraid. Don't ever let me
leave you and Ben again. Will you promise me,
promise you'll not ever let me leave you? I ...
I don't want to move out of this house, ever,
ever.'
'Stop it! Now stop it. It's all over. You need fear
no more. Go on, get yourself upstairs. Nobody can
touch you up there. Nobody can get past me.'
Millie reached up and kissed the flabby cheek, then
went to the couch and looked down on Ben who lay
with his eyes closed. She bent down and stroked his
cheek gently with her fingers before going slowly
from the room.
The door had hardly closed on her before Ben
said, 'They'd get past you all right, Aggie, if they
knew it was me who killed their boss, and that
delicate lookin' lass just gone and done for their
rich client. It's been a night. Odd, when you come
to think of it, isn't it? But we could both swing for
killin' two pieces of vermin, because that's all they
were, vermin. When I jumped on him I wasn't seeing
a man, not in either case, just a big sewer rat, a big
sewer rat... '
'Go to sleep, lad. Go to sleep. 'Tis over. Things'll
be different now.'
ELEVEN


Aggie was worried, Ben was feverish, and they were
waiting for the doctor. When the gate-bell rang Aggie
went through the other room and glanced out of the
window facing the yard before going out, because
she was still taking no chances of seeing a stranger
there. But when she glimpsed the uniform of Sergeant
Fenwick she rushed as quickly as she could back into
the kitchen, saying to Millie, 'Cover his arm up. Tuck
the blanket under his chin; it's the sergeant. I can say
he's got a cold because there's nobody quicker than
him for putting two and two together, and, as good
as he is, he's still the law.'
She went out again, shambled across the frozen
yard, opened the gate and said, 'Well! well! you're
early. What have I done now?'
'Nothing that I am aware of yet, Aggie. How are
you?'
'Oh, just gettin' over a bout of cold, and I've
passed it on to Ben, I think. He's in a low state
with it.' She was slithering back over the yard now
as she said, 'What brings you here this morning'?'
'I have a bit of news for you. I don't know whether
you'll think it's sad or otherwise.'
'Well, come on in and let me have it.' She stood
aside until he was in the room, then closed the door,
while he waited for her to precede him into the
kitchen; and there, he looked from Ben, lying covered
up to the chin, to Millie, at the fire poking it into a
blaze, and it was to her he spoke first: 'Ah, you've
got back then?' he said; then, turning to Ben, he
apologised, 'I'm sorry about your message. I didn't
get it until this morning. It was my day off yesterday
and he should have told you. I had a word with him,
a strong word. He should have put somebody else on
it. Anyway, where did you get to?'
Before Millie could answer Aggie said, 'She got
lost on the road after visiting a friend, but she
happened to come across one of her teachers, you
know, in the night schools. An' she took her in an'
let her stay there for the night, but there was no
way she could let us know. She got the length of
me tongue when she came in, I can tell you, puttin'
everybody to so much trouble.'
The sergeant was looking hard at Millie now and
he said, 'By! it looks as though she did go for
you, Millie; you're looking very peaked. You got
a cold an' all?'
'I suppose so. It... It's catching.'
He kept his eyes hard on her for a moment before
he said, 'Well, I've come with some news. It concerns
you mostly, I should say, and I don't know how
you're going to receive it.'
As she put her hand to her throat Ben stirred on
the couch and made to turn on his side, but Aggie,
tucking the clothes tight under his chin, said, 'Now
you lie quiet. Whatever it is, you lie quiet.'
'Your father's dead.'
Millie's hand moved slowly from her throat and
now fell on to the edge of the table, which she
gripped as if to steady herself, and the sergeant
said, 'Well, I didn't think there was much love lost
between you, but you never know in these cases;
blood is thicker than water.'
'How ... how did he go?' It was Aggie asking
the question, and he answered her." 'Not very nicely,
I'm afraid. He was found in the canal. We think
he must have been attacked; it didn't seem to
be robbery, because he still had a few shillings
in his pocket and one or two other things that
you might want to collect, such as a couple of
brooches.' He paused here, then said, 'He hadn't
been long in the water ... well I mean, not a
matter of days; hours I would say. One of my men
recognised him by the scar on his face, otherwise
there was nothing on him in writing to prove who
he was. And I went down and verified that he
was the same man who had said he was your
father.'
Millie had dropped on to a chair, and Ben had
turned slowly on to his back again: but then immediately
stiffened slightly as the sergeant added,
'And he wasn't the only one that had to be identified.
Slim Boswell was murdered last night, and that was
a straightforward murder: he had his throat slit. of course, a lot of people have been wishing that should have happened sooner. What d'you say, Ben? You
never liked Boswell, did you?'
Ben pulled a breath up from his chest before he
muttered, 'Tell me who did.'
'Oh, you're right there. Then there was another
body found, not ... not quite dead, but he's in
hospital. He is a well-known mill owner, the Mr
Crane-Boulder, and no other. He'd had his head
split open just when he must have been coming
out of his club because he was found in the back
alley next to it, and that appeared to be a plain,
straightforward robbery because he was stripped of
everything except his suit. They even took his boots.
Strange how these things happen, and all about the
same time. Three bodies found in a matter of as
many hours, or nearly so. It was funny about
Boswell, and Mr Crane-Boulder though, because
between you and me and a number of other people
in the town Mr Crane-Boulder was not unknown to visit Mr Slim Boswell and his establishment, and,
too, that of another gentleman who goes under
the name of Big Joe. But then if we were to run
in all the well-known men of the town who take
their amusement in diverse ways, our gaols would be full. What d'you say, Aggie?'
