OPENING A BLEARY eye, Ivy frowned as the wispy mew sounded again. It took a moment for her tired brain to register it and she smiled as recognition dawned. She heaved her thin body from the straw mattress, still spiky and itchy despite the two blankets, and lifted her shawl from the foot of the bed.
She tried in vain to stem a shiver. The early morning breeze still found a way through the draughty window, despite the rags stuffed around the edges, and it seeped through the threadbare shirt of Arthur’s she wore for bed.
By, I bet the babby’s freezing, she fretted, wrapping the matted shawl around her shoulders.
She slipped out of bed, careful not to wake her husband who would have to be up soon enough for the pithead at Breightmet Colliery; its two pits provided employment for many locals. After padding to the makeshift cot – the bottom drawer from the kitchen dresser which, lined with a ragged blanket, had served all eight of hers – she lifted the scrap of life, swaddled in old clothing, and headed for the door.
It was still pitch black behind the lengths of worn sacking that served as curtains. Cradling the baby in the crook of one arm, she held out the other as a guide. She could have lit the stub of candle on the chipped saucer by the bed, but was loath to. Brass was tight with but two children at home and Arthur’s meagre wages.
Granted, they were better off than some and she counted her blessings daily for what they had but still, life was a constant struggle. After rent, food and coal, little remained for luxuries.
Jonathan whimpered and she shushed him quietly. ‘All right, my little lad, all right. Let’s get you a drop of milk afore you waken the men. Oh, did he waken thee?’ she added guiltily as Arthur stirred. He’d allowed her since the start to have the child in with them so she could care for him during the night to let Sally rest.
‘Nay, wench, it’s all right,’ he answered on a yawn. ‘What’s the hour?’
‘I’ll go and see. Stop in bed while I light the fire and make breakfast.’ She lifted her bottle-green weekday dress from a chair and descended the stairs.
Gasping as her bare feet met the kitchen’s cold flagged floor, she hurried to the fire and laid the baby upon the colourful rag rug before it. Squatting beside him, she raked out the dead ashes then built a small pyramid of twigs and dried moss on the faintly glowing cinders.
When it crackled and smoked, she added lumps of coal from a pail and watched in satisfaction as they turned crimson, bathing the room in a cosy glow. She then filled an iron kettle from another pail, hooked it on the bar and swung it over the fire.
She chuckled as the baby stared up at her intently, quieter now warmth radiated through the bars. Noticing his napkin was sopping, she poured the warmed water into a tin dish, stripped him, cleaned him with a scrap of cloth and dressed him in a woollen vest from a string line above the fire, cooing and smiling as she worked.
She removed her shawl, wrapped him in it and returned him to the rug. She then washed herself with the remainder of the water in the dish and slipped into her dress.
Her mouth curved in a smile as she glanced at the clock ticking quietly on the mantel. Her husband and sons still had half an hour’s luxury of staying in bed before another day’s grafting on the coalface began. The perilous work was gruelling; they needed all the sleep they could snatch.
She brushed a kiss across the child’s fuzzy hair. ‘Come on, my little love, let’s get your belly filled.’ Opening the door to the front room of the cottage, she allowed her eyes to become accustomed to the gloom before making for the narrow, iron-framed bed.
Sally lay on her back, covers pulled to her chin. Even sleep couldn’t lift her troubled expression, Ivy noticed sadly. The bruises were now myriad faint yellows and blues and the near fortnight in her care had put some much-needed flesh on the young bones. But body and mind were exhausted.
When she roused from the slumbers that consumed her each day, Sally’s tearful apologies at being such a burden brought a lump to Ivy’s throat. She’d assured the pathetically grateful woman that she and her child were welcome for as long as needs be.
Anger bubbled inside her at the thought of Joseph. ‘What’s he done to thee?’ she whispered to the broken girl. Sighing, she shook her gently. ‘Lass, Jonathan wants feeding again.’
