‘Margaret.’
Someone was shaking her shoulder, a hand on her arm. It was him again, pawing at her, his eyes boring into her . . .
‘No! NO! Get off me!’ She sat up, lashing out feverishly.
‘Margaret! It’s all right. I never meant to startle you, bab.’ Aunt Harriet was standing over her, holding a candle, her hair in a long plait. Her nightdress was covered by her long plum-coloured dressing gown. She looked startled by the violence of Margaret’s reaction.
Margaret sat up, shaken, but fully awake now. ‘I’m sorry, Aunt. What’s wrong? What time is it?’
‘It’s late, gone half past eleven,’ Aunt Hatt said. ‘But you’d best come. No one else’ll do, apparently.’ She looked Margaret up and down. ‘Get covered up. Mr Tallis is downstairs.’
‘Mr Tallis?’ Margaret felt immediately disturbed, her heart picking up speed. ‘What d’you mean? Why?’
‘He’s got the boy . . . Look, get some clothes on quick and come down.’ Aunt Hatt leaned over with her candle to light the one on the chair beside Margaret.
As Aunt Hatt disappeared downstairs again, Margaret, not possessing a dressing gown, half dressed once again, threw on her skirt, blouse, long cardigan and boots. Her hair was already fastened in a demure plait. She smoothed it back and fastened a button on the cardigan, eyeing Annie as she did so. Annie, needless to say, had slept through all this.
As she made her way downstairs, she could hear quiet talk from the back room; the low rumble of Philip Tallis’s voice, and Aunt Hatt’s replies. The voice vibrated through her. She found herself thinking that he seemed a pure soul, Philip Tallis. Something about him gave her a sense of safety. In comparison, she felt soiled by all that had happened with Charles Barber, by her lingering shame that it had been her fault, made acute by her father’s blame of her. She folded her arms and, feeling intensely self-conscious, stepped into the room.
But all such thoughts were pushed from her mind when she saw the little figure standing by the dying fire, between Aunt Hatt and Mr Tallis, his head hanging, also as if in shame.
‘Den!’ She hurried to him. ‘Oh, my Lord, Den, dear, where’ve you been?’ She laid her hand on the boy’s shoulder, almost tearful with relief at seeing him. He had been away for over a week. He was holding his cap in his hands and his ragged clothes were even more filthy than usual. He smelt terrible. But he was still wearing the boots Clara had given her for him, scuffed and muddy.
Den raised his head to acknowledge her. Margaret could feel Philip Tallis quietly watching, holding his own hat. His presence seemed to fill the room and she was acutely aware of him.
‘I’m boiling some milk,’ Aunt Hatt said. ‘The child looks starved.’
‘Where did you find him?’ Margaret asked Philip Tallis. Her eagerness to know what had happened overcame her shyness. ‘What happened?’
‘I was coming home, just now,’ Philip Tallis said. ‘The lad was outside here, lying up against the house – under your front window.’ He looked directly at Margaret then and she saw a questioning tenderness in his eyes. ‘He asked for you – wasn’t interested in anything else. It’s late, I know, but I thought I’d best bring him in here.’
Margaret laid her hand on Den’s back, could feel the boy’s scrawniness through his clothes.
‘Thank you,’ she smiled at Philip Tallis. He gave a faint smile in return and did not look away immediately.
‘Oh – the milk!’ Aunt Hatt cried, hurrying to the kitchen. ‘I’ll cut some bread and butter.’
‘Come and sit down, Den.’ Margaret pulled a chair out from the table. ‘You must be hungry.’
Den nodded. Although there was no need for Philip Tallis to stay, he lingered.
‘Children seem to like you,’ he observed. ‘You’re good with them. Daisy’s taken to you.’
‘I suppose I’m used to them.’ She smiled up at him for a second, then helped Den push his chair in. She was glad of having the boy to busy herself with. ‘In the village, where Annie and I come from, we both work with the children. Our father is the minister there, you see.’ She frowned, looking down as all the pain of the rupture with her father rose in her. How normal it all sounded – this is where we live, this is what I do, as if all was as it should be.
‘So what brings you here?’ Philip Tallis asked, puzzled.
‘Oh – it’s a long story.’ A horrible flush of shame passed over her that she was sure he must be able to see. Why had she said anything about home? It had all slipped out without her thinking. It was where she came from, who she was – or used to be. This thought came with a jolt. She held on to the back of Den’s chair. The boy had leaned forward to rest his head on his arms, seeming utterly spent.
‘We’re just here for a little change.’ She made her voice light, managing a brief smile. ‘Annie wanted to come especially. She was always hungry to see more of the world.’
‘I see.’ He fingered the edge of his bowler hat. Did she sense disappointment in him at this? ‘Well, Daisy’ll miss you if you go again.’
‘Yes.’ Margaret wished she had never ventured into this now. ‘I’m not sure how long we’ll be staying. Until Christmas, I think.’ She looked up at him, unsure what else to say. Despite her discomfort she found she did not want him to leave but she did want to change the subject.
‘I . . . A while ago,’ she stumbled on, ‘I saw a bowl – a silver bowl – on the table in your room. The door was open, I mean . . .’ She blushed, thinking how nosey she must sound. ‘Daisy said you made it.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do some things of my own, when I get the time.’
‘Oh!’ Her heart was beating fast. ‘I would love to see some of your work!’
Almost immediately she regretted it. Would he take this the wrong way? She floundered inside. How were you supposed to talk to men if they always got the wrong idea? She had a horror now of appearing fast in some way, of giving off a message that she had not intended.
