Mal Moran marched along with all the appearance of a man with a mission. Strong shoulders, used to working machinery and lifting containers of the lead mined in Wales since the time of the Romans, were pulled back and his head was held high. Rusty hair straggled from beneath a cloth cap and his full-lipped mouth protruded slightly as he rehearsed the words of apology over again. He was feeling better, as he always did, after visiting Eudora Black. She had healing in her hands and knew just what a man needed to rid himself of the filth inside his soul. What need did he have of a god who had hung on a cross? Florrie would forgive him. She always did because that’s what her faith taught her. Aye! They’d be fine as long as that bitch from the back had skedaddled.
He walked onto the Queen’s Park suspension footbridge, erected in 1852 and now suffering some wear and tear, planning on cutting through Grosvenor Park, the other side of the river, and heading up towards home along City Road towards the General Railway Station. The happy voices of trippers, who were making the most of the long summer evening, came up from the shining waters of the Dee below and there were still people promenading along the tree-lined Groves on the far bank. He frowned, resenting those who could afford to take a holiday in one of the most popular of North West England’s holiday destinations, very different from the flamboyant Blackpool with its more working class clientele. Today he couldn’t stand the men in pale flannel trousers and striped blazers; straw boaters on their arrogant heads. As for the women with their whale-boned, corseted figures, feathered and beribboned hats atop fancy hairdos, some carrying parasols protecting their complexions, they irritated him. He couldn’t bear the posh English accents that grated on his ears. How he hated them! Sometimes he felt the same about the Welsh with their sing-song voices, jabbering in their foreign tongue. He didn’t mind the Irish, despite their religion. He felt a kinship with them for having suffered hundreds of years at the oppressor heel of the English, like his own race, the Scots.
He reached the other side of the bridge and headed up towards home, unaware of his son’s hazel eyes on him. And, even if he had been, Mal would have taken no notice of Kenny.
Being ignored by his father suited that young man down to the ground. Kenny knew from long experience that the only way to survive was not to draw attention to what he was doing. But last night had been scary, almost too much to bear. He had felt saliva welling up inside his mouth, drenching his tonsils, tongue and teeth. There had been a fire inside his chest that had threatened to burst out but he had managed to control it, held back by his stepmother. Despite her disability, she was a strong, spiritual woman with a will of steel. Even so, it was time she stopped taking what he thought of as blows meant for him, though he never knew what he had done wrong.
He dragged out the back of his shirt and his fingers explored the puckered skin of the silvery scar on his back. It had been there as long as he could remember. Definitely before he and his father had come to Chester. Something terrible had happened in Scotland, too horrible for him to remember. Just like he would prefer to be able to forget last night.
Shame caused the hot tears to prickle the inside of his eyelids as he rested his chin in his hands. Coal dust begrimed fingernails dug into his cheeks as he remembered how his father had choked the life out of the dog he had found down in the streets inside the city walls that Kenny loved to explore. The area was a world away from where he lived.
There, he was at one with the tourists who came to admire Chester’s medieval buildings and enjoyed shopping in the city’s famous covered Rows. Like them, he was free to gaze with interest and wonder at the Roman remains and walk the walls. But some places were not what they seemed: he knew about the small area of back alleys and courts of the city. Slums that had been there a lot longer than those condemned buildings in the sprawling seaport of Liverpool. Due to the silting up of the River Dee, Liverpool had replaced Chester as the premier port in the north west of England. Now it was on its way to gaining city status, and only the other week, the foundation stone for a great Anglican cathedral had been laid by King Edward and Queen Alexandra on St James’ Mount. Still, Liverpool was a very different place from his beloved city.
Kenny’s thoughts were wandering and he brought them back to the remembrance of yesterday and the sight of the dog’s nose hidden in a crumbled greasy newspaper, its thin shanks quivering as he touched it gently. He had pitied it so much that he had given in to impulse and jumped down from the coal wagon and fed it some of his carryout. It had licked his fingers and he had been unable to resist taking it home. He knew his stepmother would understand, just as Alice and Hannah would, and they had.
