Angel Meadow Page 12

  “I did. You know how much I think of you, Evie. Now, please, I must go or my—”

  “Yes, I know, your mam is having a dinner party. I should know, I washed and ironed the tablecloth and napkins that’re to be used.”

  “Well then, we should go.”

  “So you say, but . . .” Suddenly she crumpled, putting her face in her hands. “Oh, please, Josh, please . . .”

  He turned to her at once and took her into his arms, kissing her wet cheeks and smoothing her tumbled hair back from her forehead. This was how he loved her. When she was sweet and submissive, not making demands he could not possibly answer. He loved her when she trembled beneath the touch of his hands, when she moaned as he entered her, when she cried out as he brought her to a fluttering climax and when she clung to him afterwards, not asking him to love her but just to hold her in his arms. He loved her when she laughed with him, when she listened to him talk about what he meant to do, quite spellbound when he described the ships in the port of Liverpool, the shops there, his journey on the train, and his plans to visit America. Then he loved her, for she made him feel like a . . . like a what? He didn’t know, only that it was special, to him and to her.

  “Come, lovely girl,” he said tenderly to her now. “We really must go or not only will my mother be searching for me but Mrs Harvey will be scouring the house for you.”

  “Kiss me, Josh.”

  Willingly he did so, sorry really that he had to go, ready to say the words to her she wanted to hear, for she was so sweet and docile under his hands, but somehow he couldn’t. They were words he had spoken to no woman and never would until it was the truth. Amazingly a flushed face glimmered across his vision and it was not the face of the girl beside him. Not blue eyes but a deep, golden brown. Hell and damnation, he groaned to himself, what was wrong with him, thinking about a girl he had seen only twice in his life and at a time like this as well. He must have lost his wits. He turned blindly towards his mare. It was nearly dark.

  It was dark once she had left the gas-lit thoroughfare of St George’s Road and Angel Street, just like plunging into a gloomy tunnel. The candlelit windows, which were let into the scabby walls of the cottages on either side of the narrow length of Church Court, were barely visible. She could hear voices, some of them talking quite normally inside their one-up, one-down boxes along Church Court, others quarrelling, screaming even, as the usual family evening took shape. Mothers would be screeching at squabbling children; husbands and fathers lifting heavy fists in frustration, or flinging open flimsy front doors in their escape to the beer house at the corner: crashes and cries of pain, for they were poor and Irish with tempers to match in Church Court and they were not quiet, at play, at work or in the squalid sanctity of their own homes.

  She had sent Mary and Rosie home, with Mr Earnshaw’s permission, of course, since they had finished their quota of shirts, as she had, but at the last minute Mr Earnshaw had offered her and Jennet a shilling if they would just put the buttonholes in half a dozen shirts between them. A last-minute order and they were the quickest and neatest sewers in the workshop and so, unable to turn down the chance of an extra shilling which, after all, was almost the price of the hire of a sewing-machine for one week, they had agreed.

  They had sauntered out of Brown Street and into Chapel Street together, crossing the river at Old Bridge to Cateaton Street and on to the end of Fennel Street where they had bid one another an affectionate goodnight. They had talked all the way, telling one another it would not be long, perhaps the spring of next year, before they would start up the business they planned together because, of course, she would not dream of leaving Jennet behind in this new endeavour. Nancy found it quite glorious to have someone . . . well, sensible, practical, to discuss things with, for with the best will in the world, though they worked hard and willingly, her sisters did not have the sharp mind and shrewd intelligence Jennet had. Before the winter set in, though why that should matter they didn’t know, for the trains were very reliable, they meant to go over to Oldham and have a look at the sewing-machines they would hire, and there would be a workshop to find, for once they got under way the downstairs room at Church Court would not be big enough for them all. Jennet would move in with them, naturally, since it was not practical to pay the rent on two places. In fact, they had talked about her coming to Church Court soon for this very reason. Nancy’s secret hoard behind the loose brick in the bedroom continued to grow, penny by penny, helped by a surprising contribution from Jennet who had been left a tiny sum by her father. Andrew Williams had been a parson in a poor parish in Pendleton, Jennet had told Nancy, and, though she did not know how he had done it since they lived like church mice, he had passed on what he had saved, for an emergency, he had told her as he lay dying. She had not touched it yet, though God knew she had been tempted to do so many times in the hard days of working for Earnshaw’s Fine Shirts. Now, since she was to be partner in this enterprise it was at Nancy’s disposal and . . . Oh, dear Lord, as Jennet would say, for she did not care for swearing, they got so excited they could hardly speak, holding on to one another’s arm as they strode out towards their wonderful future. Nancy gave thanks every day for Jennet. Oh, she would have done it on her own. She’d come this far, hadn’t she, but without Jennet to encourage her, to give advice, to advocate caution, generally just to be there to listen it would not have been the same.