'Well, you seem to know best, sergeant, you seem to know best - it's your business - but I'm no
hypocrite an' all I can say is, Boswell's got his due at last. As for the other one, well, strikes me that those that visit them places are all tarred with the
same brush.'
'Yes, you're right, you're right. But if he manages
to come round, he'll be able to give us some explanation,
at least, as to how he was brained. That's if,
of course, he saw his assailant.'
'Oh, my goodness!' The exclamation came from
Millie, who had lowered her head on to her outstretched
arms on the table, and as the sergeant
watched Aggie put an arm around the girl's shoulder,
urging her: 'Come on, love, go on upstairs for a while
and lie down,' he said, 'I'm sorry, it's all my talk
about murders and such, and young people have
weak stomachs. And she wasn't looking very well
to begin with. Anyway, I'll be on my way before
I cause any more damage, but I'll be looking in
again. I'll likely want her' - he was nodding to
Millie now - 'to receive his belongings, at least'
he paused - 'what we think might belong to him.'
He now glanced towards Ben, saying, 'I hope you'll
'soon be on your feet, Ben. Colds are nasty things.
I'll let myself out, Aggie. Don't worry.'
As he made for the door they all heard the gate-bell
ring again and he, smiling at her, remarked, 'It's
visitors' morning.'
'It'll be the doctor.'
'The doctor?' He widened his eyes at her.
'Aye, for Ben.'
'For a cold? My! my! you do look after your stray
lambs, Aggie. Well, I hope he soon gets over it. If it's
old Partridge he'll have him out of there in no time.'
When she opened the door and looked across
the yard, she said, 'Well, 'tisn't old Partridge; this must be the new one. Stevens they call him. They
say he's good.'
'Yes. Yes, I've heard something about him, the
new type they're breeding now. Works for nothin'
at times, so I hear. Well, he won't get fat on that.
He'll learn. Like us all, Aggie, eh? he'll learn.'
'You've taken a long time.'
He said nothing, only smiled at her, and when they
reached the gate, it was he who greeted the doctor,
saying, 'Good mornin', doctor.' Then laughing, he
added, 'You've got a very sick man awaiting you in
there; he's got a cold.'
'Is that so, sergeant? Well, then I'll have to see
0 what I can do for him.'
'And while you're there I would have a look at the youngster, too, because I think she's sickenin' for something; probably picked it up when she
went missing. Goodbye, Aggie. As I said, I'll be
callin' in in a day or two to see Millie. I hope she's a lot better by then. You'll have to stop her
getting lost.'
Aggie said nothing, but her mind was galloping: he's got wind of something, he has, he has. She
closed the gate on him, then turned to Doctor Stevens, saying, 'I'm sorry to have had to trouble
you, doctor, but it isn't just a cold. Anyway, step
inside 'cos it'll freeze you out here.'
As she was leading him through the first room, he said, 'Well, if my coming patient hasn't got a cold I think you have, and you really shouldn't be outside
in this weather.'
'Oh, I've never died of winter yet, doctor,' she
countered, at the same time gently patting his arm
and indicating he should stop; then, lowering her
voice, she explained, 'The young man in there hasn't
got much of a cold, but I think he's got a fever, and
it's from a wound he's received. You know what the
polis is' - she thumbed now towards the yard and the
now-departed sergeant - 'the least they know the less
trouble they can cause. Although he's a good one,
they're few and far between. Now, about Ben, that's
the young man you're goin' to see, Ben Smith. I've
looked after him since he was a lad. Now he's got
into a little trouble, but it's the kind of trouble that
has to be kept under your hat, so I hope, doctor,
I can trust you not to say anythin' about what's
happened to him. I know it's a large order, because
we've never met before, but what I hear of you is all
to the good. So, that's why I feel I can ask you to
keep your mouth shut.'
'Well, Mrs...'
'Winkowski's the name. It's a mouthful.'
'Well, Mrs Winkowski, like priests, we're used to
keeping our mouths shut unless we're offending the
law, and even then we do stretch the limit at times.
And if you've heard about me, I've also heard about
you, and not only about the boy you mothered but
also the girl, who, you say, or I mean ... er, the
sergeant says, went missing.'
'Aye. Aye, she did. It's a complicated story and
some day, when we know each other better, I'll tell
you the ins and outs of it. But at the moment, I'd like you to have a look at his arm. I'm not happy
about it. So, will you come this way?'
In the kitchen, the young doctor looked first at
the man on the couch, then at the girl sitting at the
table, and his eyes remained on her for a time before
he looked again at his new patient. Then, putting his
black bag on the table, he went to the couch and said,
'Hello, there. Now what's the trouble?'
Ben was sweating and his face was flushed and
his return greeting was brief: 'Hello,' he said.
Aggie pushed a chair forward, and the doctor sat
down; then, pulling the cover from under Ben's chin
to disclose the blood-stained bandaged arm, he said,
'Oh, I see. Well, now, we'll have to have that off,
won't we; I mean, the bandage.' He gave a short
laugh now and Ben answered, 'I hope you're right.'
When the arm was bared, the young doctor looked
at the long ragged gash, then muttered, 'My! my!'
before turning to Aggie and saying, 'Could I have
some boiled water, please? I want it boiled.'
'In a jiffy, doctor, in a jiffy; the kettle's on.'
Turning to Millie, he said, 'Have we any more
clean sheeting?'
Without answering, she went straight to the sideboard
drawer and brought out a number of strips.
Taking one from her, the young man folded it into
a pad, lifted out a bottle from his bag and, again
addressing Millie, said, 'A clean basin, please.'