Hannah: Kenny loved her but knew he could never speak of that love. She wasn’t for the likes of him. She was kind and clever and needed someone who would be her match, not a weakling. He wiped his eyes with the darned cuff of his jacket sleeve and forced his thoughts away from the picture of her holding him in her arms, kissing all his pain away, talking, laughing, being together always. Sometimes he felt that he might have talked once, had dreams of doing so, but then he told himself it was all in his imagination. Occasionally, after being in Hanny’s company, he would open his mouth and try to speak but, somehow, the words in his head just couldn’t get past whatever was blocking his throat. His stepmother had taken him to a healing service once to see if a visiting preacher, said to have special God-given power, could unstop his tongue. He had put a hand on his head and fingers in his mouth, prayed fervently, but to no avail.
He thought of his stepmother and her kindness to him. Unlike his father, Kenny understood her desire to believe in a God of justice and a better world than this one, although his taste ran to a more ritual, flamboyant form of worship than hers did. Not wanting to upset her, it was only on a weekday that he followed his own inclination and attended Evensong in the Cathedral.
He took a deep breath, knowing he could delay no longer, and threw the shovel into the back of the coal wagon. It landed with a thud on a heap of empty sacks and raised a cloud of coal dust. He thought about the newly dug grave, along the Dee, where he had buried the dog and hoped it would not be disturbed by foxes. He hoisted himself up into the driving seat, picked up the reins and clicked his tongue. The horse walked on in the direction of the ancient multi-arched, Old Dee stone bridge, Kenny praying that the baby was born and his stepmother had survived the birth.
‘I’d best get home,’ said Alice, dusting pastry crumbs from her fingers and squaring her shoulders. She had been hanging on, not wanting to go home, hoping that maybe Granny would come with news of her baby sister. She hadn’t and Alice dared delay no longer; if her father arrived home and she was not there, then his mood could be even more terrible than she cared to think about.
‘Hang on, girlie!’ Susannah placed three jam tarts on a plate with a screwed up scrap of newspaper containing tea and condensed milk, thinking that the gesture might soften Mal’s heart towards his children. She knew her husband wouldn’t mind if she went with the girl. Besides, she wanted to clean up Florrie’s body. She would cook supper when Jock returned. He was late but then he was on an errand of mercy. The injured man might never see again.
She smiled encouragingly at Alice. ‘I’ll come with you, lovey.’
Alice whispered her thanks.
Suddenly Bert smiled at her and said, ‘If there’s anything I can do, Alice, do let me know.’
She blushed, wondering what he thought when he looked at her. That she was a mess, probably. ‘Thanks,’ she said in a low voice. What would Bert say if she asked him to beat her father into pulp for her? He was big for his age but then her father was massive. She couldn’t risk Bert being hurt for her sake.
She watched Susannah pick up a clean nightdress, towel, flannel and block of soap from the table. The girl felt a rush of warmth. ‘It really is kind of you to do so much for us, Mrs Kirk, when you’ve got your own family to see to.’
‘What have we been put on God’s earth for but to help each other, Alice dear?’ Yet suddenly Susannah felt anger against the Almighty. How could He allow one of His faithful servants to suffer the way Florrie had at her husband’s hands? Thank God she was fortunate in her husband.
As she followed Alice out of the house, Susannah remembered how Jock had knocked at her mother’s door in search of lodgings. It was the day the old queen had been proclaimed Empress of India; the same week Susannah had seen her first steam-driven vehicle on the road. Jock had been a well-set up youth, with a broad Scottish accent, newly arrived from the north. An orphan with no family, he had come south in search of work and security.
Her widowed mother had taken him in. Soon he proved his usefulness and had stayed on, painting and repairing things when needed, mending shoes and boots, never putting a foot wrong. His accent had moderated and, knowing which side his bread was buttered on as mother and daughter cosseted him, he was polite and thoughtful. When the old woman died, he asked Susannah to marry him, despite her being eight years his senior. She had trained him in her ways and the marriage had worked out well.
They entered the Morans’ kitchen via the back way. The room was deserted and they thought themselves safe. Then they heard the sound of boots on the bare wooden floor overhead and a peculiar groaning. Alice’s eyes dilated and she reached out a hand to the woman.
‘Get a grip on yourself, girl. There isn’t anything to be frightened of,’ said Susannah despite her heart beating uncomfortably fast. She led the way up the bare wooden stairs, calling, ‘Is that you, Mr Moran?’ Silence.
