HOW LONG SHE’D been curled up in the privy, Pip couldn’t say. Its familiarity was oddly comforting. Tightening into a ball, she buried her head in her arms.
Her dazed mind had been incapable of rational thought and on instinct alone, her feet had carried her to the only place she knew: the slums of Ancoats. She couldn’t even recall the journey, yet here she was. Back in the darkness and fear and suffocating hopelessness of the place. Back where she’d begun. She’d never felt so utterly miserable.
Night-time noises drifted from the street beyond the broken door: slurred shouts and singing, laughter and curses of drinkers homeward bound, swirling with the dizzying thoughts filling her head until her brain was exhausted. Worst was the pain in her heart and her guts, which had increased steadily with the hours. Simon, Mack. She’d left them behind.
So lost had she been in the numbing grief, she hadn’t thought to seek them out, explain the situation. Without a moment’s pause or thought she’d sprinted from the house, from the agonising truth that all believed her a demon capable of such wickedness and wanted her gone. And however much she regretted it, she also knew a tinge of gladness. For the lads just might be permitted to stay on at Bracken House – after all, she was the monster in the household’s eyes, wasn’t she? The boys were guilty of no wrongdoing. And they deserved to remain, to continue the new life they had found, to be healthy, clean, safe. If she’d pelted to the garden and poured out the incident to them, they would have been at her side in a heartbeat and she’d have hated herself for it afterwards, because they didn’t deserve to be cast out.
But neither did I, her inner voice said, and she squeezed her eyes shut to block out the images returning to play behind them, mocking her with their cruelty. She saw again Caroline’s stony face and glinting eyes as she watched the proceedings. Oh, but she hated her, hated her! And Philip’s anger, the words he’d spewed, the names he’d called her. Was he in on the act or had his wife hoodwinked him, too, into believing the horrid tale? she wondered. She shrugged. It mattered not, now, did it? One thing was clear – Philip did take after his father in at least one respect: he harboured for his offspring a deep and fierce love. How she wished she had her father to care for and protect her, as Lucy did. But he was gone from this world.
Speaking of Miss Lucy … Hunched over as though in physical pain, her distress, her voice as she’d uttered the one word that had torn Pip’s heart in two: ‘Yes.’ And her own mother was behind the act, had forced her child to speak it, to be rid of Pip, to ruin her life. Why, why? Just what had she done to deserve such vitriol?
The master’s anger and disappointment flitted back and cut just as deep this time around. Yet it was the memory of Cook’s expression, the uncertainty that had taken root in her grey eyes at Lucy’s admission, that seared far more. For Pip had begun to look upon the large and formidable being almost as a mother figure. She felt betrayed, let down, heartbroken that the saviour she’d come to love had turned on her. For nothing. I’ve done nothing!
And Miss Josephine. Oh, but she must be beside herself. How would she cope? Would she hate Pip for deserting her in her time of need? And she’d promised to aid the lady, too. She’d vowed to see her through her illness, to help her combat it. And now, Josephine would grow more agitated at the prospect of fighting this alone again, would get worse and all would be lost with Mr Sutton-Shaw, and her future would be ruined. Oh why, why? Pip asked herself of Caroline again, tears burning.
But Simon and young Mack, the thought of never seeing them again … the pain of that overrode all else and now her anguish burst forth. The crying awakened her pain-shocked brain. Great gushing sobs tore from her, making her splutter for breath. Lads, lads. I miss thee, need thee …
‘Nay, mister. Please, mister!’
The small scared voice sounded mere feet away from Pip’s hiding place; gulping down her emotion, she listened harder. After some moments, the child – for that’s clearly what it was – spoke again:
‘Nay. Nay, please. I don’t want to!’
Frowning, Pip shuffled towards the door and squinted through one of the numerous holes. At first, the dark street appeared deserted. Then a tall figure flitted in the pool of murky gaslight close by and she held her breath. The silhouette shifted into view but though it was facing her and but a short distance away, the dim light failed to pick out its facial features clearly; though it was quite obvious it was a man – a gentleman at that. His tall hat and the trim cut of his cloth proved this, as did the shiny cane he carried under his arm, its tip winking gold in the lamp’s glow. He glanced up and down the street and, satisfied no one was approaching, returned his attention to whatever business he’d been about.