When she returned from the scullery Aggie was
already standing by him with the kettle of boiling
water. After pouring some liquid from the bottle
into the basin, he half-filled it with the boiling
water and put in the pad of linen. Then, his fingers
moving quickly against the heat, he squeezed this
and, looking down on Ben, said, 'This might sting a
bit here and there, but we've got to have this wound
cleaned. And don't worry if it starts to bleed again.
When did it happen?'
'Last night.'
'Oh, last night. Then you should have sent for me
sooner. Why didn't you?'
Before Ben could answer Aggie put in, 'Well,
it being' Sunday, doctor, and I knew old Doctor
Wheatley wouldn't thank me for rousin' him on a
Sunday night.'
When the doctor again muttered something which
Aggie interpreted as 'or at any other time', she made
no comment, for she might have been mistaken.
'I'll have to sew this, you know.'
'I expected that.'
'It's some length and it's not goin' to be pleasant.'
'I didn't think it would.'
'You should really have gone to the hospital.'
Ben said nothing.
The cleaning of the wound over, the doctor went
to his bag again and, taking out a small case, he
extracted from it a needle and a length of what
looked like thickish thread. Then, addressing Aggie,
he said, 'Have you any spirits about?'
'I've only got gin, but I mean to get some whisky
in. I do, 'cos he's not partial to gin.'
'Well, gin will have to do.'
After Ben had drunk half a mug of gin, the
business of sewing up his wound began. It was a
long process; but he made no sound during it. And
when the doctor at last cut off the thread from the
end of the wound, he said, 'Well, you've stood that
all right, and it certainly wasn't a straightforward
business. Doubtless the gin helped. Now I'm going
to bandage it, but lightly. Don't worry if some blood
oozes through; that will be caused by the cleansing.
But this business certainly hasn't done you any good;
you've got a fever on you, so what I want you to
do until I pop in again, which could be later this
evening, is to lie as still as you can in order to rest
that arm. And I can see you've got two good nurses
here. Now don't baulk at being spoon-fed for the
next day or two, because I don't want you to exert
yourself. You understand?'
He smiled down on Ben, but received no comment
on his statement, for Ben was feeling as he had never
done in his life before: there was a weakness on him
as if he had been trying to shift a heavy load, and
an excruciating pain was spreading from his arm
through his whole body. At this present moment he
wouldn't have minded if he died.
On his way out, the doctor said to Aggie, 'You're
going to have a sick man on your hands for the next
few days... Was he in a fight?'
'You could say that, doctor, you could say that.'
As he shook his head and made to step out of the
door, he turned to her again and said, 'The young
girl? She looks ill. Has she been ill?'
'No, not really, doctor.'
'What do you mean, not really? Does she have the
consumption?'
'Oh, no, no, nothin' like that. She had a bit
of a shock. She heard this mornin' from the sergeant
who just went out that her father was found
in the canal.'
'Good gracious! Good gracious! And I hear there
was a murder and an attempted murder last night,
and over the week-end I signed a death certificate
for five children, and there'll likely be more today.
Are you a praying woman?'
'No, I'm not, doctor.'
'I thought you wouldn't be. Well, as a matter of
fact, I'm not a praying man either, especially when
I look at the churches and the chapels and all these
supposed good folk hurrying into them to have
words with their God, asking Him to keep them
living comfortably, never mind about those being
turned out of their hovels for not paying their rent
because they let themselves live in stench and among
vermin, having brought it on themselves through
gin.' He grinned at her now as he repeated, 'Yes,
gin. But they don't say why they drink, what drives
them to gin, do they, Mrs Winkowski?'
He now poked his face towards her, still grinning,
and she replied, 'No, they don't, doctor, an' I'll not
take your remarks to meself, either. I'll only say I'll
be pleased to see you any time, even when I don't
need your ministrations and have to pay you for
poisoning me with your pills.'
He laughed openly now, saying, 'Get back indoors,
else my next visit will be to see you and to
sound that chest of yours. And that wouldn't be a bad idea at any time.'
She watched him stride across the yard, a young
virile man, and ironically she thought, God's good,
before turning indoors again.

It was two days later. The young doctor had paid
three visits and had said that, although the arm was
doing nicely and showing no signs of gangrene or
undue inflammation, Ben had lost a great deal of
blood, and, consequently, couldn't expect to recover
straightaway. But being the kind of man he was,
Aggie felt he was just trying to allay their fears.
She had sat up the previous night with Ben and she'd been on her feet all day. Millie had
insisted that she should go to bed and that tonight
she would sit in the basket chair by the side of the couch.
She had bathed Ben's forehead and his chest. His
body was bare to the waist, for it was impossible to get a shirt on to him. He had been dozing, but
now his eyes were open wide and, looking at her,
he muttered, 'Millie.'
'Yes, Ben? Yes, I'm here. What is it?'
'I... I feel rotten.'
'I know you do, Ben, I know you do. But you'll
soon be better. It's the fever; it will soon go.'
'Fevers don't often go... Millie, unless they take
you with them.'
'Please, please, Ben.' Her face was twisted up
now with grief at the thought of What his words
portended. 'Don't talk like that. You'll be all right
in a couple of days.'
'I ... I hope so. Sit down.'
She sat down and reached out for his good hand,
which she stroked as she said, 'Oh, Ben, Ben, don't
ever talk like that, or think like that, because' - she
half rose from her seat and leant over him - 'I... I
couldn't go on without you. I know that now. I've
been mad, stupid, and I brought you to near death.
Ben, don't.., don't ever leave me.'
'Millie, do... ' He now started to cough. It tore
at his chest, and she took a piece of linen and cleaned
round his mouth, and he laid his head back and drew
in an agonising breath before he spoke again, saying,
'Do you know what you've just said?'