  There was a ginnel between the Finnigans’ cottage and the Murphys’ which led on to Style Street and it was as she was hurrying past it, hoping that Mary had remembered to put the beef stew on to warm, her mind already winging on to her own place no more than a dozen yards away, that a pair of brawny arms came at her from nowhere, a hand was clasped over her mouth and she was dragged into the total darkness of the passage. She knew who it was, of course, because hadn’t these same arms done their best for the past three months to get themselves about her whenever they had a chance. She wasn’t even particularly alarmed, for she had always been able to evade Mick O’Rourke’s advances, to talk or laugh him out of the foolishness he directed at her every time he caught her in the street or knocked on her door and blustered his way inside. He had even spoken of marriage, for God’s sake, the last time, backing her up to the window of Ma Siddons’ gin-shop, from where he had just come, capturing her between his arms, his hands flat on the window, begging her to stop this bloody nonsense, which was how he saw her daft refusal to let him court her. Yes, that was what he had said. Court her! He had been drunk, of course, and it had been this that had allowed her to push him aside in disgust and run for her life to her cottage.

  So what the devil he thought he was up to now she couldn’t imagine. He wasn’t drunk or she would have detected it on his breath. His big hand over her mouth smelled of onions which made her want to retch as she fought silently to escape him. She heaved and kicked against him, doing her best to get the heels of her boots into his shins, but he was strong and determined, dragging her backwards through the heaps of refuse that had piled up over the years in the passage, then, to her surprise, across Style Street, which was deserted, and into the narrow alleyway that led to the burial ground at the back of St Michael’s Church.

  He let her go then, flinging her forward on to a stone-edged grave so that she fell against the headstone, putting out both hands to save her face and badly grazing her palms.

  She turned and like a wildcat just let out of a bag and furious about it she flew at him, spitting out all the foul words she had learned through her childhood, reaching for his eyes, ready to draw blood, to feel his skin break beneath her nails, to blind him or cripple him in any way she could, but he merely reached out and grabbed her by the wrists and held her, saying nothing, the whites of his eyes and his teeth, which he seemed to be baring like a wild beast, the only things she could see in the darkness.

  “I’ll have the bloody law on you for this, Mick O’Rourke,” she hissed, struggling to get her hands free, aiming at him with her feet but he was
a large man with muscles built up in the prize-fighting ring, agile and quick on his feet and though she herself was not fragile she was no match for him. “Let me go, yer lousy, stinking bastard or I swear I’ll scream me bloody ’ead off.”

  “Scream, is it? Go ahead, acushla,” he said quietly, the softness of his voice, where she would have expected bluff and bluster, surprising her. “Sure an’ there’s no one ter ’ear yer an’ if they did ’oo’d tekk any notice round ’ere?”

  Which was true, for in this part of the city husbands frequently thrashed their wives, or children, there were set-tos outside the gin-shops and beer houses where not only men but drunken women took exception to one another, raising their voices to the skies. One more would scarcely be noticed and if it was, would be ignored.

  “What in ’ell’s name d’yer want?” she screeched at him, knowing she sounded like a fishwife but unable to hang on to the calm, well-modulated voice Jennet was teaching her.