‘Mister, I don’t like it.’
Pip’s heartbeat quickened at the fright in the youngster’s voice – the youngster in this gentleman’s company, she realised, peering through the gap between his legs and spotting two small boots that stood facing his own. He seemed to have the child wedged against a wall, in a nook between two warehouses.
‘Come, now. Dry your tears. Don’t you want the shillings I promised you?’
The banging in her chest sped to a gallop. She recognised that smooth, refined voice only too well. The man who had attempted to lure away Mack a short time ago.
God above, but he was trying it with another! And from the sound of this one’s distress, he was doing what Simon had said he would: he was hurting the poor mite, or soon would. She couldn’t sit here and allow it to happen, she couldn’t, despite her fear. And afraid she was, for this man was dangerous and violent to boot, had proven it with his cane that day across Simon’s back. She must intervene, no matter the outcome. She’d never forgive herself otherwise.
Slowly, slowly, she eased open the door and edged outside. Keeping to the shadows, she stole closer.
‘Oh, nay. What are you …? Oh, you mustn’t, mister!’
Sounds of a struggle could be heard, then: ‘Cease this nonsense!’ the gentleman snarled, his patience gone. ‘You, boy, will do my bidding or feel my wrath. Do you understand? Quiet!’ he added when the child began to weep softly, the sound muffled as though the man had a hand over his mouth. ‘Or so help me, you’ll regret it.’
Pip bit down on her lip until she tasted blood, her every nerve urging her to spring on them, stop this monster from harming the boy further. Yet still, fear held her back and she cursed her cowardice. The gentleman’s breathing had quickened and it seemed his victim had given up resisting; he uttered no sound, now. Suddenly, Mack’s bonny grin and laughing blue eyes crashed through Pip’s mind and hot fury flooded her veins. Of their own accord, her hands balled into tight fists. She stepped into view. ‘’Ere, stop!’
With a gasp, the gentleman whipped around.
‘You’ll harm the mite no further, d’you hear?’ she announced boldly, though the quaver behind the words gave her terror away and she cursed inwardly. She cleared her throat to banish the shakiness. ‘You leave him be.’
‘I don’t believe … You again?’ In one swift movement, the gentleman lunged, catching her off guard. She lost her footing and his face twisted in a grim smile as she hurtled backwards. Her buttocks hit the hard flags first, the impact stealing the breath from her, and she rolled into the gutter, hitting her head on the journey, to lie in the filth in a crumpled heap. Through bleary eyes, she peered up, a hand out in front of her to ward off his inevitable advance. ‘Nay, leave me … Someone help me!’ she cried hoarsely, trying to haul herself up.
Clogged steps struck the cobbles as the little boy made his escape up Great Ancoats Street; swearing under his breath, the man threw Pip a furious look. ‘You interfering gutter-dog. I’ll snuff you out this time, you see if I don’t! It’s not as though anyone shall miss or mourn a parasite such as you, is it?’ He closed in on her, fingers, like bony talons, outstretched, and a scream ripped from her. To her relief, her act had the desired effect: he paused, worry flitting across his long face, and glanced left and right.
Taking advantage of the moment’s distraction, she skittered to her feet. Her head felt weightless, her vision fuzzy. When she reached up to the tender spot that had made contact with the ground, something hot and sticky met her touch. Blood. Her hair was wet with it and she knew a moment’s panic as dizziness swooped again, stronger than before.
Please don’t let me faint, for I’ll be at this devil’s mercy completely and Lord knows what he’s capable of, she willed herself as she swayed slightly on the spot. She had to get away. She must, but how? His looming form would be on her before she could take a few steps. Help me, Lord, please!
Assistance came not from God, but from two figures turning the corner.
The gentleman, peering towards the newcomers with a mixture of scorn and unease, drew in a furious breath. Pip took her chance. Surely he wouldn’t seize her or give chase with witnesses up ahead? Twisting on her heel, she bolted in a somewhat drunken sprint in the opposite direction. Her own were the only pounding feet to be heard. The gentleman hadn’t set off after her in pursuit; relieved tears sprang to her eyes. Gasping, she continued down the street, trying desperately to regain her balance. Her injured head had begun to thump and nausea was rising.