'Yes. Yes, Ben, I know what I said. I... I--' She
tried to smile now as she added, 'Mrs Sponge would
have me say, I know what I've indicated. Oh, Ben,
Ben. You'll get well. You must get well, because I
need you. I'll always need you; I know that now.'
The sweat was running down his face, and after
she had again wiped it away, he lay looking upwards;
then with an effort, he said, 'There ...
there are good moments in everybody's life. I think
this is mine.' But then, turning his head slowly
on the pillow, he murmured, 'But if I was ...
standin' ... before you ... as tall as I could in
me boots, even then I ... I'd be a small man ....
what then?'
Her voice was low but firm as she answered him:
'You will never be a small man to me, Ben. I shall
always see you as a big man, and the best of all men.
I know that you love me, and have for some time,
but I didn't know that I loved you, and have for some
time, too. I was still in the throes of the Brothers
Grimm fairy-tales and I thought a prince had come
riding out for me. I was so blind and stupid. I ...
I didn't know the prince was already right here in
the kitchen. So, Ben, you.., you believe me?'
He looked at her for a long moment, before he
said, 'I... I want to, Millie. Oh, aye, I want to, but
... let's face facts.., say I don't.., make it...?'
'Ben. Please.'
'No; listen. Say that I don't.., then I want you
to get out of this hole. You can make.., a very...
good living in bakery. I... I've been thinkin' about
it ... for a long time. Pratts ... the baker in ...
Oswald Road. He's... he's selling. He's old. Aggie ... Aggie's got more.., than a tiny bit put by... I
know that. She'll... she'll get it for you.., go with
you. Nice place.., garden and house above. Seen it.'
'Lie quiet, dear. Lie quiet. Here, drink this.' She
took a glass from the table and, holding his head up
from the pillow, she helped him to drink.
'Now... now go to sleep.'
'Millie. Do... do what I... I say... Promise?'
'Yes. Yes, Ben, I promise. But, we'll all go... to
Mr Pratt's.'
The tears were now running down her face as she
sat watching him having to drag at each breath, and
just as when lying in that lush bed, she had thought
of Sister Cecilia's words, and had even prayed to her,
she was again calling to her as if to God, imploring
her to keep Ben alive.
What time she fell asleep, she did not know, but
she woke to find the lamp almost gutted and the fire
low, and she scurried to replenish the light and then
to put a blazer to the fire.
When she returned to the couch, Ben seemed to
be asleep. But was he? Her heart seemed to jerk: the
bedclothes weren't heaving up and down. Almost in
panic now, she thrust her hand under the blanket
and on to his chest, and when she felt the steady
beat she almost fell across him. Then she had to
press her hand over her mouth to stop herself
gabbling: 'Oh Ben, Ben. Oh, Ben, Ben. You're going
to be all right.'

Doctor Stevens said the patient must have passed the
crisis during the night and that now he needed only
rest and nursing and his bandages renewed; that he
wouldn't need a doctor's attention again unless he
had a relapse, which he doubted would happen.
When he said goodbye, Ben, looking up at him,
said, 'If ever there's anything I can do for you, you've
only got to ask,' and the doctor laughingly answered,
'That's a foolish thing to say. The times I've heard
people say that and later regret it.' He turned to
Millie, adding, 'And now, my young nurse, it'll be
you I'll have to come and visit next if you don't get
out and put some roses into those cheeks of yours.
Alabaster's all right on marble, but it doesn't portend
good health.'
Aggie was quick to answer for her, saying, 'She'll
be all right now. We'll all be all right now. Thanks
to you. How much do I owe you?'
'Well, shall we say, five shillings?'
'Yes, you can.'
She went to the cash box on the sideboard and
took out two crowns which she handed to him; and
he, looking at them, said, 'Oh, but... I'
'If you had said a pound a visit, doctor, I would
have doubled it in any case.'
'You are very kind. By' - he poked his head
towards her - 'I'd be able to retire at the end of
the year if everybody paid up like this, especially in
The Courts.'
She laughed now, and even Millie laughed, while
Ben smiled.
After seeing the young man out, Aggie returned to
the kitchen and she nodded from one to the other,
saying, 'Some men are born to make their mark, and
there goes one of them.'
It wasn't half an hour later when there came a
knock on the outer door.
Up till now, Millie had not once attempted to
go and answer a knock, or the gate-bell; and she
made no move to do so now. So it was Aggie who
shuffled through the room, and she was smiling at
something Ben had said; but the smile was wiped
off her face by the sight of the man standing
there.
Bernard Thompson doffed his hat, then got as far
as saying, 'Mrs Winkowski,' when Aggie said, 'And
what d'you want here?'
'I... I felt that I must.., well, that I must come
and give some sort of... explanation and ... and
find out how Millie is faring?'
'Oh, you're interested in how Millie is faring, are
you? Well, you'll be pleased to know she's alive, and
as far as I can gather she still remains untouched...
if you know what I mean.'
She watched the colour flood over his face and his
head lower before he said, 'I'm... I'm terribly sorry.
It was a misunderstanding. I... I thought... '
'Aye, I'm well aware, sir, of what you thought,
and of what you thought I thought. Well, you were
wrong in both cases, mine and hers. And let me
tell you this, sir, there's a lot of scum lives along
in these Courts, but they're nothin' compared to
your breed. You think you can come down here
and take up a lass as beautiful as Millie, and as
innocent - aye, as innocent - and use her, like your
brother-in-law did.'
His chin went up, his eyes narrowed, and he said,
'What do you mean, my brother-in-law did?'
