‘Oh, no!’ As she stepped inside, Lizzie clapped one hand over her mouth and with the other tried to bar Annie’s way. ‘Stay there, Annie – you’d best not come in!’
But the combination of stenches unwinding itself through the open front door had already reached Annie, so awful that she quickly resorted to an old habit of breathing through her mouth.
‘It’s all right, Lizzie,’ she said gently, sorry for the girl’s shame. ‘People can’t help being ill.’
As Lizzie relented and they stepped inside, Annie, with shock, took in the sight of the one downstairs room, which was barely any lighter than the yard they had just left.
A stub of candle flickered on a saucer on the table which occupied most of the cramped abode and was littered with bits of boxes and cards. There were a few other pieces of furniture: chairs and a cupboard. Some heat must have been coming out of the black range at the far side of the room, for it was not deathly cold. The grizzling of the child continued and from somewhere was emanating the most terrible combination of smells.
‘Lizzie!’ What seemed a pile of rags occupying the one armchair close to the range, got to its feet in the shape of a boy, who was hauling up into his arms the crying child who had been on his lap. The lad sagged under the weight. The crying stopped for a moment as the little one noticed a change in things.
‘’Ve yer got summat to eat?’ he demanded. ‘Our Nellie won’t shurrup – and ’er’s sicked on me.’
Annie could see that the boy looked about eight or nine, the child in his arms more than a baby – perhaps as old as two years.
‘Denny,’ Lizzie spoke faintly. ‘Go and empty out that pail – now. It’s terrible. Give Nellie to me . . .’
‘It’s all right.’ Annie stepped forwards. ‘You’ve not the strength, Lizzie. I’ll take her.’
The boy shot her a look thick with suspicion but Lizzie said, ‘It’s all right, Den.’
As Annie found herself holding a child, wet, stinking of urine, but at least no longer howling, she heard another faint voice say, ‘Lizzie – that you?’
‘Mom?’ Lizzie said.
Annie could not see anyone at first. As Lizzie moved towards the fireplace, Annie became aware of two more pairs of eyes watching her. Two little girls who looked much the same size, with nests of pale, straggly hair, sat side by side on the bottom step of the stairs which opened out of one side of the room.
‘’Oo the ’ell’s that lady?’ the boy demanded, staring at her.
‘Shoosh, Den – language. The lady works at the factory with me, ’er’s a friend,’ Lizzie said, having no idea how much this lifted Annie’s heart and gave her fresh courage. ‘Tek the pail out, Den – it stinks terrible.’
The boy picked up a bucket of ordure with a clank and disappeared outside. Annie saw with another shock that he had nothing on his feet. She stood rocking from side to side, trying to pacify the child in her arms. The smell of her was overpowering and at first Annie tried to hold her away from her body, but the little one squirmed and buried her face in Annie’s chest. Poor little mite, she thought, giving up and holding her close. I bet she’s sore underneath and famished as well.
‘Mom – you feeling any better?’
Lizzie knelt by the hearth and as she did so Annie saw to her horror that there was someone lying there on the floor, on some sort of rough bedding, a dark garment bundled under her head.
‘Lizzie?’ She spoke in the slurred voice of someone feeling very unwell. ‘That you? Oh, thank goodness. Help me sit up, will yer?’
As Lizzie pulled on her arm, Annie saw a gaunt-faced woman rise groggily from the floor and wrap her arms round her knees. Her long, pale hair was as tousled a mess as that of the little girls. She did not seem to have noticed Annie was there.
‘Why dain’t you go upstairs, Mom?’ Lizzie said. Kneeling, she curled forward and as if drained of all strength, rested her head on her mother’s feet.
‘It’s warmer ’ere,’ the woman said. ‘Denny’s put a bit of his wood on the fire. And the babby . . . Pass her to me, Den . . .’ She reached out an arm, not seeming to realize the boy had gone outside.
Annie took the infant, who was now grizzling again, over to her mother and laid her in her arms from behind. Mrs Poole did not turn round to look at her and Annie saw her reach into her clothing and latch the child to her breast. For a few moments it was quiet.