Neither of them was prepared for the sight that met their eyes. The man was bent over the bed. His large hands gripped the arched body of his dead wife top and bottom, pulling, pulling. Even as they watched there was a crack as if a bone had broken.
Alice gasped. If she had been RC she would have crossed herself as some kind of protection against evil. Susannah cried, ‘Didn’t Florrie suffer enough without you desecrating her body? Leave her alone!’ Both rushed forward. He turned, his face ugly, yet tear-stained. He brushed Alice aside with a sweep of his arm and she fell against the wall. Susannah went for him. ‘My God! What kind of man are you?’
‘Don’t mention God in this house,’ he roared and hit her in the face with his clenched fist.
Susannah toppled backwards. Blood trickled through her fingers as she clutched her nose. Trembling, Alice tried to force herself away from the wall to go to her aid but was too frightened to move.
Mal dragged Susannah up and shoved her out of the bedroom with the flat of his hand. ‘Out of here, yer interfering old biddy!’ Alice found the courage to follow, even though she was trembling with fear.
Susannah made a grab for the banister rail but missed, lost her footing and fell downstairs. Alice screamed but was unable to move or think straight for a moment. Then at last she said in a shaking voice, ‘Yer… yer’ve really done it this time, Dad!’ She forced her way past him, her feet hardly touching the treads as she made her way downstairs and bent over Susannah. Immediately the girl realised she must have banged her head because she was unconscious. She probably had other injuries because she lay awkwardly.
At that moment the door opened and Kenny stood there. Alice glanced up at him and then indicated with a jerk of her head their father’s position at the top of the stairs. He looked up, his hazel eyes wide with shock and fear.
‘Quick! Fetch help from the Kirks!’ she hissed.
Before Kenny could move, Mal thundered down the stairs and grabbed his son’s shoulders and rammed him against the wall. ‘You’ll stay where you bloody are. We’ve got to get out of here!’ The man’s face was chalk white.
‘We… we can’t l-leave M-Mrs Kirk?’ stammered Alice.
He glared at her. ‘Don’t argue with me, lassie!’ he hissed, as he hit her across the mouth with his free hand.
Kenny fought down his fear and swung a blow at him. Mal smacked him across the side of the head and sent him sprawling onto the stairs. ‘You try that again, laddie, and I’ll bloody knock you into next week,’ he snarled.
Kenny’s head was ringing and he felt sick with fear as he attempted to free his feet from where they had become entangled with those of the unconscious Susannah.
Alice looked at him, amazed that he had risked getting hurt for her sake. He had never tried to fight back before! Despite the pain in her face, she attempted a smile.
Mal let his arm drop, took a deep breath and eased his jaw. ‘No time to lose,’ he muttered. ‘We’ve got to get out of here but I’ll need money. Don’t either of you move!’
Terror instilled over many years made them obey his command. Both gazed helplessly at Susannah’s round and pale face, wishing they could do otherwise. It seemed terribly, terribly wrong to them both that this indomitable little woman might die. Suddenly Kenny staggered to his feet and took off his jacket and folded it. Alice realised what he was about and gently lifted the woman’s head while he placed his jacket beneath it. With tears in both their eyes, Alice whispered a prayer that she wouldn’t die. Then they heard the sound of their father’s feet on the stairs and both hurriedly stood up.
‘Come on!’ Mal seized hold of an arm of each and kicked Susannah’s feet out of the way. Alice opened her mouth to protest but the expression in Mal’s eyes silenced her. Then suddenly he surprised her by saying, ‘Where’s the baby? What’s happened to it?’
‘Dead!’ she lied, determined that at least her sister would have the chance of a better life than either she or Kenny.
He fixed her with his bloodshot eyes. ‘Are you telling me the truth? What was it? Where’s its body?’
‘Gr-Granny took it… to be b-buried. It was a – t-tiny, tiny girl.’
‘A girl!’ he said huskily and, to her amazement, his eyes filled with tears. At this astonishing sign of weakness she said, ‘We don’t have to run away, Dad! We could get help for Mrs Kirk. She’s still alive!’
Mal stilled and then his face twisted and he blinked rapidly. ‘D’yer think I’m a bloody loony! She looks like she’s going to die. I’ve no bloody intention of swinging for her. She had too much to say for herself. She had it comin’!’