Sally struggled into a sitting position. ‘What time is it?’
‘It’s early yet. Latch him on and go back to sleep. I’ll keep an eye to him.’
The young woman slipped her shift from her shoulders. Her son, blue eyes wide, nudged at her open-mouthed, and laughing softly, she guided him to her. ‘He’s perfect, isn’t he, Mrs Morgan?’
Emotion rose in Ivy at the sight of mother and child. ‘Aye, he is that. Now, are you for kipping or stopping up? If it’s the latter, you fill his belly and I’ll fetch summat to fill yours.’
The smile slipped from Sally’s face. ‘Wait a moment until he’s had his fill and I’ll help you. It’s not right you waiting on me; let me mash the tea at least.’
Halfway to the door, Ivy turned. Despite the offer, her eyelids were drooping. ‘It’s all right, lass. You rest with your babby.’
Sighing, Sally snuggled against him. ‘Thank you, Mrs Morgan. Thank you.’
When the door clicked shut, Sally smiled softly with gratitude. The sounds of suckling and faint clinking of crockery from the kitchen were comforting, safe; blissful feelings she’d thought she’d never again encounter.
She still couldn’t quite believe she was here. It had taken days to comprehend that, after all these years, she’d finally escaped. It seemed like a lovely dream, and that any moment she’d wake to find herself back in the nightmare she’d suffered so very long. She ran a hand through her hair and sighed. What was she to do? She couldn’t stay here for ever, however much she’d like.
That these strangers had taken in her and her child without hesitation, showing nothing but kindness and understanding, still amazed her. She wished she’d told of the abuse years ago and Ivy had scolded her gently, saying the same.
Why didn’t I knock when he was at the inn or pit and beg Ivy’s help? she asked herself again. The answer was always the same. It was easy in hindsight to berate herself but quite another thing when in the thick of it, with seemingly no way out.
All those wasted years. All those beatings and poor babies born too soon. But this miracle child, thanks to Ivy, survived. He was her gift, her reason to fight. She could never repay this family. They had given not only her child but herself a chance at life.
Within days of her marriage, she’d begun planning her escape. Yet though she hated to admit it, even to herself, she wasn’t sure she’d have ever found the strength. His hold had been so extreme that, but for Ivy, she’d probably still be next door.
She peered down at the baby. Born from a monster’s seed. The thought flitted often, but this child wouldn’t grow to be like him. He may have created this life with her but that was all he could lay claim to. Shaking her head to dispel the painful thoughts, she lifted the baby’s tiny hand and kissed it. Her son, her son, would be a decent man and a good husband, she’d make sure of it. She had to stop thinking of the past and concentrate on the future, however uncertain.
She’d been terrified of Joseph turning up but knew now that as long as she was here, she was safe; Ivy had told of his running away when Arthur challenged him. A smile touched her lips. For once, he’d have known how it was to be scared. No, he wouldn’t return. For now, she and her child were free from harm.
Movement from the floor above pulled her from her thoughts and she smiled again. She’d become used to the cottage’s routine, knew that it was Arthur rising for work. His sons would be down shortly and the family would have breakfast.
She liked this time of day most. Each morning, she’d lie here listening to these people in wonder. The easy chatter, the banter, the elder son’s deep, infectious laugh … The cottage exuded warmth and happiness and she drew strength from it, soaking it up like a thirsty flower in a downpour. This was how a home should be.
A surge of anger towards Joseph and the home he’d created caused her chest to constrict and she closed her eyes, revelling in it. She’d become so used to being afraid for so long, she’d almost forgotten how it was to feel anything else. Pride flowed through her as she remembered venting her fury that day and the astonishment on his face. She was glad she’d spoken her mind. And she’d meant every word. She did detest him and did wish he were dead.
She’d also managed, despite everything, to hold fast about the money.
Maybe the old Sally was inside somewhere, she thought with a smile, slipping back into a peaceful sleep.
