‘Are you ready?’
Annie was hardly back from work before she was nagging at them to go out with her, her head round the office door, hat still on.
‘Don’t you want a cup of tea first?’ Aunt Hatt complained. She was alone in the office – Susan and Bridget had both gone home. ‘I’ve a thing or two to finish.’ She looked at Annie’s pink, impatient face. ‘Mrs Sullivan’s put aside a pot of rabbit stew for them.’
Margaret saw Annie’s face soften. ‘I’ll have a quick cup. It’s nice of you to come with us. I just thought – you know, Auntie, with you being older. Maggs and I are just kids so far as Mrs Poole’s concerned.’
She took off her hat and wiped her hands over her face. ‘It’s a filthy day.’
‘Give me five minutes,’ Aunt Hatt said grandly, from her desk.
They set off into the evening. It was already dark, a mizzling, icy rain coming down, and it seemed a bad choice of night for Aunt Hatt to come with them. But it was too late now – they had started off. They kept their heads down, shielding themselves under hat brims. Margaret and Annie took it in turns to carry the pot of stew. Despite Aunt Hatt’s muttering about why ever she was doing any such thing, they blessed her generous heart.
The gaslight in the yard in Pope Street seemed to give off even less illumination than usual. The rain had become heavier as they walked and they could just see its blurred fall in the feeble light.
‘Oh, my,’ Aunt Hatt said, looking around her with a shudder as they emerged from the entry and went to the Pooles’ door. Even though there was very little to be seen of the dismal yard, it was still possible to feel the mean, cramped atmosphere of the place. The rain was falling insistently and they could hear the splash of water from a broken guttering somewhere further along.
Lizzie opened the door to Annie’s knock. She gave a strained smile.
‘Hello, Lizzie,’ Annie said as they went in. ‘I told you we’d come.’
‘It’s nice of you, Annie,’ Lizzie said, opening the door. She sounded full of cold and kept sniffing.
Mary Poole was at the table, bent over a pile of boxes. The room smelt unpleasantly of the gum she was painting on them to stick their edges together. As she looked up, Margaret could see the exhaustion in her eyes, her thin face otherwise showing no emotion, as if she had no remaining energy for that. She, too, did not look well. Even in the dim light they could see the redness of her nose.
‘Mrs Poole – my Aunt Harriet’s come to see you, as well as Margaret and me,’ Annie said and Margaret heard how gently she spoke.
Mary Poole looked up, seeming startled, but Aunt Hatt, uncomfortable as she was at being in this place, cleared her face of any dismay and spoke to her with a quiet civility.
‘How d’you do, Mrs Poole? I’m Mrs Watts. No, don’t get up. I’m sorry if we’ve taken you by surprise.’
‘Lizzie,’ Annie said quietly. ‘We brought you some stew – it’s rabbit. Is there any heat in the fire?’
The room was very cold and Margaret wondered if they had anything to put on the range. While Annie and Lizzie tried to get it going, she looked around. There was no sign of Den. Ivy, her hair a tangle as usual, was on the floor by the range with Nellie.
‘What beautiful children!’ Aunt Hatt said, going over to the two girls and bending down to them. ‘Is this your little sister?’ she said to Ivy, who nodded, wide-eyed. Nellie put her arms out and chuckled. She looked like a tight little parcel, wrapped in an array of grubby white knitted garments, and she had a lovely, round face.
Aunt Hatt picked her up and tickled her cheek, talking to her, as she brought her over towards the table. Margaret sat on the chair by the fire and reached out to Ivy, who came to her shyly. Poor little mite, Margaret thought. She’s so lost without Ada. She took the child on her knee and began to say little rhymes with her. Still holding Nellie, Aunt Hatt sat down at the table beside Mary Poole.
‘You’re having very difficult times, I hear, Mrs Poole,’ Aunt Hatt said. She seemed more relaxed, having a child to hold, and there was a warmth to her voice.
‘It does for my back, doing this,’ Mary Poole said plaintively, bending this way and that in her chair. ‘It’s all this sitting.’
Margaret was too caught up in talking to Ivy to hear more of their conversation, but a moment later the door opened and Den came in. He stopped, startled, and Margaret thought how wild he looked, how old, for a boy of nine. He was carrying a few remaining bits of wet firewood.
‘D’yer sell any?’ Lizzie quizzed him.
‘Yeah. I got thruppence. And I got this an’ all.’ Digging into his trouser pockets, he brought out some nubs of coal.
‘You been down the wharf, Denny – in this?’ Lizzie asked, with a nod towards the dark, soaking night outside.
‘Nah – these bits fell off of the cart.’
Lizzie took the meagre supply of wood and coal off him, her slim frame bending over the range, working to garner some heat. Den came and hovered near Margaret and Ivy. Margaret wanted to draw the little boy into her arms, but she knew he would fight her off if she tried.
‘I’m starving,’ he said, sniffing the air like a dog.
‘I know – and Miss Annie, Miss Margaret and Mrs Watts’ve brought us some stew – but it’ll do you more good hot,’ Lizzie said. Margaret saw her glance at her mother and Aunt Hatt, and she seemed reassured, seeing the two of them talking.