‘Well – sometime, perhaps,’ he said, seeming uncertain. ‘Good. Right then.’ Looking at Den, he moved closer. Above the beard, the strong features, she saw how big his eyes were, and how full of a sad sympathy. ‘Poor lad. How long’s he been living rough like that?’
‘A few days.’ She spoke barely above a whisper, although Den was obviously asleep. ‘My sister Annie works with his elder sister at Masters and Hogg, you see. His family have had a very unfortunate time lately. One of his little sisters died, and then . . .’ She explained briefly about Wilf Poole, the accident and what had followed. She saw Philip Tallis’s expression darken.
‘My God,’ he said angrily. ‘What is he –’ he nodded towards Den – ‘Daisy’s age?’
‘I believe he’s a little younger.’
‘Will you put him up here for the night?’
‘I think that might be best.’
Aunt Hatt swept in with a tray. ‘Oh!’ she said, seeing Den fast asleep at the table.
‘I think we should give him something,’ Margaret said. ‘Who knows when he last ate? He’ll go back to sleep afterwards.’
‘I’d best be going,’ Philip Tallis said.
Margaret saw him to the door, intensely aware, in the dark passage, of his sturdy form behind her. In that moment she was filled with an exciting awareness of her own femininity which in the next moment was clouded with shame.
‘Here we are,’ she said, for something to say, when she reached the door. She pulled it open.
Philip Tallis paused. Faint light reached them from the lamp along the street. Their eyes met in the almost-darkness. She did not want him to leave, nor did he seem to want to go. There was a fascination in him, a charge which drew her. Heaven help me, she thought. This man . . . What is the matter with me?
‘It’s all right?’ she forced herself to say. ‘My coming in with Daisy?’
‘Yes,’ he said simply. ‘Of course. Come – whenever you like.’ He hesitated, then nodded, before stepping outside. ‘Goodnight.’
In the seconds she was in the passage before returning to her aunt, Margaret gave herself a stern ticking-off.
Whatever are you doing? No men. Stop it . . . Remember how it was with Charles? No. And this one is even older – stop being so ridiculous . . . You’ll just give him the wrong idea. In any case, we’ve got to go home . . . She composed her face.
They woke Den for just long enough for him to wolf down some bread and butter and the warm milk. He was asleep again almost before he reached the floor in front of the fire where they settled him with a pillow and a thick old eiderdown.
‘His poor mother must be worried to death,’ Aunt Hatt said. ‘But I’ll tell you summat – he’s not leaving here before he’s had a bath.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘He stinks like a midden. And I’ll see if I can cobble together something else for him to wear.’
Margaret rose early to find Den still fast asleep, curled on his side in a tight, cowering position. She knelt to look into his face, breathing in the bitter coal smell and the sharp, animal odour of the boy. His lips were parted slightly. His face, tide-marked with grime, had relaxed into sleep and he looked, for once, like a child.
‘So this is the little urchin, is it?’ Uncle Eb appeared behind her, overall already on. He looked at Margaret. ‘I don’t know.’ He shook his head, though with affection. ‘You wenches.’
‘Aunt Hatt says he’s got to have a bath,’ she said, getting to her feet.
Eb chuckled. ‘I should think so, by the look of the lad.’
‘There’s water on already – for tea first.’
‘Bath?’ Den said, looking completely horrified.
‘No bath, no breakfast,’ Aunt Hatt said, looming, hands on hips. ‘And I’ve got bacon.’
At this, Den could hardly get his clothes off quickly enough. Within an hour he was bathed, reclothed in old garments of Eb and Georgie’s, legs and sleeves rolled, and had his hands full of thick wedges of bread and butter with fried bacon pressed between them.
Margaret told him that she would take him home.
‘Were you out looking for your pa, Den?’ she asked as they walked to Pope Street. She was carrying a basin of soup that Aunt Hatt had insisted she take to Mary Poole, ‘the poor woman’. Margaret had smiled at her – Aunt Hatt just could not help being kind, whatever she thought about it all.
Den nodded his head, then shook it as if in denial. His face was hidden under his cap, the one piece of clothing of his own that he had refused to give up. Margaret, her heart aching for him in all his sadness and confusion, wanted to reach down and take his hand. But the boy was shut in on himself – a hard little man again – and she knew he would shake her off.
As they crossed the mucky yard in Pope Street, the Pooles’ neighbour Mrs Blount and two other women were out with a mangle, near the brew house. Steam was curling out of the little building from the hot copper of water and they had their sleeves rolled for wash day.
‘Where’ve yer bin, yer little bugger?’ Mrs Blount shouted at him ‘’Ad yer poor mother worried to death, you ’ave.’
‘Morning, Mrs Blount,’ Margaret said, wishing the woman would button her lip and leave Den alone.
Mary Poole must have heard her because she came rushing out of the house. With her hair scraped back she looked even more whippet thin, her gaunt face and pale blue eyes alight with strained emotion.
‘Denny!’ She tore over to him and began slapping him about the arms and shoulders, sobbing. ‘Where in God’s name’ve yer been? Where were yer all this time? ’Ow could you go off when . . . everything’s . . .’ She folded helplessly in on herself, sobbing.
Margaret saw an instant’s glimpse of agony on the boy’s face before he assumed his usual look of blank sullenness.
‘Let’s go inside, shall we, dear?’ Gently she steered the weeping Mrs Poole to her house then worked to give her and the little girls Ivy and Nellie what comfort she could, boiling a kettle for tea, leaving the soup for them.
‘Annie will have told Lizzie that Den’s back,’ she told Mary Poole as she left. ‘She saw him before she left for work.’
Mary Poole, seated at her table, nodded, so dazed with grief and worry that she seemed unable to move.