Pushing and shoving one another down the well-scrubbed stairs, the Morgan sons halted, their laughter dying, as Ivy hissed, ‘’Ere, youse two, the lass and babby are akip in there.’ Hands on hips, she scowled. ‘By, you’re a pair of noisy swines.’
Shaun raked a hand through his mop of light-brown curls. ‘Sorry, Mam. I didn’t think.’
‘Aye, sorry, Mam. Not used to having a babby in t’ house. Nor a bonny lass, eh, Shaun?’ Tommy winked slowly then laughed as he dodged a swipe from his red-faced brother.
‘Aye, you can stop that sort of talk right now, my lad.’
‘I’m only jesting, Mam. Our Shaunie boy’s hardly noticed her. Have you?’ Draping an arm across his brother’s shoulders, Tommy gave another exaggerated wink and Shaun shrugged it off and stalked to the table. ‘Ay, come on, Shaunie boy. I’m only jesting with thee.’ Grinning, he chucked him under the chin.
Taking another swipe, and missing again, Shaun glowered. ‘Well, it’s not funny. And stop calling me Shaunie boy.’
‘Right, youse two, give over,’ Ivy said over Tommy’s laughter. ‘You’re not too big forra clout and you’ll not dodge mine as fast, Tommy lad.’
‘Aye, and hers will hurt a damn sight more.’ Arthur crossed the small space and joined his sons at the table, smiling fondly at her. ‘Gorra reet belting left hook, has your mam.’
‘Don’t talk daft, Arth— Oi, you, mucky hands!’ Placing a smoke-blackened pan on the table, she clicked her tongue when Tommy scooped out a dollop of porridge. She rapped his knuckles with a wooden ladle and he grinned then popped his finger into his mouth. And despite her best efforts, she couldn’t help smiling back.
Nineteen-year-old Tommy was strikingly handsome and the apple of her eye. Though she’d have never admitted to having a favourite, he was hers. With floppy hair as black as the coal he’d mined for nigh on ten years and sweeping eyelashes any woman would be proud of, framing grey-blue eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled, and a strong, square jaw – not to mention his muscular physique – he cut a fine figure.
It’s not his looks, mind, she mused as she spooned porridge into three bowls and sprinkled on the last of the sugar. It’s his way with folk.
The joker of the family, nothing got him down; not even working the pit, which Shaun hated with a passion. There was nothing to dislike about Tommy and she was proud to call him her son. Her surviving children were precious, all five, but he brought her that little more joy. Ashamed as she was of this, she couldn’t change her feelings.
With a small shake of her head, she pushed away the guilty thoughts, reached for the cream, pockmarked teapot and poured weak tea into four handleless cups. After passing them around, she lifted her own and took a hesitant sip.
I’ll have to see if Percy will let me have a few more bits on tick, later, she thought, grimacing at the unsweetened brew and noticing Arthur and the lads doing likewise.
The old man, who had converted the front room of his cottage into a shop, allowed Spring Row’s women to make purchases ‘on the slate’, clearing their debts on Saturdays when their menfolk were paid.
As she was busy mentally listing what she needed, a loud bark made Ivy jump. She cursed as tea sploshed from her cup, settling in the grooves of the table.
‘I’ll throttle that scraggy pest. I’m bleedin’ sick of it.’ She craned her neck to the window for a glimpse of the black dog that had hung around the lane for months. ‘Some bugger must be feeding it; just wait till I find out who.
‘Now come on, you three, afore you’re late,’ she added, mopping at the table with her coarse apron. ‘The hooter will be sounding if you’re not careful. You know they’ll tolerate no excuses for bad timekeeping; you’ll finish up having your wages docked. Or losing your places.’ She shuddered. No family could risk that.
Shaun, as usual, dragged his feet as he made for the door with his father and brother.