'Oh, don't tell me that you've known him all these years and not realised what he's been up to? An'
what did you think when she ran from you? Where
did she run?'
'She took a cab. My neighbour, who was coming
from the opposite direction, had to move aside to
allow the cab to pass him. And when I stopped and enquired if his coachman had seen her, he said she
ad stopped the cab. So ... well, I imagined she
would be all right.'
'Hell's bells! You imagined she'd be all right.
An' you know whose cab it was? She stopped it
all right, but when she saw who was in it she
ran. But he was wily: he let her run into a load
of drunks; and then he was supposed to have
rescued her. He rescued her all right, an' took
her to his brothel, the dirty whore-master that he
is; or was, because, I suppose like everybody else,
you'll have heard that he got his throat cut. An'
I say whoever did it should have a medal pinned
on him.' Now she thrust her face close to his.
'And you know who he pinched her for? Who
he kept her for, locked up for almost two days,
eh? Your brother-in-law. A special tit-bit for your
brother-in-law.'
"You must be mistaken."
'Mistaken, be buggered! From her own lips I got
it. He gave her the choice of having him or being
shipped off by Boswell.'
He stepped back from her: 'I still can't believe
it. Anyway, my brother-in-law was attacked outside
his club.'
'Huh! They can move bodies quickly, that lot. He
was attacked all right.., by a gang that went in to
save her. It was a big gang of honest men, but let
him come round and open his mouth, and I'm tellin'
you this country, for that matter, wouldn't be able
to hold him.'
She watched him now close his eyes and droop
his head before he said, 'Oh my God!'
'Aye, you can say, oh my God! but it was through
you that all this happened. You wanted a mistress,
well, why couldn't you go and take one of the lasses
off the street? Boswell and Big Joe had a lot to choose
from, an' they know the ropes. But no, you wanted
somebody clean and innocent. All your family seems
to be tainted with one filthy brush.'
He almost shouted at her now as he remonstrated,
'Don't you dare say that! I have no connection with
that man. He is my half-sister's husband. I have
never liked him, and I've always suspected--' He
stopped now and turned his head to the side; then
after a moment he was looking at her again, and
in a more level tone he said, 'I apologise for all I
have done and surmised. I was wrong. So, will you
let me see Millie?'
'Yes, I'll let you see Millie, if you knock me
down and walk over me. That's about the only way
you'll see Millie.'
'I mean no harm by her ... please! In fact
I mean... '
'I know what you mean. But if you were seem'
Millie this minute, you wouldn't see the lass that
ran from your house and you. She's gone, never to
return. What she went through with you an' them
will last her to her grave. Now, sir, get yourself away
from my door an' don't let me see you here again.'
And on this she stepped back and banged the door
in his face; then stood supporting herself against it for a full minute before she could allow herself to go
back into the kitchen.
'Who was that?' Millie laid aside the rolling pin
with which she had been pressing the pastry on a
floured board.
'Oh.' Aggie had to gather her wits about her now:
lying to that one about who had rescued her lass was
one thing, but to hoodwink Millie was another. 'It
was a fella with some tale about havin' heard that
I was thinkin' about sellin' up. He said we had
stopped the baking business, an' the taggerine lot,
so he wanted to know what I was goin' to do;
was I going to sell? He said he would give me a
good price.'
'What ... what does he want it for?' Ben now
asked.
'A little factory, I think. You know there was talk
of pulling half The Courts down to make houses for
the new intake of workers, Irish, Scots, Jews, the lot.
Well, he wants to make this into a... '
'What does he want to make it into?' Millie was
drying her hands now on a damp towel while
staring at her.
'Well, as I said, a sort of little factory, and the
house to live in; I should imagine, this one.'
'Where would he build a factory here?'
'He could turn the stables and outhouses into one,
couldn't he? Anyway, what does it matter? I sent him
off with a flea in his ear.'
Millie looked at her hard, then turned about and
went into the scullery, and there she stood looking
out of the small window on to the patch of grass
that seemed never to be green. For a moment she
had thought she heard his voice, as if he was calling
loudly. But the only time she could remember his
raising his voice was when he shouted to the horse.
For a moment, she had felt sure it was him. What
would have happened if it had been and she had
opened the door?
Nothing would have brought her any comfort,
because she would have told him exactly what she
thought: because of him, she had been exposed to
a terror that no-one should experience, not a child,
nor girl, nor a woman. And because of him, Ben had
become a murderer and almost lost his life.
And she? Well, she didn't know yet if she, too,
was a murderer; she only knew that it would be a
long, long time before she would fall asleep without
imagining herself on that satin and silk bed, with the
big soft hands playing over her and the sight of his
partly naked body; nor would she forget that her
mind kept telling her during that experience that
as soon as he was gone she would use the rope a
the bottom of the bed and go the way her mother
had, for only as she lay frozenly staring ahead had
she noticed that there was a hook on the door on
which to hang a dressing gown. It would hold her
weight, she was telling herself just as Ben and his enraged countenance burst into the room.
Would she have told him all that?
Yes, yes; perhaps she would. But she would have
told him something else; she would have told him that any feeling she had for him was like a mirage,
that it had faded as if it had never been.
And would that have been true?
She took up a pail of water from the floor and
emptied some into a bowl before she gave herself the
answer: Ben would eventually make it come true.
TWELVE


It was a fortnight later when the sergeant paid them
a second visit; and his first comment was to Ben,
whom he noticed was wearing a coat with an
arm in only one sleeve, the other hanging slack
on his shoulder.
'Something happened to your arm, Ben?'
'I fell on it and cracked a bone.'
