Angel Meadow Page 22

  “To let! What is?” Both Jennet and Mary peered round Nancy’s shoulder as she leaned over the padded half-door of the hansom, craning her neck to look back.

  “Stop here, please, Cabbie,” she was shouting, much to the cabbie’s annoyance, for Bury New Road was busy at this time of day with a fair number of horse-drawn vehicles nudging him from behind.

  “What’s up?” he protested, wondering on the ways of women. First she wanted St George’s Road and now she was telling him to pull up in the thick of the traffic to the danger of not only himself, his cab and his horse, but the other vehicles.

  They all leaped out, baby and all, standing gawping at the end house of a modest row of terraced villas as though it were the gates of heaven but he couldn’t hang about here, for he was blocking the road, which he told them stoutly.

  “Never mind. What do we owe you?” the tall, haughty but quite gorgeous-looking creature asked him, putting the coins in his hand when he told her without even looking at them.

  “I can’t wait,” he threatened her.

  “It doesn’t matter. We’ll find another cab.”

  “Not at this time o’ day, yer won’t,” he warned her, but she either didn’t hear him or she didn’t care.

  It was on the corner of Bury New Road and Broughton Lane and pronounced itself to be Grove Place. There were about a dozen houses all with a minute front garden surrounded by a low wall and what appeared to be a yard at the back. Each house had a bay window on the ground floor, with a bay window above, and next to that a flat sash window over the front door. The front door itself was protected by a neat porch which was reached by three steps. It was empty.

  Silently they walked a little way down Broughton Lane towards the back of the house and were at once standing among green fields, other pleasant houses and further on a walled nursery garden where they could make out trees and climbing plants. Bubbling merrily under a narrow hump-backed bridge that spanned Broughton Lane, evidently a tributary of the River Irwell, was a narrow, singing brook. They stood in awed contemplation of the wonder of it, exchanging glances and sighing, since it was all so perfect.

  None of them spoke. Even the baby seemed impressed, quietly looking about her until after some minutes both Mary and Jennet turned to Nancy who appeared to be in a dazed trance. They waited.

  At last she spoke. “This is it,” she said in a low, dreaming voice. “If we can afford it, this is it.”

  “What d’you think the rent on a place like this would be?” Mary asked longingly, hopefully, tentatively.

  “God knows, but there’s only one way to find out.”

  “How?”

  “By getting in touch with the person who put that sign up in the window.”

  Mary walked back along the length of the side wall of the house and the others followed her until they were at the front again. They stood at the gate, not daring to go beyond it, though it was obvious there was no one living in it. It had a slate roof and was clean and tidy-looking, the paintwork having recently been given a fresh coat of green paint. The garden was laid out with a small lawn which badly needed trimming and round its edges was a profusion of colourful flowers. On the opposite side of the road were more fields and a sign that said “St Ann’s Square, 1 mile”.

  They were just about to turn reluctantly away when the front door to the neighbouring house opened and a brisk little woman in an immaculate apron stood there, a duster in one hand and a jar of what smelled like beeswax polish in the other. Nancy loved her at once.

  “You interested in renting the house, chuck?” she asked, coming down her gleaming steps to the gate where, as though it were a habit she could not break, she gave it a brisk rub over with her duster, then, smiling, she tickled the baby under her chin. Without hesitation and as if she knew exactly what was expected of her, Kitty put out her arms and the woman, gratified beyond measure, laid her duster and the polish on the dividing wall and took her from Jennet. Kitty beamed right into the woman’s face and with some aversion Nancy could see Mick O’Rourke in her roguish smile.

  “Well, aren’t you a little beauty?” the woman said. “And what’s your name, then?” as though the baby might answer.

  “We call her Kitty,” Jennet told her proudly. “And she is beautiful, isn’t she?”