‘’Ere, lad.’ Her tone softened as she handed him his bait tin containing a hunk of the bread baked last night, smeared thinly with pork dripping, for his midday meal. Arthur’s and Tommy’s contained the same, though her husband’s was marginally thicker.
Shaun took the battered box and immediately checked inside for the stub of candle he insisted on carrying, ‘just in case’. His logic behind this, she neither knew nor asked. If the grubby block of wax brought the lad comfort, made his working life more bearable, it was fine by her.
His young face relaxed a little to see it, which pierced her heart, but as all pit wives and mothers must, she hardened herself to it. She had to; what choice was there? For men of their class, uneducated and unskilled in everything but lifting a pickaxe, it was the pit or starve. It was that simple.
She’d have given her right arm – both legs, too – for the lads to have the chance of bettering themselves, as their father hadn’t. But her determination that they would avoid the inevitable direction of the pit came to nothing. Hopes and dreams she’d fiercely held while lovingly cradling her children had been just that: pointless hopes and shattered dreams.
Reality had proved very different. Their daughters, married with children of their own, made counterpanes in a cotton factory, as did many of Breightmet Fold’s residents; their husbands worked at the bleach works. Their eldest son, who toiled alongside his father and brothers, lived with his new wife in a tiny, wood-built house on Red Lane, a short distance from Spring Row.
The township of Breightmet, where she’d dwelled her whole life, lay on the east side of the Parish of Bolton, in Lancashire, between Bradshaw Brook to the west and Blackshaw Brook to the east. Harwood straddled its northern boundary. Its name literally meant ‘Bright Meadow’; views from its upper ridge revealed a landscape dominated by hills.
The jumble of scattered homesteads housed a relatively small population. Though most were pitifully poor, the sprawling greenness, dotted with springs and babbling brooks, seemed to hold them in a hypnotic trap; leaving was, to many, incomprehensible. However, three of her and Arthur’s younger children had left. And dear God, how they missed them.
An outbreak of cholera had raged throughout the town in ’48 and stolen them, ravaging their little bodies until she, their own mother, prayed for their deaths and an end to their suffering. Thankful as she was that it spared her others, memories haunted her day and night.
Now, seeing Shaun, her baby, his freckled face etched in misery no fourteen-year-old should know, soul-corroding grief and cruel injustice bubbled like a cauldron set to explode.
On impulse, she drew him to her flat bosom. Silence filled the kitchen. Though not a cold wife or mother, open shows of affection were not in her nature.
Arthur touched her shoulder. ‘Me and our Tommy and James allus keep an eye to the lad. He’s gorra get used to it, as do we all, and should’ve by now,’ he said gruffly.
She sniffed, nodded and gently pushed Shaun from her. But he’s not like most lads, she wanted to protest. He’s sensitive, unhappy, scared. Yet she didn’t. What was the point? It wouldn’t make a scrap of difference. Instead, she wiped tears from his flushed cheeks and cleared her throat. ‘Aye, they’ll keep an eye to thee.’
‘Aye.’ Tommy flashed a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘We’ll allus have your back, Shaunie b— Shaun.’
The amendment didn’t go unnoticed. Shaun smiled ruefully. ‘Don’t be telling all the fellas I’ve been bawling on Mam’s shoulder, our Tommy. I just hate it down there.’
For once, Tommy made no joke or quip, nor laughed his hearty laugh. He didn’t even smile. ‘No fear, lad.’
Back to her brusque self, she shooed them through the door into the row, where a slight drizzle fell from a slate-grey sky. The men pulled their jacket collars around their chins and, heads lowered, trudged down the path.
Standing in the doorway, she wrapped her arms in the folds of her apron against the cold and, when Arthur turned, called, ‘Aye, I’ll not forget.’
Satisfied, he swung through the gate and fell into step between his sons, merging with others on their way to work, the nails in their pit boots ringing in the misty dawn.