'Oh, I thought it was the result of your cold.'
Both Ben and Aggie refrained from exchanging a
look, and now the sergeant turned towards Millie,
saying, 'Well, I'm glad to see one of your family looks
better. You looked like death on sticks the last time
I was here.'
'That must be an old saying, sergeant, death on
sticks. I've never heard that one before.'
'Oh, my father used to say that. It's funny where
these sayings come from. By the way, speaking of
fathers, that's why I'm here.' He lifted the bag he
was carrying and put it on the table, saying, 'These
were found on your father's person.' Then turning
and glancing at Aggie, he said, 'They followed your
instructions, I hope, with regard to the burial?'
'Yes, I understand they did that.'
He now emptied the bag on to the table and,
having moved the things around with his finger, he
pointed to a leather wallet, saying, 'There's a letter
in there to a parson's wife in Durham that might
interest you. But for the rest, there was this small
amount of money' - he moved the coins around - 'but these two brooches and this pair of gold
cuff-links and also that little tie pin: do you think
they belonged to your father?'
Millie looked at the articles on the table, then
at the sergeant, before she said sharply, 'No, except
perhaps the wallet and this small amount of
money. For the rest, I ... I suggest he must have
stolen them.'
'Well' - he raised his eyebrows - 'you're very
plain-speaking. So what d'you propose I do with
them, advertise them?'
'I don't care what you do with them, but I don't
want them.'
'Well, there's a point here: if we put word out that
these have been found, whoever claims them might
come under suspicion for doin' him in. What d'you
say to that?'
'I've got nothing to say to that, sergeant. I don't
know the ins and outs of pickpockets and thieves,
nor do I want to. The only thing I'm saying to you
is, I don't want these things.'
'Well, I'll return them to the office and let those
up above take the matter from there. My! my! the
things that have happened lately on my patch.' He
was casting his glance between Aggie and Ben now.
'Got a mob war on my hands now since Boswell
got his lot, because his crew are blaming Big Joe's.
So what have they gone and done just three days
ago? Polished one of his men off. They've even got
the ladies of the street frightened, 'cos it's bad for
business, you know.' He pulled a face now. 'Well,
all I can say is, whoever went about the business
of finishing Slim Boswell should have done the
job properly and put paid to Big Joe an' all. But
then He shrugged his shoulders as he looked at
Aggie now and added, 'The underlings would have
stepped up; they're all waitin' for the boss's shoes.
It's like every walk in life; there's always somebody
wantin' your job.'
As he nodded his head, Aggie said, 'Aye, there's
some truth in that. But as far as I can gather, I haven't
known anybody be after mine.'
He laughed outright, then countered, 'Well, in a
way, I put that down to short-sightedness. Now I
must be off.'
But he did not go immediately; he turned to Ben
and said, 'Sorry about that arm of yours, Ben. You've
seen the doctor, I suppose?'
'Yes; yes, the new one, Doctor Stevens.'
'Oh, that one. He's a good fella, as I said before,
quite popular. And what did he say about the
break?'
'Oh, that it would mend. Naturally it will take
time.'
'Yes, yes. Well, take care of yourself, and of these
two here.' He pointed from Aggie to Millie, then said, 'But there's no need for me to tell you anything
about that, is there?'
'No; I don't think so, sergeant.'
'Well, I'll be off, Aggie. By the way, I heard that
you were thinkin' of makin' a move. Now that would
be the day. Is there any truth in it?'
'You never know. You never know, sergeant.
There could be. I think it's about time I went up
in the world, don't you?'
Again he was laughing loudly, and he pushed
Aggie as she walked before him into the other
room.
Left alone, Millie looked at Ben, and in a low
voice, she said, 'Do ... do you think he guesses
anything?'
'I think he more than guesses, Millie. But what
can he do? Even if he wanted to do anything, I don't
think he does. I think he's glad to be rid of Boswell.
Oh aye. You heard him say it's a pity it wasn't Big
Joe an' all.' Then smiling wryly, he added, 'I think it
would have taken two of me to tackle Big Joe.. What
d'you think?'
She went to him and put her hand on his cheek as she said, 'You could tackle Big Joe, Ben, or anyone
else who stood in your way.'
He now touched her cheek, saying, 'I'm not going
to go into it yet, Millie, because I still can't believe it,
and what's more, you might come to your senses.'
'Oh Ben, don't say that, please.'
'You mean, you don't want to come to your
senses?' He was smiling at her now.
'I mean I'm in my senses. And, look, tell me, what's this about the baker's shop?'
'Well, you'll see for yourself. We're going there
tomorrow. She's been working pretty hard these last
few days, in the way of business.'
'But this here.., she's always lived here, and her
father and family.'
'Well, she doesn't want you to live here any
longer.'
'But I could be happy here as long as I had
you and her.'
'Millie' - he now cupped her chin - 'd'you ever
realise how beautiful you are? Don't close your
eyes and shake your head like that. You were a
beautiful child, you were a beautiful young girl,
you're a more beautiful sixteen-year-old, but when
you're a woman, I daren't think about that time.
But since you were a child you've looked like a lily
on a dung heap, set in this place. Yet I'm going
to say this, whoever you would have married I
would have been jealous of, jealous as hell. I say,
if you had married. But to have seen you become
someone's mistress, just used as a toy, that would
have driven me crazy. I would likely have ended up
doing to him what I did to Boswell. And if someone
came along tomorrow, some real man, working man
or gentleman, and you wanted to marry him, I...
I'd try to behave meself, and not stand in your way.