  “She yours?” the woman asked her, turning round to study all three of them and at once Nancy felt the apprehension rise in her. She wanted this house. Her instinct told her that this was to be the next step along that rocky path to success, to the respectability she craved, but these were decent people living in this terrace who took pride in themselves, in their status and in their homes. Respectable folk, that was evident, still working class, like them, but very far above the human debris beside whom they lived in Church Court. This woman’s husband probably held down some artisan’s job, or was perhaps a supervisor in a mill or in charge of a small warehouse. A clerk perhaps, or a man who had been apprenticed to a trade and now worked for himself. A man who had taken advantage of the educational opportunities that were now available to any man who had the guts and tenacity to take hold of them. And she wanted them to . . . to respect her, to accept her, to be a neighbour with whom she and the girls and Jennet might mix on an equal footing.

  But she couldn’t take this next step with a lie. She hadn’t lied to anyone during the last seven, going on for eight years. She’d stood her ground, laboured until she dropped and drove those about her to do the same. She was proud of herself, and of them and she wasn’t going to tell this woman a cock-and-bull story about a husband lost at sea or in an accident in the mill yard. They must take her as she was and if it upset them and the others then she was sorry. She had an illegitimate child through no fault of her own and she wasn’t about to apologise to anybody for that. She would not offer information. She would not fabricate some story, but if she was asked she would tell the truth.

  “She’s mine,” she said shortly, stepping forward and taking Kitty out of the woman’s arms. For some strange reason she found hers wrapping themselves protectively about her child. Kitty, as though sensing something in her, some link that bound mother to daughter, leaned against her and rested her head in the curve of her shoulder.

  “Aah, I can see that now, lass. She’s the spit of you.” The woman turned smilingly to Mary. “And this’ll be your sister. There’s a real family likeness.” She nodded pleasantly at Jennet as though to say she didn’t know where she fitted into this family group but she was willing to give her the time of day. No more than that. No questions about their position in life, the existence, or not, as the case may be, of menfolk. She picked up her duster and polish and with a last nod turned and left them and with great vigour attacked her front door.

  But, having jumped the first hurdle, so to speak, and survived it, Nancy chanced another.

  “Er . . . pardon me, but . . .”

  “Yes?” The woman turned, not exactly irritably but telling them plainly she was busy and could not spare the time for idle gossip. Nancy felt her admiration for her deepen.

  “I was wondering if you happen to know what the rent is on a house like this?”

  “Well, if it’s the same as ours it’s seven and six a week. That includes the rates, water and such. There’s a privy in the yard and tap in the scullery.”

  She turned back to her task, her elbow going ten to the dozen, her head nodding up and down with her exertions, her back telling them quite clearly that she had finished fraternising.

  A privy of their own! A tap in the scullery! And what other luxuries did the spring-fresh façade of the house, the smiling house – Nancy could see it smiling quite plainly – hide from their hungry eyes?

  “Thank you, you have been most kind. I do hope we will see you again,” she told the woman’s back and was rewarded by a brief, hurried smile.

  They had walked almost to St Ann’s Square, all three of them in a daze of delight, their feet barely touching the flags, which seemed in any case to be as
soft as the drifting fleecy clouds in the sky, before they came down to earth. Kitty had fallen asleep in Nancy’s arms, her dark head nodding against her shoulder and again, for some strange reason, Nancy was reluctant to hand her back to Jennet or Mary as they were expecting her to.

  “There’s a cab on the corner,” she said briefly, for like Kitty they were all tired. As she spoke her voice was quiet, for she felt a great unwillingness to break the magic spell that the house had put on them, holding her breath almost as though afraid to draw the three of them to the attention of God or the Fates or whatever powers ruled their destinies. Tomorrow she would know. Tomorrow would decide how the next chapter of their future would read. If she had been a praying person she would have asked whoever was up there to let it happen in Grove Place. But then Jennet would be speaking to that God of hers so perhaps it would be all right. Who could resist the goodness of Jennet?

  The house was quiet, as quiet as they were, all busy with their own thoughts, for this was one of the most important moments of their lives. Jennet had lived in the genteel poverty of the vicarage until her father died so had not been subjected to the squalor and filth into which the Brody girls had been born, though she had seen it all around her recently. But tomorrow, if the house in Grove Place had not already been let and if the rent was within their means, they were to leave this place of abomination and move to what, in comparison, seemed like paradise.