‘You feeling bad, Lizzie?’ she said, weakly.
Lizzie couldn’t help it; bent over, still resting her head on her mother’s body, she broke into sobs.
‘I feel so bad,’ she said. ‘I could hardly keep going all day – I ’ad to ask Miss Hinks if I could go out to the . . . to relief meself . . .’ She sobbed even harder. ‘And I kept wanting to be sick, even though there was nothing in me.’
‘Poor babby,’ the mother said. Her voice was thin but she reached out and stroked Lizzie’s hair. ‘You’re a good wench. The babby’s been sick all day again, and I can’t . . .’ She seemed to run out of strength to speak, and the baby began to wriggle and cry.
Annie looked about her. The two little girls, who appeared to be about six years old – were they twins? – had moved closer and were staring at her. The baby’s cry was setting her nerves on edge. She wondered if there was any food in the house, or even the possibility of a cup of tea or something for Lizzie after her gruelling day.
The boy came back in with the pail.
‘D’yer wash it out, Den?’ Lizzie said, sitting up groggily. He nodded. He seemed angry, Annie thought. Poor lad was most likely hungry. Young boys always seemed to be hungry at the best of times.
Lizzie straightened up, wiping her eyes. ‘All right, Nellie,’ she said, caressing the baby. ‘You feeling better, Mom?’ Annie could hear the plea in her voice for her mother to recover, for all the weight of the family not to be on her own skinny shoulders.
Her mother nodded, but Annie could see this was not the truth. She was obviously still feeling very poorly.
Annie felt helpless. At home, she would usually have arrived at such a house with a basin of broth, or something to ease the family’s cold and hunger. Or at least she would have known she could go home and fetch some such refreshment. But now she had no money and no idea of where she might go. And she couldn’t just stand here all night. She was no help and Uncle and Aunt would be wondering where on earth she was.
‘Lizzie,’ she said. The girl seemed to have forgotten she was there. She saw Lizzie’s mother’s head turn in bewilderment.
‘Oh, Mom – this is Annie. Works at the factory with me. I was feeling bad so she helped me home.’
A faint smile came over her mother’s features. ‘Thank you, bab. That’s good of yer.’ She peered more closely at Annie in the gloom. ‘Ain’t ’er got a pretty face?’
‘Lizzie,’ Annie said. ‘Could I speak with you a minute?’
‘Oh – yes. You’ll be wanting to go . . .’ Lizzie got up, with an effort.
‘No – it’s not that.’ Annie led Lizzie back to the door and whispered to her. ‘Is there any food in the house? Can I help you with anything?’ She did not know how, but she knew it was her duty to help. And she felt so sorry for poor Lizzie.
‘I couldn’t eat, I feel that sick,’ Lizzie said. ‘Or Mom. But . . .’ She looked round, helplessly. ‘We got nothing, I don’t think. I mean . . .’ She hastened to reassure Annie. ‘We ain’t always like this. It’s ’cause our mom’s poorly. Den?’ she called across to him. ‘Ain’t we got nothing to eat?’
‘No.’ He sounded angry. ‘And not a farthing.’
‘Where could we get something?’ Annie said. She recalled seeing some little shops in the nearby streets. ‘I could go – although I’ve got no money on me.’
Lizzie glanced anxiously at her mother. ‘We’ve none – ’til I get my wages or Den sells some firewood. Mom does outwork, see, for the button factory . . .’ She glanced at the cards and misshapen-looking boxes on the table. ‘But she’s not been able to.’
Annie felt despair wash over her. There were a hundred questions she wanted to ask about how they had come to these straits, but the most urgent thing seemed to be to get something for the children to eat.
‘If we go down to Mrs Wills on the corner, she might let us have a bit of something, I ’spect,’ Lizzie said doubtfully. ‘We’re a bit behind with paying ’er, though . . .’
Nellie, the little one, let out another shriek of hunger and frustration and Annie drew her resolve together.
‘Let’s go,’ she said.
Everything was swathed in the sulphurous, evil-smelling fog. Mrs Wills’s little shop was only a few yards away, the light inside a blur of yellow guiding them to the entrance.
