October 1904
Annie hurried through the steel-grey morning, head bowed against the rain. It had been blowing a gale all night and even now she had to hold her hat on, its brim already dripping. The pavements were giving off the dull sheen of water and the gutters were gurgling. Broken tiles crunched under her feet.
I can’t be late! She tore along the street. Just as she got to the gates of Masters, Hogg & Co., someone held the door for her and she dashed inside.
‘Oh – we just made it.’ It was another young woman from the workroom, called Mabel, looking at her with a wry smile as they hurried along the corridor. Mabel worked up at the other end of the room from her.
‘Thank you,’ Annie panted, taking off her poor straw hat and shaking it. She was encouraged by Mabel’s friendliness. ‘Let’s hope so!’
They dashed up the stairs and into the stamping room just in the nick of time. Miss Hinks glowered at them as they ran in and quickly closed the door as if she thought they might try to escape out through it again.
‘Eh, Mabs,’ Dora bawled along the room, ‘nearly lost yer tail there, dain’t yer?’
‘And you, Annie!’ Hetty turned, seated at her press.
For a second, Annie took this as a criticism, before seeing the grin on Hetty’s face. It was the first time Hetty had ever really spoken to her in a normal way and she felt a glow spread through her.
‘I’m surprised you dain’t get blown away, little tiddler of a thing like you,’ Doris said.
Annie looked round in surprise. ‘I nearly blooming well did!’ she said, grinning.
If Doris was teasing her – or even speaking to her – things really had come on. She was getting used to all the bravado, the Marie Lloyd songs, all delivered with as filthy a slant to their meaning as possible. And now they seemed to be talking to her as if she was one of them. She had learned that teasing was a mark of affection. No one had teased her and Margaret at home since their mother died.
Lizzie was already at her work station and just as Annie sat down the bell rang. Everyone was off and instantly the room was full of the thumping of the presses.
‘Go on, Doris – give us a song!’ someone called out.
‘What d’yer want then?’ Doris shouted back, never missing a second’s work. Her hand flew back and fro, feeding in the metal strip, swinging the press, bringing it down with a thump. Annie knew that Doris had worked here for over thirty years, never seeming to feel the need to move to a more skilled department.
‘Just give us summat cheerful, bab!’
Doris started singing, la-la-ing the words she couldn’t remember, but the chorus came loud and fervent from all along the bench, ‘A little of what yer fancy does yer good!’
Annie, whose upbringing had taught her the exact opposite of this sentiment, did not join in, but she couldn’t help smiling at the song, and at Doris being in such energetic voice at this time on such a grim morning. Then she noticed that Lizzie wasn’t singing either and that her face looked pale and strained.
‘You all right, Lizzie?’ she asked, wondering if the girl was sick again.
Lizzie turned, then went quickly back to her machine, making a face. ‘Nearly caught my finger then!’
There was a saying in the workroom that if you still had all your fingers you weren’t working hard enough.
‘It’s the others – Den and the twins. They’re both sick now. Mom’s at her wits’ end.’ She stopped working for a second, a desperate look on her face and her eyes filling with tears. ‘Will you come and see ’em, Annie? The neighbours are kind – well, Mrs Blount is. But Mom’s a bit . . . I mean, you always seem to know what to do better’n I do.’
‘Of course I will,’ Annie said, glad to be of use. ‘Are they poorly like you were?’
Lizzie nodded miserably. ‘Den’s really bad.’
When Margaret came with Annie’s dinner, Annie told her she would be going to see the Poole family after work.
‘Let me come too,’ Margaret said, to Annie’s surprise. ‘And I’ll ask Auntie if she’s anything she can spare for them.’
‘Won’t she mind?’ Annie said, remembering Aunt Hatt’s shudder at the idea of even looking into one of the backyards.
Margaret gave Annie her gentle smile. ‘Auntie’s kind really – you know she is. She just isn’t sure about people she doesn’t know. If it’s someone with a name and she hears what they’re suffering, I’m sure she’ll be sympathetic.’
The streets were smudged with fog again as workers poured out of Masters, Hogg & Co. at six o’clock. Among the crowd, Annie recognized Margaret’s curvaceous silhouette in the dim light of the street, in her long coat and a wide-brimmed hat, lent to her by Aunt Hatt.