Before hurtling around the corner into the inky blackness of Mather Street, she thought she heard someone call her name. Certain it was her muddled senses playing games, she didn’t stop. Nor did she look back. Ignoring her burning lungs, she picked up her feet and ran faster.
A few turnings later – how many, she couldn’t say, couldn’t be sure of anything, now – kaleidoscopic colours popped and burst behind her eyes, merging with the pewter of the cobblestones. She was aware of juddering to a halt in the centre of the road. Then weight left her body and she folded to the floor in a dead faint.
‘Ay, you’re for wakening finally. All right, lass?’
‘Mm?’
‘Drink this.’
Fiery liquid trickled down her throat and she gagged and spluttered. Though surprisingly, after some seconds, it seemed to help. The pain she felt in numerous places numbed to a dull ache and the muggy feeling inside her head slowly subsided.
‘’Tis brandy, is all. For the shock, like.’
Pip squinted through the gloomy light of a single candle. A squat man in his middle years sat on a low stool beside her, stroking his long dirty beard, eyes holding relief. She raised herself on an elbow. ‘Where am I?’
‘Nan Nuttall’s place.’
‘Who?’
‘Nan Nuttall. She runs the common lodging house you’re sitting in.’ He rose and crossed to a small deal table propped against one wall. A fire burning low in the grate lent some of its meagre light to his features. He was painfully thin, she saw; his sunken cheekbones and hungry stare, as he tore with his hands a heel of loaf in two, were testament to a strife-worn life. Returning to her, he held out a piece.
Having grown accustomed to Bracken House’s regular meals, which were of substantial proportions, her stomach seemed no longer the shrunken thing it had been. Used to being filled now, and not having eaten since lunchtime, the hunger she’d been fortunate not to know for a while had crept upon her like a stealthy foe. That familiar instinct of survival told her to snatch the crust and feed, but she had to ask: ‘Mister, is tha sure?’
‘Aye. Go on, take it.’
‘Ta, thanks.’
‘Nowt left to drink, mind,’ he told her through a mouthful of stale crumbs. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s all right,’ she lied, quite desperate for a sup of milky tea.
‘Folks calls me Peter.’
‘I’m Pip.’
‘Pip?’ His brows, like fat slugs, bunched together. ‘Like what you find in fruit?’
She shrugged. ‘S’pose so.’
‘Aye, well. Takes all sorts to make a world.’
She nodded and they lapsed into silence as they ate their spartan meal. Afterwards, she felt much better. She fingered the back of her head. Though it was tender to the touch, the blood flow had at least ceased.
‘Took a tumble, did thee?’ Peter motioned to her injury.
‘Aye.’
‘That’ll be what had you passing out, no doubt, as you did. I spotted thee in the road, thought you were a dead dog forra minute. Gave me a shock, you did, when I saw you were a lass.’
‘You carried me in here?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Ta. Ta, Peter.’
It seemed to take an effort to bring a small smile to his lips, as though he wasn’t used to it. Mind, given his obvious circumstances, it was little wonder. A body on the dire side of life had little reason to smile.
‘There’s many a bad ’un lurking round these ’ere streets when the sun’s high – the night hours are worser still. And well, when I spied you by chance through the window … I couldn’t very well leave thee alone out there, could I?’
The truth in his words she understood only too well. She shuddered. ‘Ta,’ she repeated.
‘You destitute, like?’ he asked, as though sensing her experiences of the past.
She hesitated in giving an affirmative answer. But why? She was, wasn’t she? A lump formed in her throat. That she was back on these mean streets again! The horror, fear, uncertainty – and this time all alone. Lord, how would she bear it?
‘Thought as much. Mind, to look at thee …’ He nodded to her dress.
She clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh! Oh nay, I …’ Shame coloured her cheeks. In her haste earlier, she’d forgotten all about her clothing, should have given everything back straight away. What must the household think of her? A thief as well as a brute … ‘I stole it,’ she whispered.
‘Aye, well. We does what we must, eh?’
‘Nay, you don’t under— I’ve never once stolen owt in my life afore.’
