Angel Meadow Page 15

  With a delighted cackle she let herself out of her front door and ran like a ferret to spread the news, starting with Eileen O’Rourke. They turned the corner into Church Court, Nancy and Jennet in front and Rosie and Mary behind them, and before she had taken a step or two she became aware that they all knew. She had been expecting it, of course, but because of the cold winter and spring had contrived, with the help of a capacious shawl she had bought from Mrs Beasley, to hide her changing shape. She was tall and had an upright carriage and though she had got to six months she had managed to carry on undetected, at least in Church Court, though Mr Earnshaw had had a thing or two to say about it when he found out, inferring in his sneering way that if he’d known she was a girl like that he’d have had a go himself. Oh, aye, he’d keep her on for she was a bloody good worker but the minute she showed signs of falling off in her work she was out on her ear, so think on. She didn’t tell him that they were to be “out” the minute this baby was born. She and Jennet had discussed it endlessly after the girls had gone to bed, realising sadly that they must postpone their plans, for she could in no way get over to Oldham, inspect and order the sewing-machines, find a workroom and, hopefully, a new home, not to mention the stall in the market which she herself must set up and she couldn’t do it with her belly sticking out to here, she said, making Jennet wince.

  The girls had been remarkably good about the baby, though they seemed to find it hard to understand what had happened to her.

  “But who was it? And what were you doing in Style Street?”

  What indeed?

  “The man dragged me there and . . .”

  Mary had cried. “Oh, Nancy . . .”

  “There’s no use crying, our Mary, it’s done now and, like everything else that has happened to us, we just have to get on with it.” Even though her very soul cringed at the thought of carrying Mick O’Rourke’s child, of bearing Mick O’Rourke’s child, she could not let it get in the way of her firm belief that even now, she and her family and her dearest friend would get to that magical place she had dreamed of, an insubstantial, ephemeral place but real nevertheless to her, ever since her mam went. It was Mam who had started it, which sounded odd, but if it had not been for her disappearance she and Rose and Mary would have drifted into a life not much different from the women in Church Court. The mill first probably, their wages handed over to Mam to pour down her throat, some neighbourhood lad picked, for want of anything better, for a husband and the father of the dozen children she would bear. She had escaped it only because Mam had left them and Nancy had no choice – and a growing and burning desire to do better than Mam, let’s face it – but to get up off her arse and fight for what she had discovered she wanted.

  Her sisters, being the daughters of Kitty Brody, knew exactly what had been done to her. They had been devastated when she told them about the events in the churchyard, wanting her to go to the police and report it, thinking it to be a stranger who had done this to her and she had let them continue to think so. But that was the very reason why there was no use in reporting it, she said. Did they remember how the sergeant had been over Mam’s disappearance? she asked them. Had he given a tinker’s toss? No, he bloody well hadn’t, and he’d be the same over this. He’d probably think no decent girl would be out and about at that time of night on her own and besides, were there any decent girls in Angel Meadow? He wouldn’t think so and looking for such a man would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.

  Now Church Court was to get its revenge. “Well, if it ain’t ’Er Majesty ’erself, come ter see ’ow the riff-raff live,” Eileen O’Rourke shrieked gleefully from her doorstep where she stood with her arms akimbo. “But what’s that under yer pinny, Yer Majesty? It can’t be a babby, fer Queen Nancy wouldn’t let any chap put his dick in ’er, not wi’ ’er ’avin’ her legs fastened tergether at top. Or is it a cork yer keep there, Yer Queenship? Gawd, I never thought ter live ter see the day when Kitty Brody’s lass would go the same way as ’er, but I might’ve known better. Like mother like daughter, they do say, an’ it’s damn well true. Are yer ter set up a ’ore ’ouse then, ’cos if ya are I can send yer round a few likely chaps ’oo’d like a go at yer.”

  “Now then, Mrs O’Rourke, don’t be so ’ard on’t girl. I reckon she didn’t know which end of a chap was which she’s that refined and when he offered ter stick it in ’er she’d no idea what it was.”