‘Margaret said she would come and lend a hand,’ Annie told Lizzie, who nodded and gave a faint smile. She seemed reassured, as if the two of them were like older sisters giving her help, and Annie was warmed by this.
Margaret greeted her kindly and the three of them set off. Night was drawing in, the air damp and acrid. Around them, a lot of passers-by were coughing and they heard hawking sounds of people full of catarrh. Annie’s own throat was very sore and she hoped she was not going to go down with something.
‘Do you know the way back after?’ Margaret murmured apprehensively to Annie. Many nights back home they had set out together, to Watery Lane and other parts of the village, with a basin of broth here, advice about medicine there. They were used to helping people – that much felt familiar. But at home, they knew the dark lanes of the village like the back of their hands.
‘It’s not far,’ Annie said, though she sounded doubtful. Though she had visited Pope Street in the daylight, now, in these dark, fog-blanketed streets, it was easy to lose your bearings.
‘It’s all right – I’ll take you back,’ Lizzie said. ‘Den can’t today, I don’t s’pose.’
They bought bread and tea from Mrs Willis, who made sarcastic noises suggesting oh, she could actually afford it this time, could she? when Lizzie produced her coins. Annie managed to hold back from delivering a lecture about being such a sour, uncharitable old lemon.
The entry was dark as pitch. Annie felt Margaret reach for her in the dark, placing her hand on Annie’s back to follow her along. The yard was a pool of dirty yellow fog in the feeble lamplight and as soon as they drew near, they could hear Nellie howling again.
‘Oh, dear,’ Lizzie said, sounding distraught. She pushed the door open. ‘Mom? I’m back. I’ve got Miss Annie with me – and her sister.’
A low, dismayed exclamation came from inside. Mary Poole was sitting at the table carding buttons. Nellie had pulled herself to her feet beside the chair and was yanking at her mother, crying and coughing. Lizzie went and picked her up.
‘Good evening, Mrs Poole,’ Annie said, stepping inside with Margaret following close behind. Mary Poole looked at them fearfully.
‘Lizzie said that your other children are poorly now,’ Annie said over Nellie’s wailing as Lizzie tried to pacify her. The child’s nose was running and she looked the picture of woe. ‘So we came to see if there was any help we could give you. This is my sister, Margaret.’
‘Hello, Mrs Poole,’ Margaret said. Her smile and gentle voice were reassuring.
‘Oh, I wasn’t expecting –’ Mary Poole pushed herself to her feet, looking even more scrawny and exhausted than Annie remembered. ‘I don’t know if I’m coming or going . . .’ She recovered herself. ‘Nice to meet you.’ She peered at Margaret, then said to Annie, ‘Ain’t you both pretty? She your big sister?’
‘Yes,’ Annie said, looking around. Lizzie, with the baby on one hip, went to stoke up the range. The room had a dank chill to it. ‘Where are the little ones – upstairs? May we go and see how they are?’
Mary Poole nodded. ‘Den’s been bad today. I think Ivy’s a bit better, but they’ve both been poorly. I don’t know what to do for ’em . . .’ She spoke rapidly, sounding close to tears. Annie felt terribly sorry for this poor woman with too much on her plate for anyone to manage. ‘Give Miss Hanson a candle, Lizzie . . . I dunno what to do for the best.’
Annie had realized, after spending time with Mary Poole, that while she was well intentioned, she seldom did know what to do for the best. She would stare at Annie with her childlike blue eyes, looking ever bewildered by life. Annie understood the effect on Mary Poole of never having had a mother or anyone else to show her how to manage.
‘I’ll make some tea,’ Lizzie said, eager to be obliging. She seemed more capable than her mother. She had learned things from kindly Mrs Blount and the other neighbours, Annie realized.
Their boots sounded loud on the bare treads, their shadows looming on the walls of the narrow staircase. At the top was a tiny, dark landing and the doors to two rooms. Annie pushed the nearest one open, with the apprehension she always felt on entering a sick room, not knowing what you might find.
The bed took up almost all of the small room. There was just enough space to step round the bedstead on which, bundled up under a mess of bedding, lay the two little girls, with Den across the foot. As she made her way round to the far side, Annie’s boot kicked against a metal pail, from which was emanating the filthy, acidic stench filling the room. The children had all been lying there in the gathering dark, with no light to guide them. She wondered what state the floor was in.