Reaching on tiptoe then stooping, she bolted the door. No one had seen nor heard a word of Joseph Goden, but he’d be back. They knew that for sure.
As she cleared the table, her brow creased. He was an evil swine capable of anything, as that Sunday proved. His rage-filled face, as he’d towered over his wife, had shocked her to the core.
When she’d heard Sally’s cries when passing their cottage to retrieve her purse, her first thought was she’d gone into labour and was having a difficult birth. Knocking several times and getting no reply, she’d opened her neighbours’ door, the offer of assistance on her lips. The sight that met her had rendered her speechless.
After pouring hot water into a ceramic basin, she now put in the breakfast dishes and attacked them with a cloth as the memories ran on. He’d been about to beat his defenceless wife. That in itself was bad enough but by God, the lass was in labour. What make of man would do such a thing? That’s just it, she thought, nodding grimly. He’s not a bleedin’ man. He’s a dirty great coward.
Despite her anger, she couldn’t suppress a smile as she recalled striding forward and delivering an ear-splitting slap to his cheek, sending him stumbling into the wall. He’d stood slack-mouthed for a good half a minute as astonishment, slowly followed by rage, passed over his face. In that time, she’d managed to half carry, half drag Sally out.
They were barely in the safety of her cottage when, his shock seemingly having worn off, Joseph’s barrage of abuse began outside her door. She was just thankful Arthur arrived when he did.
She plucked a huckaback cloth from a rope line beneath the window and, muttering to herself, dried the assortment of dishes and placed them on the rack. From the old bruising and what little she’d gleaned from Sally, that wasn’t the first time he’d raised his fists. Yet in all the years living next door, she’d seen no indication he was leading Sally a dog’s life; not a sound penetrated the stone separating them.
Aye, he’s a snidy one, all right. He’d have known he could fair do as he liked without anyone hearing, she thought angrily. And whenever she’d glimpsed Sally in the row, she had her shawl drawn low, obscuring her face. No doubt to hide her many bruises.
Easing into a chair, Ivy shook her greying head and poured herself the stewed dregs from the pot. He wasn’t the friendliest of neighbours, granted, but discovering he treated the lass as he did came as a huge shock. The rage Sally’s escape evoked must have chased all caution of revealing his true self. Others had voiced their suspicions but – she felt ashamed admitting it, now – she’d thought it nothing but idle gossip. She’d even gone as far as defending Joseph, when Martha Smith questioned her in Percy’s one afternoon.
‘Surely you must know, Ivy, dwelling next door, like. You heard owt untoward?’
Folding her arms, she’d stared back fixedly. If there was one thing she couldn’t abide, it was gossip. ‘You want to be careful flinging mud like that about, Martha, for some might stick. I’ve neither seen nor heard owt amiss from yon Godens’ cottage and unless you have, you ought to keep your opinions to yourself.’
‘Well, there’s summat queer about that fella, if you ask me. And that young wife of his is like a frightened rabbit. Never given no one the time of day, they’ve not, since moving here.’
‘Aye, well. You just mind your own and let others mind theirs,’ she’d retorted, convinced that Martha’s problem was there were people in the row she knew nothing about; Martha made it her business to know everyone else’s.
Ivy and the Godens had never spoken except for a cursory ‘hello’. Some folk were like that, preferred keeping themselves to themselves; she hadn’t given it a second thought. She should have listened to Martha’s concerns. If she’d pressed for an explanation, could they have avoided this?
Tongues will be wagging now, all right. Gossip must be rife, she thought with a sigh. She crossed the room and lifted her outdoor shawl from a nail in the wall. Imagining Martha’s gloating face when their paths next crossed, she heaved another sigh. She wasn’t relishing the ‘I told you so’ speech Martha had undoubtedly rehearsed.
A stab of unease pricked as she dragged the bars across. Arthur wouldn’t like it if he knew she’d left the door unbolted but she had to get the evening meal in, not to mention sugar for a decent brew. Sally usually locked it behind her but she was reluctant to disturb her. The poor girl needed all the rest she could get.