  “Nay, ’tis a virgin birth, Mrs Murphy. Any man what touched that frozen bitch would get ’is thingy turned ter bloody ice.”

  The men watched with the women, sorry in the way that men often are, not being as spiteful as their women, that Nancy Brody was suffering such insults. True, she had no truck with any of them, which was why they resented her, and then on top of that she had committed the sin of being successful. She had started with no more than they had but she had worked her fingers to the bone and achieved bloody miracles, so it was said, with her home, her family and the work she did. But she was a lovely-looking lass and had done no one a bad turn, but some lad had done her one and there were more than a few of them who turned their gaze in Mick O’Rourke’s direction. He was standing next to his mother, his own arms folded across his brawny chest. His eyes were narrowed, his mouth thin-lipped, his jaw jutting ominously as though he would like nothing better than to cross the road after Nancy Brody and give her a bloody good hiding, though God knows why. Perhaps because some chap had got what he had chased after for months! When he felt their gaze on him he pulled his mouth into a wide smile, then went indoors as though the spectacle of Nancy Brody’s humiliation were of no particular interest to him.

  They were all weeping when they reached the safety and privacy of their cottage, all except Nancy who kept her head high and her chin firm, passing every doorway and every jeering woman as though they did not exist, even managing a smile of pure contempt which rather took the wind out of their sails, for they had been convinced that at last they would see Nancy Brody get her comeuppance. Rose and Mary huddled together behind the door as it was shut and Jennet collapsed, white-faced and shivering, on to the settle but Nancy turned on them like a cat who has faced and outfought a pack of howling wolves. Her face was stiff and savage. Her voice trembled but it was with rage, not fear and they recoiled from her as they had done from the crowd beyond the closed door.

  “Never let me see you cry again, d’you hear me?” she snarled. “Never give them the satisfaction of knowing that they are hurting you. That’s what they want, to hurt you because you have something they could never have and that’s hope. They won’t let up, believe me, so you’d best get used to it.”

  “But, Nancy, why? Why?” Jennet quavered. “What have you ever done?”

  “You can see what I’ve done, Jennet Williams, and so can they and they resent it. If, when my mam went I’d gone snivelling to them for help they would have been only too glad to give it. Only too glad to see me in the same bloody pickle they’re always in and always will be in for the rest of their lives. But I didn’t. Now then, let’s have a cup of tea. See, Mary, put a match to the fire and stop that grizzling; and you, Rosie Brody, put the kettle on.”

  She relented then and took her sisters in her arms, leaning her head against theirs. “It won’t be for ever, my lasses. Just as soon as this soddin’ baby comes we’ll go, so cheer up. We’re in this together. We – Jennet and I – will always be with you in the street and I don’t think I need to tell you never to go out alone. Oh, I don’t think they’d physically hurt you but . . . well, you know what I mean.”

  They never gave up on her: they never tired of it, taunting not only her but her sisters and Jennet.

  But now that “sodding” baby was about to be born and within a few weeks they’d be away from it all in a decent neighbourhood.

  For thirty-six hours they had believed this to be true but it seemed they were wrong, for Nancy Brody, brave and courageous Nancy Brody, was slipping away with her child fast inside her and unless Annie Wil
son could perform some magical thing their grand future, not to mention Nancy’s life – bugger the baby – would slip away as Kitty Brody had slipped away.

  “Let t’ dog see t’ rabbit,” Annie gasped as she stumbled into the room, “and open them bloody windows. The stink in ’ere’s enough ter choke t’ cat,” and at once it was as though a heavy pall had been lifted from the devastated room. Annie’s cheerful instructions, even though Nancy still lay like one dead on the bed, put new life in them and they hurried to obey her, even though Nancy had told them to keep the windows closed just in case she screamed out loud!