  “Put the kettle on, Mary, there’s a good lass,” Nancy said, her voice low and hushed as she placed the sleeping child in a little nest of cushions on the settle. “The fire’s just about in and a cup of tea would be most welcome.” She turned away from her distracted contemplation of her child and looked about her. “I wonder where our Rosie’s got to? She should be back by now. I hope she and that Nell haven’t got up to any mischief.”

  Nell was one of their machinists at Shude Hill, a lively girl of sixteen to whom Rosie had taken a liking, it seemed, and the two of them went about together, though Nancy was not sure she approved. Nell was a nice enough girl and sensible but Nancy was not happy about it. Still, Rosie was fourteen herself now and could not be tied to Nancy’s apron strings for ever.

  A sound from upstairs lifted their heads and brought the three of them from their brooding thoughts. They looked at each other in surprise.

  “Rosie? Is that you, Rosie?” Nancy called out, standing up and going to the foot of the stairs, smiling as her sister began to descend them. Rosie’s feet were bare as though she had just come from her bed and she wore nothing but her shift.

  “Rosie, what are you—?” Nancy began then her voice shrivelled in her throat and her hand went to her mouth. Every vestige of colour left her face, for coming down behind her, grinning triumphantly, was Mick O’Rourke.

  16

  Rosie was flushed and defiant, Mick wickedly elated, his handsome face split in a wide grin. Jennet and Mary were open-mouthed, wide-eyed, stunned and speechless, then they both turned as one to see what Nancy was going to do. She didn’t at first know herself, for the shock was so great it took her senses, her thoughts, her ability to function, froze her quick mind and rooted her to the spot at the foot of the stairs, blocking them so that Rosie and Mick could not come down further. Mick lounged indolently against the whitewashed wall, his shirt open to the waist to reveal his broad, hairy chest, his hands on Rosie’s shoulders as she stood on a step beneath him, proprietorial, challenging, sneering as though provoking Nancy Brody. If she thought she could do anything about it she was mistaken, for it was all too late.

  The silence went on and on, for the shock had taken the voices, the power to move, the ability even to think coherently, of the three young women who had just come in and it needed something electifying to fetch them out of it.

  Rosie provided it. She stepped forward boldly.

  “Well, I suppose you had to know about it some time, our Nancy. Me and Mick’s been going steady for a while now. Nell was only a cover-up. And let me tell you I think it’s disgraceful the lies you told about being raped. Mick said you were always willing—”

  Mick interrupted hastily. “Hush now, mavourneen, are we ter stand ’ere for ever chewin’ the fat or will we sit down an’ ’ave a cup o’ tea? To be sure, let’s be civilised about it, fer are we not ter be related as soon as may be. Now, if I’m not mistaken, that kettle’s about ter boil, Rosie, me love, so will yer be making us a brew. I’m thirsty after . . .” He winked and leered at them over the top of Rosie’s head, leaving them in no doubt as to what had made him thirsty, putting his brawny arms about her, one hand coming to rest familiarly on her breast.

  Nancy stepped back from the horror of it, the horror of him, inclined to shudder and twitch as the shock raced through her, wanting to turn away and run screaming out of the house, wanting to get away from it, for it was obscene in its shame. Her sister, her little sister for whom she had had such high hopes, for whom she had worked so hard, to be caught like some helpless fly in the web of Mick O’Rourke’s clever charm. Oh, yes, there was no doubt about it, he had charmed and tricked Rosie and he had done it for only one purpose: to get back at her. He was a devil, beastly, evil, loathsome and if she had a knife handy she would have killed him then and there.

  But strength was returning to her. She was beginning to recover and with recovery came a rage, a loathing so great it gave her strength so that she felt she could do ten rounds in the prize-fighting ring with this brute of a man and emerge victorious.

  With an oath she sprang forward and tore her loudly protesting sister from his arms, throwing her with such violence across the room she fell to the floor by the front door where she crouched, dazed. He was next, though it made her stomach heave to touch him.

  “Open the door, Mary,” she screamed, “and let me get this filth out of my house,” and Mary leaped to do her bidding, pushing aside her sister who still lay in a heap on the floor.