  “Ye know what I’m wantin’, m’darlin’.” She could see him more clearly now that her eyes had become used to the diffused darkness which seemed to hang like a veil about the leaning, lopsided headstones. He was holding out his hands placatingly in a way she had not seen before, pleading, begging her to listen to him, since there was no one in this dark place to see charming, handsome, winsome Mick O’Rourke humble himself.

  “I’ve never said this ter any woman before, Nancy Brody, but . . . I love yer, yer see, an’ well . . . I reckon we’d be ’appy together. I’d do me best, acushla. As the Blessed Virgin’s me witness I swear yer’d not want fer owt. I . . . Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I wanter marry yer, lovely girl, so what d’yer think ter that?”

  He stuck his chest out. His pride in himself was very clear, his willingness to put aside all other considerations, like the amazement of his mates, evident in his tone of voice. His belief that though it had cost him a great deal of soul-searching, if the only way he could have this mysterious, fascinating, irritating girl was to wed her then so be it. In his eyes and in the eyes of Angel Meadow he was considered a good catch. He was strong and healthy. He had a steady job and didn’t mind hard work. He could provide for her in a grand fashion, by the standards of those hereabouts, for not only did he have decent employment he earned many a purse in the prize-fighting ring. There wasn’t a girl in Angel Meadow who wouldn’t jump at the chance to marry Mick O’Rourke and he had convinced himself that the reason Nancy Brody had been so bloody elusive was because she was not aware of his grand intentions. His mam would have a fit but what did he care. He was a Catholic and went now and again to mass since he had been taught that he would undoubtedly go straight to purgatory if he transgressed and, though he didn’t believe it, just to be on the safe side he showed his face to the Blessed Virgin on the occasional Sunday. His and Nancy’s children would be brought up in the true faith, naturally, even if Nancy wouldn’t come over and his mam would have to be satisfied with that.

  “Well?” He grinned, his teeth a white slash in the darkness of his face, cocky and pleased as punch and glad, really, that he was to make the great sacrifice of his freedom, for would that not prove to her what his feelings for her really were. “Let’s ’ave a kiss then, acushla. All these bloody months when we’ve bin . . . friends I’ve never even kissed yer. That shows ’ow much I respect yer, darlin’. ’Ave yer any idea ’ow ’ard it’s bin for me, watchin’ yer go by wi’ that way yer walk what sets all’t lads off? A real teaser, so yer are, but I’ll say nowt more. So, ’ow about it, darlin’, come over ’ere an’ give us a kiss.”

  She made a mistake. Mick O’Rourke was not a violent man, not with women at any rate. He meant her no harm. He had dragged her out here because it was the only place he could think of where they could be totally alone and uninterrupted. Everywhere they met there had always been someone about but here she could not escape him. She would be forced to listen.

  His cocky assumption that she had only to be offered marriage to fall into his arms infuriated her and she made no effort to keep the contempt and loathing out of her voice.

  “Dear sweet Jesus, why won’t you listen to me, Mick O’Rourke,” she snarled, white-hot with anger and rage. “I wouldn’t marry yer if yer were the last man on earth, d’yer hear. I don’t love yer. I don’t even like yer, yer cocky bastard. Yer never see any further than the end o’ yer nose, do yer? Are yer so puffed up with the belief that yer God’s gift ter women yer think every lass yer smile at’s bound ter fall inter yer filthy ’ands? Well, ’ere’s one who won’t, so just step aside. Go on, get out o’ me way, yer jumped-up piss-pot, fer yer must be drunk if yer’d imagine—”

  “Yer little bitch, don’t yer dare speak ter me like that. ’Oo the ’ell d’yer think you are. I’m offering marriage, yer daft cow,” just as though she had misunderstood him and needed further explanation.

  “I don’t bloody care if yer ter be made King of England and want me ter be Queen, Mick O’Rourke. I don’t want yer. Can’t yer get that inter yer thick Irish ’ead. I don’t want yer! Now get out o’ me way fer I’ve ’eard enough o’ this bloody nonsense.”