  Whisking off the sheet that Jennet had discreetly placed across Nancy’s flaccid body, Annie pried open her legs and poked her nose almost up into Nancy’s insides.

  “Fetch me some water an’ carbolic soap, I want ter wash me ’ands.”

  This was done, the three girls falling over themselves to fulfil her every wish. With no more ado than if Nancy had been a piece of meat on a butcher’s counter, Annie thrust her hand high inside her and though Nancy twitched and moaned feebly it didn’t faze Annie.

  “It’s arse about face, that’s what’s up wi’ ’er,” she announced firmly, turning to smile confidently at the three hovering figures.

  “Pardon?” Jennet asked politely.

  “Bum first.”

  “Bum first?”

  “Aye. I’ve seen a few in me time an’ it’ll not be easy but I reckon us can turn it.” And again, as though Nancy were not a person, which at the moment she wasn’t, Annie thrust one hand deep inside her body, the other placed on the enormous dome of her belly, feeling, listening, kneading, massaging and all the while Nancy whimpered feebly though she was too weak to protest.

  “Pepper, fetch me’t pepper pot,” Annie barked.

  “Pepper pot?” Jennet whispered.

  “Listen, lass, if all yer can do is repeat what I say ter yer you an’ me’s gonner ’ave words. Just do as yer told.”

  It was a miracle from God, at least Jennet thought so and was ready to fall to her knees in prayer to that being to whom she and her father had offered their thanks every day. The pepper, heaped in Annie’s bloody hand, was thrust beneath Nancy’s nose and with half a dozen hefty sneezes from its mother the child leaped out into the world, complaining lustily at the inconsiderate delay.

  “Never mind that, lass,” Annie snapped at her as Jennet sank beside the bed. “We’ve more ter do than gerron our bloody knees. See, gimme a ’and; and you two” – turning to glare at Rose and Mary who were edging forward to get a view of the child – “pass me them scissors an’ ’ave yer some ’ot water? Good lasses. There’s just t’cord ter do an’ then she’ll be right as bloody ninepence. Good strong girl like ’er. Now, go and fetch ’er a cuppa tea, an’ me an’ all while yer at it. And a basin o’ warm water fer’t babby ’oo’ll need a bit of a wash.”

  And so, for the first time in her life Jennet Williams witnessed the beginning of life and from that moment when Nancy Brody’s daughter, still covered in the muck and blood of birth, was placed in her trembling arms, she loved her, which was just as well for her mother didn’t. She wanted to sit down and nurse her, gaze into the blood-streaked, indignant face, inspect the quivering, vulnerable gums, the mouth which was wide in a yell of disapproval and yet at the same time was beginning hopefully to suck on the empty air. Tentatively she placed the tip of her little finger in the baby’s mouth and at once the gums clamped down on it and began to suck vigorously.

  “Oh, Lord,” she whispered reverently, “oh, thank you, dear sweet Lord.”

  “Never mind that, Jennet Williams,” the weak voice from the bed told her. “The Lord, whoever He might be, had nothing to do with this. It’s Annie you should be thanking. And where’s that cup of tea?”

  11

  Josh Hayes allowed his mare to pick her way wherever she pleased, guiding her only between the tree-trunks of the several small patches of woodland through which he rode, following the bridle path leading from Higher Broughton towards Cheetham and Harpurhey. Though Copper wanted to gallop and work off the energy that lay dormant in her, Josh kept her to a walk since he needed all his wits about him to mull over the dreadful predicament in which he found himself. And should he be surprised at it, he sighed, for he had been Evie’s lover for a year now and the consequence to that could not be unexpected, nor his father’s reaction to that consequence. Their relationship had begun last summer and in January she had told him she was with child. And now it was July and though he had not set eyes on her for weeks he knew she still hoped for something he could not give her. She held a place in his heart, did his loving Evie, for not once had she reproached him but had taken the burden he had placed on her as though it were all her fault. But he knew, even as late as this she hoped for . . . for . . . something though God alone knew what.