The sisters stood each side of the bed, Annie holding the candle. Two pairs of eyes peeped above the bedding at the top.
‘Hello, Ada, Ivy,’ Annie said. ‘Are you feeling poorly?’
One of them whispered, ‘I’m not being sick now.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ Annie said. ‘Perhaps you could come downstairs for bit, d’you think? Are you Ivy?’
The little girl nodded. Ada lay very listless and Annie stroked her forehead. She cast Margaret a worried look. The little girl seemed very weak. ‘You could do with some water, I’m sure.’
There was a sudden eruption at the bottom of the bed. Den, who had been lying quite still and seemingly asleep, pushed himself up, reached out to scrape the bucket across the floorboards and leaned over it, retching, his skinny frame racked by the heaves. There seemed nothing much to come up except a thin thread of liquid. He spat, then lay back with a little moan, his eyes closed.
Annie’s heart went out to him and she saw Margaret’s face twist with pity.
‘Oh dear, you poor thing,’ Margaret said in her soothing voice, sitting herself on the edge of the bed close to Den. Annie watched. She knew she had always been good at organizing children, but Margaret was the one they usually turned to for a softer fondness. She was glad her sister was there.
‘I’ll get Lizzie to give me some water,’ Annie said. Returning with two cups of cooling water, she found Den looking more awake.
‘He says it’s getting a bit better,’ Margaret said, smiling round at Annie.
Den’s pinched face looked suddenly much younger, Annie thought.
She went to the little girls, and Ivy, who was obviously recovering, sat up and was the first to sip some of the water. She was a sweet, tousle-headed little thing. Ada needed help to sit up and she flopped back like a rag doll.
‘Here you are, Den,’ Margaret said, taking the other cup of water from Annie. ‘You must try and drink some of this.’
It was the first time Annie had seen Den as a child instead of a hard, sad little man. He sat up, reaching out. Margaret put an arm round his back and helped him drink.
‘It’ll stop soon, dear,’ she said in her gentle voice. ‘And then you’ll feel better. There’s nothing worse than being sick, is there?’
Den slowly took some water before lying back again. Margaret laid her hand on his forehead and stroked his hair back from his face.
‘There,’ she murmured. ‘A night’s sleep and I’m sure you’ll feel better.’
Den gazed solemnly up at her. Annie could see something in his eyes, something intense, hungry.
‘Will we feel better?’ Ivy asked.
‘Yes,’ Annie said. ‘I think you’re on the mend, aren’t you, dear? We just need Ada to get better now. We’ll come and see you again. This is my big sister, Margaret,’ she told the twins. But Ada’s eyes had already closed.
‘Margwit,’ Ivy said.
‘We need to go now, but we’ll see you soon,’ Annie said. As she came round the end of the bed, she saw Den’s stick-thin wrist outside the covers and his hand covered by Margaret’s. Slowly, his eyes closed.
‘You will try and make sure Ada drinks some water, won’t you?’ Annie reminded Mary Poole.
She nodded, wide-eyed. ‘I did try, only I’m that busy . . .’ She looked round helplessly. ‘They’re getting better though, ain’t they?’
‘Ivy is,’ Annie said. ‘She might be able to get up soon.’
They drank tea with Mary and Lizzie, before Lizzie led them through the streets towards home.
‘Just take us to the end of Tenby Street,’ Annie said. ‘We’ll be all right from there.’
Once Lizzie Poole, clutching her shawl about her shoulders, had disappeared into the murk, the two of them linked arms to make their way along the uneven pavements to Chain Street.
‘That poor little boy is missing his father, isn’t he?’ Margaret said.
‘They all are,’ Annie replied. ‘It’s a terrible thing, what happened to him, and then just going off. I wonder if they’ll ever see him again. And she’s so . . . I don’t know. She means well, but . . .’
‘She’s a bit like Meg Parsons,’ Margaret said. ‘Only more so.’ They laughed. Meg Parsons was a young woman in the village who seemed to be forever in a pickle of one sort or another. Their father had done a lot of head-shaking over Meg Parsons.
They turned into Chain Street. Even seeing the name, on the black-and-white sign, now made them feel at home. After a moment, Margaret said, ‘That little lad wouldn’t let go of my hand.’