He must be mad, thought Alice, mad to blame this dear woman who had helped them so much in the past. But taking his anger out on the innocent was nothing new. She felt a choking sensation in her chest thinking of her brave mother, who had so often dared to stand up to him. ‘Th-then you … you go and l-let us stay with h-her. Besides wh-what about M-Mam upstairs.’
He threw back his head and his laugh sent a chill through them both. When he sobered he said., ‘Ye’d be round at the Kirks’ in a flash and Jock’d be after me. Besides yer my own flesh and blood! Where I go, ye go. Now not another word! Do yer hear me, lass? Don’t make me want to hurt either of yer again.’
He opened the door and glancing about, dragged the pair of them out onto the pavement. Kenny and Alice stumbled outside. Next door, a curtain twitched before dropping into place again. The girl wanted to scream that there was a woman in need of help behind their front door but Mal’s fingers dug into her arm, warning her.
Despite the churning inside his stomach and the hammers beating a tattoo inside his head, he knew he had to keep calm but Alice was suddenly refusing to move. A shove in the back caused her to lose her footing. ‘We’ve got no time for ye to be standing there like a bloody statue!’ he growled.
Kenny dragged his arm free and helped Alice to her feet, avoiding looking at his father. Mal hustled both of them down the street in the direction of the Shropshire Union canal.
Alice was past crying. Her face throbbed and her knees hurt. She had heard her mother say Susannah Kirk ran her household like a well-oiled machine. Alice felt as if her heart would break. Not only had she lost her mother and didn’t know if her baby sister would survive but, surely if Mrs Kirk died, then her whole family would hate the name of Moran forever. Oh, why, why, why couldn’t she have been born to that family instead?
Her father travelled at a fair lick, forcing them into a run through Newtown and across the canal via Cow Lane Bridge, past the warehouses and bonding stores of the Shropshire Union Railway and Canal Company, and through an archway in the city walls. They went down Frodsham Street, and Alice spared only a fleeting glance for the beautiful façade of the eighteenth century Friends’ Meeting House where she, Kenny and her mother had listened to speakers advocating non-violence. She felt that choking sensation in her chest again and longed to put back the clock and for her mam to be alive.
They crossed Foregate Street where there were more black and white half-timbered buildings. Kenny thought of Hannah as they passed Bannister’s bakery. His heart was heavy at the thought that he might never see her again. God only knew where his father was taking them and what lay at the end of their journey. As the majority of the shops were closed, there were few people about now and those who were around would most likely have their minds on their supper, looking forward to their day of rest tomorrow. Dear God, why don’t you punish my father? But no thunderbolt came from the sky to strike Mal down – and really Kenny did not expect one. The side of his head throbbed and he accepted that there was evil in this world and the struggle against it was not so easily won.
Mal hurried them along St John’s Street and plunged down Souters Lane where, in the Middle Ages, the shoemakers had dwelt. Kenny recalled how Hannah had painted a picture in words for him, describing how the craftsmen had sat cross-legged in front of their open shop fronts with soft leather shoes on their lasts, sewing soles onto uppers. She was mad about finding out all sorts of things about the past and had filled him with the same passion. She had a head like a ragbag, collecting and storing all sorts of information, which she talked to him about. He felt wretched thinking about how she would feel if her mother died and hated himself for not being there and having the courage to prevent it.
They passed the Ursuline Convent and, below that, the red-bricked Georgian house that was the Bishop of Chester’s Palace. Both buildings had views over the river and Kenny wondered if their father would take them across the bridge and head for Wales.
Once down on the Groves, Mal, still keeping a tight hold on his children, stopped to draw breath. There were few people about now and, as he looked about him, he found himself remembering walking along here with the scuttling Florrie. Her deformity was what had attracted him; he had wanted to look after her in those days; he hadn’t married her for her money. He remembered her enthusiasm for Alderman Charles Brown, one of the Browns of Chester, who was responsible for laying out the promenade with refreshment kiosks, a bandstand, the landing stages from which pleasure boats departed to cruise up the Dee and rowing boats which could be hired. She hadn’t been so bloody religious in those early days, but when she turned into a Holy Josephine that had finished them.
Anger, grief and fear swelled up inside him and he hurried with his children to the footbridge that he had crossed earlier and led up to Queen’s Park, an area of select villas built for the prosperous during the last century.
Once on the other side, Alice could keep silent no longer. Who did her father know who was wealthy enough to live here? ‘Where are we going, Dad?’