  “Now then . . . now then, yer daft bitch, what d’yer think . . .” he began to splutter but, despite himself, Mick O’Rourke, six foot two and fourteen stone of hard muscle and bone, probably carried more than anything by the momentum of his own weight down the last few stairs, was propelled across the room and through the door into the street where he staggered like a drunk come from the beer house which, from the look on his face, enraged him even further. Mick O’Rourke was proud of himself, of his strength and obvious manhood, of his reputation as a fighter and a lover of women and to be bested by a woman, to be thrown out of a house by a woman, was more than he could bear. He was incensed to madness to have his masculinity mocked by this shrieking virago, and in front of his friends and neighbours, but she would not let him speak.

  “You filthy sod . . . you bastard. You’re the scum of the earth, that’s what you are and if I catch you hanging about my sister again I’ll kill you. I’ll stick the bread knife in you and gladly hang for it.”

  “’Ere, don’t you be talking ter me like that, Nancy Brody, fer yer as bad as yer sister.” He shook his fist, wanting to use it on her, that was very evident, wanting to hurt her, to knock her down as she had almost knocked him down. “A hot little bitch, that’s what yer are, liftin’ yer skirts fer any man what wants it. ’Aven’t I had a taste meself and that kid in there ter prove it. Oh, aye, ’tis mine all right,” feeling better now that he thought he had scored a point or two, turning to grin at the rapturous onlookers who had gathered to witness what promised to be a right old ding-dong, and involving, of all people, Lady Mucky Muck herself, the stuck-up Nancy Brody. Oh, they all knew about her bastard, for hadn’t she flaunted it for the past year and some had privately thought that it might have been Mick Brody’s get, but, since he’d said nothing and took no interest in her or the child, the gossip had died away. Now here he was shouting to the world that he’d stuck it in not one sister, but two. A right devil with the women, was Mick O’Rourke and you had to hand it to him, he had style.

  “If you come within a mile of any member of my family again
I’ll have the law on you, you filthy bugger,” Nancy hissed. She stood like any common street woman on her own doorstep, arms akimbo, face contorted with fury, her hair wild about her face and was ashamed, but was powerless to stop herself. “You’re saying that child in there is yours but are you man enough to tell these . . . these friends of yours how you got it on me?” she snarled, a vixen showing her teeth, defending what was hers, gasping for breath, her self-control, on which she prided herself, totally gone. “Do you think they’d like to hear how you dragged me into the churchyard and—”

  Mick’s face was contorted with his rage and his voice shook. “Yer lyin’ bitch, yer were as eager fer it as that one,” pointing a shaking finger at Rosie, who was fighting with Mary and Jennet to get out to him and in the background the baby wailed in terror.

  The audience was enchanted. Men and women and children edged closer, forming a semicircle almost at Mick’s back, for he was one of them and this hoity-toity bitch, though she had been born in this very alley, was not. They were elated to see her getting what they thought of as her comeuppance. But they did not really know Nancy Brody, any of them. Really know her, that is. They thought she was bested, but she wasn’t. Not by a long chalk!

  “Do you honestly believe I’d be satisfied with a piece of trash like you, Mick O’Rourke? You’re the dregs of the earth, scum, riff-raff” – there were not enough words to describe what she felt about him – “and it makes me shudder and want to be sick when I think of what you did to me.” She looked over his head at the open-mouthed faces of her neighbours. “He wanted to marry me, did you know that?” she asked them. “Oh, yes, and when I refused, for I mean to do better than an illiterate, feckless, workshy Irish bucko, he took me anyway. Now he’s sniffing round my sister—”

  “More ’n sniffin’, Nancy Brody. You ask ’er. You ask ’er what me an’ ’er’s bin up to this last few months. Go on, tell ’er, Rosie,” even though Rosie had already confessed. “All this time when yer were serpossed ter be wi’ that mate o’ yours, tell ’er ’oo yer were really with, so. An’ tell ’er ’tis yerself I want ter be marryin’, not ’er. She’s jealous, that’s what’s up wi’ ’er.”