Percy’s was only five doors down and being early, it shouldn’t be busy. She’d be no longer than a minute or two, she reasoned. She drew the shawl across her shoulders, knotted the ends beneath her breasts and picked up her basket.
Thankful the rain had stopped, she stepped into the weak sunshine. But glancing left to Sally’s cottage, apprehension ran down her spine.
Frowning, she dithered a moment longer. Then pulling the door shut, she hurried down the path.
‘And how’s the lass fettling?’ Lifting Ivy’s requests from various shelves, Percy Flint smiled over his shoulder.
‘She’s bearing up, Percy.’
She heard sadness cloud her voice and knew the old man had, too; he tactfully changed the subject. A weeping woman in his shop was the last thing he’d want. Though he knew she wasn’t the soft sort, clearly he wasn’t taking any chances.
‘Right, Ivy love. Milk, sugar, ham shank, tatties and a screw of tea. Owt else, lass?’ Squinting through rheumy eyes, he grinned across the dust-speckled counter, revealing shiny pink gums beyond his sunken mouth.
Remembering all the bread had gone into the men’s bait tins, she nodded. ‘Can I have a stone of flour and a quarter of yeast, please, Percy? I’ll clear up with you the morrow when Arthur and the lads get home.’
‘I know you will, lass, you allus does. Not like some I could mention.’ Despite her being the only customer present, he lowered his voice. ‘It’s rich they must think I am. They gets stuff on t’ tick then come up with all the excuses under the sun come payday. But for folk like your good self, my belly would be meeting my backbone by now.’
Placing her purchases into her basket, she chuckled. ‘Now you know Nancy wouldn’t see that happen. Thinks the world of thee, that lass does.’
His only child called twice daily with his midday and evening meal. Her mother had succumbed to pneumonia the year before and Ivy knew he relied on the visits and hearty meals more than he’d admit. His wife’s passing broke his heart but, fiercely independent, he’d declined Nancy’s offer of her and her brood joining his lonely but comfortable abode.
Despite his grumbles of customers’ shortcomings, his convenient little shop, which sold all manner of foodstuff and more, was, Ivy suspected, a lucrative business. And shrewd Nancy likely knew it, too.
Running a gnarled hand through his shock of white hair, Percy smiled impishly. ‘Aye, she keeps me in grub, don’t see me clemmed, but it’s not out of the goodness of her heart, let me tell you. She’s got her sights set on this place when I’ve kicked the bucket; that’s all what’s dragging her arse here!’
‘She’s a long wait if them’s her intentions, eh? Fit as a new fiddle, you are. You’ll outlive us all.’
‘Well, we’ll see about that, Ivy, for it wouldn’t surprise me if she were adding summat to them dinners she fetches,’ he mused, stroking his whiskery chin.
She hooted with laughter. ‘Don’t talk so bleedin’ daft!’ Lifting her laden basket and resting the handle in the crook of her arm, she headed for the door. ‘I’ll be seeing thee, Percy love, and thanks.’
Having written her purchases in a leather-bound ledger, he returned it to a shelf beneath the counter. ‘Aye, lass, I’ll be seeing thee. I’ll be seeing our Nancy shortly, an’ all.’ Licking his lips, he winked. ‘Mmm, arsenic stew. I can’t wait!’
She was still smiling as she walked the short distance home. He was a canny sod. The sharp-tongued Nancy might be a grabbing article but looked after him well enough.
Turning through her gate, her breath caught in her chest, thoughts of Percy vanishing, when she saw the half-open door. A deep voice from within spilled into the row and she marched up the path and shoved the door, sending it crashing against the wall. The scene sent fury through her veins.
The man towering over Sally turned sharply. Dropping her basket, she met his equally hostile stare. ‘What the divil’s going on here?’