‘Don’t fret much over it. All will seem brighter the morrow, it allus does. You’re welcome of my bed. The floor don’t mither me; it’s not like I ain’t passed a night on t’ ground afore now. And these here boards look a sight comfier than the flagstones out yonder. I’m just blessed of the dry roof over me. And the warmth. Aye, I’ll be reet in front of yon fire.’
Relief washed through Pip. Thoughts of returning outside, where that devilish gentleman and others of his ilk roamed, had her shaking with dread. ‘Won’t Nan Nuttall mind?’
It was his turn to shrug. ‘Whether she will or no, it’ll be too late, won’t it, by morning? She’ll not venture down here no more the night.’
‘But happen she sends thee packing? What will you do the morrow night?’
He released a gruff chuckle. ‘I haven’t the brass for the morrow’s bed and ain’t likely to find it, so there’s no worry on that score. In any case, I’m for moving on come daybreak.’ He made for the table again and lifted the stub of candle. ‘Come on, I’ll show you to next door. ’Tis sleep you need; to heal, like. You’ll feel better come morning.’
It was now that Pip realised they were in some mode of communal kitchen-cum-sitting area. Light from the candle Peter now held up showed a small, grubby-looking cooking range with a few sagging chairs crushed around it. Besides the table she’d already seen, several stools and empty wooden crates completed the furnishings. It wasn’t grand like Bracken House, by any stretch of the imagination. Yet as Peter had pointed out, it was at least dry. And preferable to the streets in that it was safe, if nothing else.
They entered a long room crammed with iron bedsteads; in here, filth and poverty stagnated the air like a noxious gas. Trying not to openly grimace, she followed the man to an empty bed squeezed between two others, the walking space leading to it barely passable, so narrow was it. This Nan Nuttall knew how to make brass, all right, Pip thought, reckoning there should be half the number of beds in here. But, beggars couldn’t be choosers, could they? And that’s what she was, now, once again. At least she would have to be tomorrow if she wanted to eat, survive. And the day after that, and the next day … God above, she was going to cry again.
‘You’ll receive no trouble from any person here present,’ he said loud enough for the seemingly slumbering room to hear. He added in a clear and grim warning, ‘Mind, if you’ve need of me, just yell.’
‘Ta, ever so,’ she whispered, hoping his veiled threat to the others would be sufficient to steer them away from trying anything with her and that she wouldn’t be in want of his assistance. She knew what folk who frequented these establishments were capable of. The dregs of society, all ages and every manner of criminal and sinner passed through the doors of lodging houses such as these, which choked every pocket of this city. She, Simon and Mack had passed a night here and there in such places when they could spare the pennies.
Peter left to return to the room next door and she glanced at the dark lumps of humanity all around her, huddled from the biting cold beneath every manner of coverings: threadbare blankets and sheets, and ragged scraps of material that had once been God only knew what; even newspaper. Anything that could be used to chase the chill from your bones, was.
Thoughts of Cook’s clean and comfortable bed, the boys’ warm bodies snuggled close either side of her, the heady sense of sheer contentment she’d known and wouldn’t again brought back the agonising ache inside. She clenched her teeth together tightly to quash her emotion. She couldn’t let it escape, she couldn’t, for she’d never be able to stem it. She felt torn to bits inside, worse than she’d ever known or thought possible. Broken, utterly. Alone. And she wouldn’t ever be mended. She couldn’t make this better. No one could.
Thoughts consumed with loss, she unlaced and removed her new boots through instinct alone and placed them under her lumpy, and rather smelly, pillow. Experience had taught her that desperate people carried out desperate deeds – any possessions that could be spirited away from the sleeping would be, and it would be a miracle indeed if you ever saw them or the perpetrators again. Then she laid her head down, dragged the scant covers around her and pulled her body into a tight ball.
My lads, my lads. The silent cry repeated like a mantra in her tortured mind. Just before a restless sleep claimed her, words from another whispered alongside them, and Pip frowned softly.
‘She’s the one put Miss Lucy up to this, I’ll be bound.’
The memory of Hardman’s speech, and the truth of it, left Pip as cold as it had last time.
‘Caroline Goldthorpe needs getting rid of …’
Before exhaustion claimed her, Pip’s head moved of its own accord in a nod.
For good and proper.