Of course, it would all depend upon if you wanted
to, if you really wanted to. Now, now, now!' - he
wagged his hand in front of her face - 'I'm talking sense; so, I'm not going to hold you to anything that
you promised me when you thought I was pegging
out.' He tried to chuckle, then added, 'And I did,
you know. I thought I was pegging out. I didn't like
it a bit, but there it was. I remember, though, every
word you said.., every word.'
'Oh, Ben, there's ... there's nobody like you.
There'll never be anybody... '
'I know that, the last bit, there'll never be anybody
like me again. There's not two of me in this
town.'
'Ben, please, please stop playing yourself down,
because inside yourself, you know' - now she was
wagging her hand at him - 'you are a big head. You
think yourself as good as anybody, better than the
next. Now don't you?'
Their gentle laughter joined when Aggie came
back into the room, and she added, 'Well, what's
the joke?'
'I'm telling him he's a big head and that he thinks
himself better than the next.'
'Tell me something I don't know; I've had to live
with it for years. Well now, are we goin' to get ready
and go and see this gold mine, where you're goin'
to make your fortune, miss? But don't forget, it's
goin' to be no easy job diggin', because I can tell
you something for nothing, I'm goin' to sit back
and just watch. Retiring, they call it ... to the
ladies' room.'
Ben and Millie began to laugh outright, and Millie
said, 'That was in the last story Mrs Sponge would
have read to the night class, where the women were
always retiring to the ladies' room. And remember
the man who asked for an explanation?'
'Well, what's the explanation? Tell me, 'cos I'm
as ignorant as a pig. What is the ladies' room? The
drawing-room? The boudoir?'
'No, the closet.'
They both exclaimed on the word together, and
the kitchen rang with their laughter, which not one
of them could remember ever really having happened
before, not so light-heartedly, anyway.

They had come by hired cab, and they were now
standing on the rough kerb that edged the flags set
in front of the two shop windows. They weren't
large windows, nor was the door that was set
between them, but it was a stout door, black and
weather-worn, and what set off the whole front of
the shop, too, was the strip of brass along the lower
edge of each window: inscribed on one being the
word 'Pratts', and on the other 'Confectionery'.
Aggie handed a large key to Millie, saying, 'Well,
go on, open it.' And as Millie was inserting the key
in the lock Aggie turned to the cabbie, saying, 'You'll
wait, won't you?' And he answered, 'As long as you
like, missis.'
'Well, in that case I'd throw a cover over that
animal, else it'll be stiff before we come out.'
It was almost an hour later when, standing in the
sitting-room of the house on the upper floor, Aggie
said, 'Well, what d'you think, really, lad?'
'Well, Aggie, if you want to know the truth, it's
like the opening of another world. I'm speaking for
meself, mind. But what it's like for Millie here, well,
I've no words to put into her mouth; she can express
her feelings best herself. But I think you know how
she feels.' His tone now changing, he said, 'I hope
you realise, Mrs Winkowski, that this shop and
this street is the last bastion of the "wouldn'tbes"
of this city, and touching on the fringes of the
"we've arrived" class.'
'Aye, I'm well aware of that. And as Mr Pratt
pointed out with a twinkle in his eye, he had served
both camps for many years: the ones that come
and buy from the counter, and the ones that send
their little maids, or expect it to be delivered by his
covered handcart.'
'We'll have to deliver?'
'Aye, lass,' Aggie said; 'but that'll be up to trade,
of course: if there's a demand for it. Anyway,
I've bought his little covered hand-cart. It's only
an extra large box on wheels, but light enough
for a lad to push. Now look; I'll leave you two
up here to see what you're goin' to do about
papering an' things. I must make me way downstairs.'
As she neared the door she turned and with
a mischievous grin on her face said, 'There's an
outside closet, modern, he said. Mr Pratt seemed
to be as proud of that as he was of his bake
shop.'
When the door had closed on her, Millie went
to the window again and looked down on to the
long narrow garden, and now she said quietly, 'It
is wonderful, isn't it, Ben?'
He came and stood by her shoulder and he, too,
stared down on to the garden as he said, 'Aye, it is,
Millie. It is wonderful.'
She turned and gazed at him. 'What would I have done without her, Ben? If she hadn't picked me
up that day, what would have happened to me?'
She shuddered visibly as she added, 'The same as
almost happened to me the other night. Oh, yes,
yes; that's what would have happened to me. I have
no illusions.' She bowed her head now, and she
murmured, 'Those first days, I thought the world
and everybody in it was vile, the high and the low;
then I had to remember that Mrs Aggie and you were
in it. And Annie was in it. And yes, that woman, Nell,
because without her help I'd be there now, or dead.
Yes, yes; I'd be dead.'
'Come on, come on. Don't think about it any
more. It's past, and nothin' like that can ever happen
to you again. I'll see to that, or, at least,
someone will.'
'Why... why do you say that, someone will?'
'I ... I don't really know, because ... well, yes,
I do, for while I know this house, this business is
real and that it will work out, for my own life and
yours, I'm still not sure. There's something.., well,
holding me back from hoping. But come; don't look
like that, it'll work out. No matter what happens to
you, just remember I'll always be there, or here.' He
smiled now; then taking her arm, he said, 'Come on.
She's bound to have inspected the closet, or the dry
midden, or whatever name she's going to give it, by
now. Very likely the ladies' room.'
She did not immediately respond to his touch and
follow him but stared after him for a moment as if
she were puzzled by his behaviour. However, she
wasn't to wait long before being enlightened as to
why he seemed so reluctant to take her love...

'It's hard to believe that this district isn't a mile
from The Courts.' And Ben said, 'I don't think it's
even three-quarters of a mile, that's as the crow
flies.'