‘Don’t you have gas in your house?’ Annie asked, thinking of the candle.
‘Oh, yes – we just ain’t got mantles,’ Lizzie said. Her voice was still faint and sick and she looked curled in on herself. Annie could see the effort it had cost her to come out again.
Mrs Wills was sitting, a mighty form, behind the narrow counter in her cluttered shop. She wore a huge brown shawl draped right over her head and from under its shadow peered a jowelly face, the eyes hard and calculating. The gas lamp popped away in the middle of the tiny room and Annie saw every kind of thing for sale, crowded on to shelves behind the shop’s intimidating guardian.
‘Evenin’, Mrs Wills,’ Lizzie said. Annie could hear that she was trying to get into the woman’s good books.
Mrs Wills got up off her stool behind the counter and made a grudging ‘huh’ noise. Close to her was a loaf of bread that must have been sitting there all day by the look of it – if not more than one day.
‘You come to pay your bill, Lizzie Poole?’ she said. ‘That mother of yours owes me more than anyone in the book.’
‘Not today – but I’ll get my wages on Friday,’ Lizzie pleaded. ‘Please could yer let us have summat – there’s nothing for the babby . . .’
Mrs Wills folded her arms. ‘What – more on the strap?’
Lizzie was nodding, looking sick and wretched.
‘Could you please let us have that loaf?’ Annie said, moving round in front of Lizzie. ‘And anything else that you could see your way to advancing us? Tea, and a little jam, perhaps?’
Mrs Wills looked outraged. ‘Who’re you?’ she said rudely.
‘I am a friend of the family,’ Annie said. ‘I can guarantee that your bill will be paid this week in full – but we do need some things for tonight.’
A contemptuous look came over Mrs Wills’s face; the bullying look of someone who has power over others.
‘Them Pooles’ve pushed me as far as I can go,’ she said. ‘’Er with her fly-by-night husband. I’ve never seen you round here before. Why should I believe anything you say?’
Annie could feel her temper beginning to fray.
‘Look,’ she said, in a clipped voice. ‘There are children who need to eat and Mrs Poole is unwell. I will pay this bill. I am the niece of Ebenezer Watts, of Chain Street. I can guarantee you that you will get your money. But please – kindly fetch us some food so that these children do not have to go to bed hungry.’
At the mention of Ebenezer Watts, Mrs Wills’s expression changed into something more uncertain.
‘Mr Watts – ’im with the goldsmiths business?’ she said, suddenly ingratiating. ‘I see. Well – I suppose that’ll be all right. As long as you do pay me . . .’
‘I will pay,’ Annie repeated acidly. ‘I’ve just said so. Make us a parcel of what food you can – and I’ll pay the bill. Have you any milk?’
‘Not at this time o’ night, no,’ Mrs Wills sneered as if some unreasonable magical performance was being expected of her.
‘All right – well, whatever you have. Oh – and while you’re at it, put in a couple of mantles and some candles as well.’
Lizzie didn’t say anything until they were outside but Annie could see she was bursting with curiosity.
‘That told that old bitch,’ she said, as they walked back to the entry. She seemed to revive for a moment. ‘But how’re yer going to pay her?’
‘Like I said,’ Annie told her.
‘What – are you really Ebenezer Watts’s . . . niece, was it?’ Her voice held a tone of wonder, to add to the awe she already seemed to feel towards Annie.
‘Yes,’ Annie said. ‘That’s not so strange, is it?’
‘But your uncle must be a rich man.’ Lizzie hardly seemed to believe her. ‘Watts is a good firm. Why’re you working at Masters and Hogg?’
‘Well – everyone has to earn a living, don’t they?’ Annie replied lightly. ‘I can’t just live off Uncle.’
As they walked back along Pope Street and down the entry, she thought about her own wages. She was working hard but not earning so much as to outdo the other women. Holding Lizzie’s scrawny arm, she felt tender towards the girl, and resolved that Lizzie was going to have all the wages she earned that week. There’d certainly be a few shillings after all the stoppages for various things were deducted. But she knew it would be wiser to stay quiet about this intention for now.