The room gradually filled with the mouth-watering smell of the stew, heavily padded with potatoes.
‘Can’t we eat it now?’ Den said fervently, moving from one foot to the other.
Aunt Hatt looked round, still holding Nellie. ‘We’ll leave you to eat in peace,’ she said.
‘It’s good of yer to’ve come, Mrs Watts,’ Mary Poole said. Though deferential, she did not seem overawed by Aunt Hatt, not any more at least. While it must have seemed grand to her, having the wife of successful businessman Ebenezer Watts walking into her house all of a sudden, Margaret felt great affection for her aunt’s warm manner, which could put anyone at ease.
Aunt Hatt had put Nellie down and they were gathering themselves to leave, when they heard the rain-muffled sound of boots moving closer across the yard, followed by a sharp rap on the door. Within a second, Den vanished. Margaret had never seen anyone move so fast, like a shadow, sliding away somewhere so that he was invisible.
‘Open up – it’s the police!’ a man’s voice boomed from outside.
‘Oh!’ Mary Poole cried, aghast. ‘What do they want? Denny . . . What’ve you . . . ?’
‘I’ll have to answer it, Mom,’ Lizzie hissed frantically, going to the door. As she opened it the sound of the rain grew louder and Margaret saw two figures in black rain-capes.
‘Yes?’ Lizzie said faintly. She looked such a poor, defenceless thing, Margaret thought, her heart going out to her.
‘We’ll have to come in, miss,’ a voice said. ‘Is this the house of a Mrs Wilfred Poole?’
‘Oh!’ Mary cried, pulling her shawl tightly round her shoulders. ‘Yes – Wilfred Poole’s my ’usband. What is it? What’s happened to ’im?’
Margaret felt a cold sense of dread course through her. She knew this was what Mary feared, every day.
The two bobbies entered, rain dripping from helmets and capes, seeming to take up most of the room.
‘What is it?’ Aunt Hatt said. She looked quite imposing, standing there in her hat and coat.
‘Are you Mrs Poole?’ one of the men asked, apparently confused. He had a thin little moustache. The other was more portly, with a round face. Margaret saw them glancing about the dimly lit room. It did not sound as if they were after Den, but he was still squirrelled away somewhere out of sight.
‘No, I am,’ Mary Poole said faintly, her eyes full of fear.
‘I’m afraid we ’ave some bad news for you, ma’am,’ the chubbier of the two said. ‘You’d best prepare yourself.’
‘Oh-h! What is it?’ Mary brought her hands up to her face.
‘Here, my dear – sit down.’ Aunt Hatt, her eyes full of concern, brought up a chair and helped Mary on to it.
‘Yesterday afternoon, a man was brought out of the cut at Farmer’s Bridge . . .’
As he said it, Mary Poole let out a moan and started to rock back and forth. Lizzie gave a stifled cry and Annie went and put her arm about Lizzie’s shoulders. Margaret reached out to touch Ivy’s head as she was now standing close to her, wondering if the child understood what was happening.
‘No!’ Mary Poole cried, leaping up again. ‘No – don’t say it . . . Don’t say any more!’
‘Oh, dear Lord,’ Aunt Hatt breathed.
‘We have reason to believe . . .’ the policeman ploughed on, obliged to force the words out.
‘No – no, it can’t be!’ Mary cried. ‘It’s not Wilf! Why would you say it’s my Wilf?’
‘We have reason to believe that the deceased is Mr Wilfred Poole,’ the voice said inexorably.
‘Mrs Poole . . .’ The one with the moustache tried to get through to her. ‘Your husband was known to the force. He’s been picked up more than once in Birmingham for vagrancy . . . I’m afraid there can be no doubt as to his identity.’
There was an appalling moment in which the only sounds were the rain and Mary Poole’s broken cries.
‘I’m afraid he’ll have to be identified all the same,’ the policeman continued. Margaret thought, what a terrible job. Was he sorry, she wondered, this burly young man? He did sound it, a little. And how had Wilfred Poole ended up in the canal? Was it some terrible accident?
‘You’ll need to come to Steelhouse Lane – that’s where they’ve got ’im. Not now – in the morning will do.’
‘No! Now – I want to go now. I don’t believe you!’ Mary Poole was screaming, beside herself. ‘If it’s ’im, there must’ve been some dirty business. Someone must’ve pushed ’im in! My Wilf would never’ve taken his own life – he was a God-fearing man!’
Out of the corner of her eye, Margaret saw Den appear silently from the shadows. In that reflex of his, the way he had disappeared, she could see how he had evaded the wag man from the school for so long.
‘Listen, Mrs Poole,’ Aunt Hatt was saying and Margaret could hear the emotion in her voice. ‘I’ll come with you. Margaret, Annie – you stay here with the children, get them fed. But save some for their mother. She’s going to need it.’
And with that, to the astonishment of the sisters, their Aunt Hatt helped Mary Poole into her coat and the two of them stepped out into the rainy night with the two police constables.