'I've never seen a crow for years,' Aggie said,
laughing. 'When I was a lass they were always
hovering round the barn. Odd that, isn't it?'
They had left the gates open in order that the
cabbie could drive straight into the yard, which he
now did, only to stop half-way across, because there
to the side of the door was a trap, and standing beside
it was Bernard Thompson.
As Ben helped Aggie down from the cab, she said,
'He's got a bloody nerve. I told him not to put his
face near this yard again. Well, I won't put a tooth
in it this time.' But as she started to walk towards
him, Millie said quietly, 'Mrs Aggie, please. I'll ...
I'll see to this.'
Ben said nothing, but, gripping Aggie's arm firmly,
he led her towards the door, although she would
keep her head turned to look at the man who was
now moving towards Millie.
Only when the door had closed on them did Millie
look fully at Bernard Thompson, and she remained
quiet as he began, 'Oh, Millie, I... I had to come.
I just couldn't keep away. I ... I had to tell you
in person how deeply sorry I am, not only for my
stupidity in the proposition I put to you, but for
what you have suffered because of me. I... I want
to have a talk with you, Millie. I have something to
say to you.' But before he could go on, she said,
'You have nothing to say to me, Mr Thompson,
that I wish to hear.'
'Millie, please, isn't it in your heart to forgive me?
I want to make amends, because I... I really do care
for you, and I know you care for me.'
'I no longer care for you, Mr Thompson. Yes, I
may have, at one time, because, as I understand
now, there's always a fairy prince in every girl's
life. But if we are sensible it is just a figment of the
imagination, bred from stories that we read. Youth
is a time of fantasies. One grows out of them. But
mine were blasted out of me.' Her tone was bitter.
'I don't blame you entirely. It was my stupidity and
Mrs Aggie's desire for my happiness and future that
made us both so gullible.'
'Millie. Will you listen to me, please? I have
something important to say to you, because, believe
me, I have your welfare at heart. My proposal to you
before was as much to take you away from all this' - he flung his arm wide now - 'as it was to satisfy
my own feelings for you. I know you would say that
Mrs Winkowski and the man Ben were dear to you, but I felt then that if they really cared for you they
would have wanted a better life for you, even such as
I offered; but I wouldn't have made it at the time had
I not thought that both you and she were aware of
my intentions. But now, Millie, knowing how deep
my feelings are for you, I am willing to break off
my engagement and marry you. That is how deeply
I feel for you. Tell me you understand and that you
will accept.'
'Please, Mr Thompson, don't say anything more.
Even if I hadn't become engaged to be married, and
I still held a vestige of feeling for you, I would, at
this moment, have scorned your proposal that is evidently being dragged from you, and... '
'How can you have become engaged in such a
short time? You are just saying this to put me
off.'
'No, I am not saying this, Mr Thompson. I am
engaged to be married to Ben.'
"What! To... to that man?"
'Yes, Mr Thompson.' Her voice was loud now.
'To that man, that honourable man who is worth
twenty of you and your kin.'
'But you can't, Millie, you can't.'
'I can. And I've got you to thank for being able
to say that I will one day be his wife; before this I
was blind to my true feelings. So, Mr Thompson,
you will have no need to break off your engagement,
nor to suffer the humiliation that I undoubtedly
would bring among your own circle. Things being
as they are, it would eventually come out that you
had picked me up from what you consider the mire.
Good day to you, Mr Thompson.'
As she turned from him he muttered her name
pleadingly, 'Millie. Millie,' and when the door banged
closed he stood looking towards it for a moment
before he mounted his trap and drove out of the
yard. It was over. She had made it final. Yet it was
hard to believe she could have refused his offer of
marriage - and for that man. Well, there was one
consolation: he wouldn't have to face the hurricane
of family when he announced his broken engagement
to Grace, or the wrath of her brothers.
Once the door was closed behind her, Millie stood,
her hands pressed tightly against it for a moment;
then she hurried into the kitchen.
Ben was alone. He was standing in front of the fire,
his good arm stretched upwards, his hand clutching
the rim of the mantelpiece.
At her entry, he turned slowly, and they stood
apart for a moment; then, going to him, she put her
arms on his shoulders and softly she said, 'Ben Smith,
Jones, or Robinson, you have never kissed me.'
She watched him slowly close his eyes, then
moisten his lips, and when he looked at her again,
he said, 'No, Millie; I never have, have I?'
When he drew her close with his good arm, he
still did not immediately kiss her, but gazed into
her face; and she was made to ask softly, 'Now
are you sure?'
He laid his lips on hers, and when the first long
kiss was over he said, 'I'm sure now. Oh, Millie,
Millie. Oh, my love. I don't know why, or how you
should love me, or could love me, but I know you
do, at least a little, for you're still but a girl; but by
the time you're a woman you will know just how
deep my love is for you, and always has been.'
There was a movement at the scullery door and,
hesitantly, Aggie came shuffling in and straight
towards them, and, her face abeam, she said, 'Aye,
well, that's how it is, an' that's how it should be.'
Then, putting an arm around each of them, she muttered,
'You were the only bairns I ever had, or ever
wanted.' And when they both leant against her and
kissed her, she suddenly pushed them away, saying,
'That's enough slop for one day. But it is an occasion,
so pour me out a good drop of me medicine. And
there's still some whisky in the bottle. As for you,
me lady, it's tea as usual, an' then we'll drink--' She
paused now and looked tenderly at them, and, her
voice changing, she said softly, 'Aye, I'll drink to you
both, Mr and Mrs Smith, Jones, or Robinson.'
And at this they clung together, and their laughter
filled that room of many odours.


THE END