  The sun shone from a cloudless sky at the zenith of which a skylark sang its heart out but he did not notice. In the fields, knee-deep in rich grass and clover, cattle turned their heads to watch him go by, their jaws chomping rhythmically on the juicy sweetness in their mouths. A farm labourer crossing the meadow with his dog raised his cap respectfully, recognising quality, not only in the young gentleman, but the fine animal he rode. His dog slunk at his heels, its tail down, but the man on the mare did not notice. The air was drenched in fragrance, for the hedges were a tangle of wild flowers with a fine festoon of dog roses and honeysuckle about them, but Josh Hayes did not notice. He put the mare to a small stream which she took elegantly, crushing under her hooves the delicate water figwort and water forget-me-nots which grew there in great abundance, but again, still deep in his reverie, he did not notice. Men and women were haymaking, the men scything in ordered rows, their weather-beaten faces set in lines of concentration, the women gleaning and gathering and stooking, their faces deep in frilled sunbonnets. Though the women nodded pleasantly, again he did not notice.

  Beside a placid stream which wound through a stand of trees he reined the mare to a stop and slid from her back, then, leading her by the bridle, walked on, the mare lifting and shaking her head at the restraint. Though she had steadied since he had her last year she was still inclined to skittishness if her energy had not been run off.

  “Whoa, lass, whoa. Calm down, will you. We’ll have a gallop on the way back, I promise you. Now stand, stand, I tell you.”

  Josh kept his arm around the horse’s neck, leaning against her as though weary unto death, and together they studied the serene flow of the water.

  “I don’t know what the bloody hell to do, Copper, and that’s a fact,” he told the animal. “I feel I should be doing more than I am but there are so many people to consider. Father’s right but that doesn’t help Evie.”

  He seemed to find nothing unusual in speaking thus to his mare, not here, at any rate, where there was not another human soul in sight to hear him. It was nearly three months now since Evie’s condition had been discovered by a triumphant Mrs Harvey who acted as though she were pleased to have had all her worst suspicions about the laundry-maid and the master’s son confirmed, for who else could be the father, though she did not say this to Mrs Hayes when she brought the appalling situation to her attention. Mrs Hayes had been justifiably upset, for no mistress likes to think that a girl in her employ has been “carrying on” and, of course, the girl must be dismissed at once, for she had an unmarried daughter of her own and it was not proper nor decent to have a fallen woman under the same roof. In fact, none of the maidservants could be expected to work with disgraced Evie Edward who must be sent home to her mother at once.

  “Don’t worry, Evie,” he had whispered to her, holding her trembling figure in his arms the last time they had met in Kersall Dell. It had not been an agreeable moment. All the times he had held and delighted in her slender body were swept away by his awareness of the swollen bump that pressed against him and he felt the guilt strike like a knife, but there was nothing he could do except give her some money to tide her o
ver until he could think of some way out of this mess.

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmured again into her hair, “I’ll always take care of you.” Though at that moment he wanted nothing more than to see her set off across the fields towards Park Meadows and the small cottage where her family lived. She had trailed her bundle of clothing behind her, looking back at him disconsolately again and again, her face still wet with her tears and he had felt something wrench inside him, for what a tempest of recriminations she would face, a disgraced daughter come home to bear an illegitimate child.

  He had his own recriminations to contend with when he got home.

  “So, you’ve been at it again, have you, lad?” his father had thundered, his fury so great he could not keep still but strode the study from window to desk and back again. “Can’t keep it inside your breeches, can you? Sniffing after every bitch that crosses your path like a randy dog. I told you the last time I would not stand it again and now I come home to find your mother in tears since it seems the laundry-maid has been dismissed and it doesn’t take much reckoning to come to the right conclusion on who the father might be. You’ve been seen hanging about her. Oh, yes, I made it my business to ask a few questions of the servants and though they didn’t like it I got it out of them. Now then, what have you to say for yourself? Though as far as I can see there’s not a lot to say.”