  His fist came out of the darkness with the swiftness of a bullet from a gun, catching her on the point of her jaw where, in a dozen fights, Mick had learned to knock his opponents to the canvas. His eyes were blind in the darkness, with an uncontrollable anger, a frustration at the contemptuous smashing of his hopes and dreams and longings, for he truly loved Nancy Brody, a destruction of what he had believed to be the rightness of his proposal. She had belittled him and his aspirations. She had spat on him and his longing to do the right thing by her and in that moment, a moment of rejection he had never known before, his mind went blank, empty of everything but his male desire to hurt, to possess, to humiliate, to subjugate; in other words to show Nancy Brody who was boss.

  She fell away from him in the dark, landing spreadeagled on the grave, her head, as it thumped downwards, catching the corner of the headstone. The darkness, which was a kind of sombre grey all around her marked here and there by the deeper darkness of the headstones, dragged her downwards into an inky black hole and the last thing her anguished eyes saw were the onion-smelling hands of Mick O’Rourke reaching out for her.

  He was gone when she came to. She was alone in the dead of night among the sneering ghosts of those who must have come out of their graves to mock her. In her arrogance and belief in the absolute rightness and strength of Nancy Brody she had taken one step too far and it had knocked Mick O’Rourke far from the whimsical, good-humoured, fun-loving Irishman who had pursued her for the last few months. She had taken something from him with her contemptuous refusal of the honour he was doing her, the honour of marrying the best catch in the Irish community and he had . . . Oh, dear God in heaven, what had he done to her? While she had been unconscious – the aching of her head and her jaw told her she had been unconscious – what had he done to her? She hardly dare stand. She hardly dare raise her head from the weeds on which it lay, for she could feel the cold and the damp and the mossy slime, not with her hands which were still out spread as though in crucifixion, but on her . . . on her . . . Dear Lord . . . Oh, dear Lord, help me . . . on the backs of her bare legs, on her belly and thighs, on her buttocks and the small of her bare back which was pressed down on to the cold stone and rotting vegetation of the grave. She ached from head to foot as though she had been given a beating and she was sore in that private place she had defended so fiercely. There was something wet and sticky on the inside of her thighs; aah, dear God . . . oh, please not. Please, sweet Jesus, help me . . . help me.

  She knew what had been done to her, of course she did. She had been knocked down, forced on to her back and while she was there, dazed and semi-conscious, held like a bitch and raped. Mick O’Rourke, allowing his wild rage to overpower him, had taken what she had denied him.

  She was a strong woman; circumstances and her own resolute will had made her so and despite the hardships ahead of her she had not been afraid. She had
confidence and pride in herself, a belief that she would succeed. She also believed she was a woman of warmth and humour with an inclination to do a kindness where she could to those who deserved it. She had in her a capacity to do things that would not only help her family but others whom she hoped to employ to escape the trap of poverty. A woman then, of consequence, in a small way. A woman who had a joy in her own self-esteem, for she knew it to be justified.

  She was not that same woman when she finally got to her feet. She had been weakened. She trembled in deep shock and her hands fluttered uselessly as she made an attempt to smooth her clothing about her abused body. She felt frail, not just physically but in her woman’s mind which flinched away from the horror of what she had suffered. Indeed it could not believe it. Her stunned senses could not seem to function on the level she had become used to, wandering confusedly among images that she could not remember. She wanted to weep. She wanted to run home and be gathered in some strong and protective arms, shushed and petted and told she would be all right but there was no one in Nancy Brody’s life to do that for her. There had never been anyone in Nancy Brody’s life to do that for her. Ever. And if there were, would she let them? Did she want anyone to know that Mick O’Rourke had finally had his way with Nancy Brody? She was pretty sure he would tell no one, even if he wanted to boast of it, since he would be too afraid she might tell the truth of it, show him up not only as a rapist but as a man who had been contemptuously refused by a woman, which would be worse in his eyes. A woman he had to rape to get!

  She would keep it to herself then. She was helpless and ready to stagger like a toddling child at this moment of vulnerability but give her a few minutes and, by God, she would be herself again. Not the same, but strong again. She would not let this . . . this desolation drag her down as Mick O’Rourke had dragged her down; but she’d not forget it, not if she lived to be a hundred, and neither would Mick O’Rourke!