‘You’ll bloody find out soon enough,’ he grunted.
Despite the time of evening, a youth and an old man were still working in one of the front gardens. The former was not wearing a cap and she noticed that his hair was dark and rampantly curly. He glanced up as they passed, and Alice thought I like his face. Her steps slowed without her being conscious of it. Her father swore and cuffed her across the head, dragging her on.
He stopped at the gate of a house with a maroon-painted door. Then, taking a deep breath, he opened the gate and hurried them up the path. He tugged the brass bell pull and they heard it jangle inside.
Alice’s gaze strayed towards the youthful gardener a couple of gardens away. He had paused in his hoeing and was looking their way, a frown puckering his dark brows. She thought, if only he could help her.
‘Stop making eyes at that bloody lad. I don’t want him remembering what we look like!’ Mal grabbed a handful of her hair and forced her head round. His hand shook and spittle oozed at the corners of his mouth.
She was terrified.
Footsteps were heard approaching the door from the other side and Mal released his hold on her. A maid opened the front door but, just behind her, stood a woman. Only by the slightest twitch of her heavy eyelids did she express surprise. ‘You can leave this to me, Mary,’ she said in well-modulated tones.
The maid moved out of the way and walked down the hall.
Alice stared at the woman. Who was she? She could have been of any age between forty and sixty. She had good skin and eyes of an indeterminate colour. Her grey hair was pulled away from her face and pinned up into a neat bun. She wore a navy blue skirt with a kick pleat and a plain white blouse with a high collar fastened with a cameo brooch.
‘Malcolm dear, back already?’ she said.
No one ever called her father by his full name, thought Alice. What was this woman to him that he should come to her when he was on the run?
‘I need yer help, Eudora. Can I come in?’ Not waiting for her answer, he almost fell over the brass threshold in his eagerness to get inside.
The woman rested a hand on his back a moment and he winced. She stared at Alice and Kenny. ‘Are these your-’
‘Aye! I had to bring them with me.’ Mal wiped his sweaty face with the back of a hand covered with wiry dark red hairs. ‘I’ll explain once we’re alone.’
‘It had better be good and quick. I’m expecting… a client.’ She smiled at Alice and Kenny. ‘I’m Mrs Black. Come in, dears. You look done in. Your father upset you, has he? Never mind, I’ll sort him out.’
Alice, who hated being called ‘dear’, especially by people she did not know, made no move to do what the woman said. The familiarity between the two adults angered her. Was this woman a high-class tart? She had heard of the sort who sold their bodies for money in the milliner’s where she worked. Her employers made hats for what they called the inbetweeners as well as the more respectable working class women and social climbers. Had the money he should have spent on his family gone on her? Alice thought of her mother’s broken body and was filled with anguish. Whoever this woman was, Alice was certain Florrie would not have wanted her to enter her house. The girl summoned up a vestige of courage and, hoisting her skirts up at one side, she leaped the steps and tore off in the direction they had come.
Mal swore and bellowed, ‘Come back here or I’ll kill ye!’
‘Malcolm really! You’re bringing down the whole tone of the neighbourhood.’ Mrs Black’s tone was furious.
For once he ignored her and leapt over the threshold, storming after his daughter. Kenny would have followed but the woman seized his wrist and her fingernails dug in like talons. Her eyes bored into his. ‘Now take it easy, no need for you to worry. Do you hear me, Kenny? Relax, dear. One troublesome offspring is enough. Do you want your father tanning your hide so hard you won’t be able to walk? Relax!’ Kenny felt himself doing exactly what she said. He could smell the strong scent of roses and the evening sky seemed to have taken on a strange hue. ‘He’ll catch her. I’ve never known a man so fit and strong. There’s nothing for you to worry about. What a sensible young man you are,’ she said soothingly, her grip on his wrist unrelenting.
Alice fled past the drive where the young gardener stood in the gateway, gently swinging his hoe. As her father drew level with him, the hoe slipped from his grasp, and Mal tripped over it. He fell heavily but was on his feet in no time and turned on him.
‘Sorry, sir,’ said the youth, and bent to pick up the hoe.
‘Yer bloody did that on purpose,’ snarled Mal, kicking the hoe out of his reach before hoisting him up by the back of his jacket and heaving him through the air. He landed on the road, the breath knocked out of him. Mal bent over him but, before he could strike, the gasping youth grasped his nose between a thumb and a finger. Mal snorted and his eyes watered as the hold on his nose tightened. His hands slid on the surface of the road as he tried to get a grip and his boots sought a foothold. At last he managed to dig in his toes and knock that hand away. He seized hold of his tormentor’s head and would have banged it on the ground if he hadn’t felt a hand on his arm.
‘Hey, hey! You leave Sebastian alone,’ bellowed the wizened old gardener.
Alice glanced over her shoulder at the sound of his voice and saw her father send the old man sprawling against a garden wall. The youth was trying to get up but Mal knocked him down. Only a moment did she hesitate, her thin body trembling with apprehension, then she ran and jumped on her father’s back, putting her arms about his neck. She heaved with all her might but he flung her off as if she weighed no more than a kitten. She landed on the road on her bottom beside Sebastian. It really hurt.
‘Stop this immediately! I’ve never heard such a commotion. It’s a disgrace.’ The voice was female.
They all froze. Alice’s eyes met Sebastian’s treacle toffee brown ones. The skin beneath the left eye was already swelling. ‘I’m really sorry,’ she said, mortified.
‘I’m glad to hear it but don’t think that excuses your shocking behaviour,’ said the little old lady dressed in a silver grey silk gown. It was obvious, not only from her tone, she was not about to stand any nonsense. She clutched a poker and, in her other hand, she held a whistle. ‘Get up and away from here before I summon a bobby.’
Recognising the voice of authority, Alice stood up. Immediately, her father grabbed her arm and forced her in the direction of Mrs Black’s house. The girl could hear the old lady tearing a strip off the youth for brawling like a common Liverpool slummy. ‘Now go round the back and tidy yourself up. I don’t know what Gabrielle or my son will think.’
Alice wished she could have explained to the lady that it was probably her father who had started the fight but it was too late now. They were only feet from Mrs Black’s gate when the door of the house slammed. Mal broke into a run dragging Alice after him. He tugged on the bell pull again and again but the door remained firmly shut.
The expression in his eyes when he turned towards Alice caused her blood to chill and she felt that choking sensation once more. He was going to kill her. He dragged her down the steps. If he hadn’t had hold of her then she would have sunk to the ground; her legs felt like blancmange. If he believed Hannah’s mother dead then she was the only witness to the crime and, daughter or not, she felt certain that would not count with him. He might want to shut her mouth for good. If only that youth could have saved her. But he had tried and that thought somehow gave her courage. Then suddenly she remembered her half-brother. Where was Kenny? Dear God, had that scarlet woman seized him for her own wicked ends, or had he managed to escape? She could only pray for the latter and that he would get help for Mrs Kirk before it was too late.
Kenny sat on a hard leather sofa gazing at Mrs Black who was playing with one of those kids’ metal clickers that could drive you mad with the noise if they go on too long. She was obviously vexed but, at least, she didn’t appear to be blaming him for not answering her questions. It had obviously not occurred to her until now that he was mute.
‘I should have remembered you couldn’t speak but it’s something Malcolm doesn’t talk about often.’ She sighed. ‘You’re no use to me, I might as well let you go. Stand up.’ She clicked the clicker again and, whether it was a nervous reaction or not, Kenny found himself on his feet and following her out of the room on the first floor and down a carpeted flight of stairs. The room upstairs had thick carpets, fancy curtains and tea served in delicate china cups. Where had his father met her and what was between them? What was he doing in this house with this woman? Where was his father? Where was Alice? He felt a rising panic. He had to find her. Mrs Black opened the front door and, waving him out, closed it firmly behind him.
For a moment Kenny just stood on the step, not knowing what to do. He had no idea where his father had taken Alice and soon it would be dark. The sun was sinking in the west and, from the stillness of the evening, the birds had gone to rest. Had his father gone off to walk to Wales or would he take a train? He must have had some kind of journey in mind for he mentioned needing money. The memory of Mrs Kirk lying in an awkward heap at the bottom of the stairs filled his head and he knew he had no choice but to make for home and get help for her first. He, too, was going to need money and knew where his stepmother had hidden some. At the thought of Florrie, he felt a deep ache inside him. Without any more delay, he broke into a run and headed for the river.