‘LOVAGE! DRAT THE girl, where’s she got to?’
Miranda, who was awaiting her turn to jump into the skipping rope being expertly twirled by two of the older girls who lived in the small cul-de-sac, stood up and headed for the steps of Number Six, upon the top one of which her Aunt Vi stood. She hung back a little, however, for her aunt’s expression was vengeful, and even from halfway across the paving Miranda could see her hand preparing for a slap.
‘Yes, Aunt?’ she said, knowing that it would annoy Aunt Vi if she spoke nicely; her aunt would have preferred impudence so she could strike out with a clear conscience. Not that she would hesitate to hit her niece if the fancy took her, as Miranda knew all too well. Aunt Vi waited for her to get closer, and when she failed to move began to swell with indignation, even her pale sandy hair seeming to stand on end.
‘Come here, I say,’ she shouted, her voice thin with spite. ‘Why can’t you ever do as you’re told, you lazy little madam? There’s your poor cousin sick as a cat, smothered in perishin’ spots, and instead of givin’ me a hand to nurse her, you’re off a-pleasurin’. Considerin’ it was you give my poor girl the measles . . .’
‘She might have caught them off anyone.’
‘No; it were bloody well you what passed them on,’ her aunt said aggressively. ‘Why, you were still a-scrawpin’ and a-scratchin’ at the spots when my poor Beth began to feel ill. And now she’s been and gone and thrown up all over her bed and the floor, so since it’s your bleedin’ fault you can just git up them stairs and clean up.’ She grinned spitefully as her niece approached the front door, then scowled as the girl looked pointedly at her right hand.
‘If you so much as raise your arm you can clear up the mess yourself,’ Miranda said bluntly. ‘When I was sick and ill you never even brought me a cup of water, but you expect me to wait on Beth. Well, I won’t do it if you so much as touch me, and if you try anything else I’ll tell the scuffers.’
It would be idle to pretend that the spiteful look left her aunt’s face, but she moved to one side and made no attempt to interfere as Miranda squiggled past. Miranda had lately discovered that Vi did not want anything to do with the police, and though mention of Harry’s name might not save her from all her aunt’s wrath it certainly made Vi think twice before hitting her without reason.
But right now she had work to do and if her aunt had bothered to use her brain she might have realised that Miranda was perfectly willing to clear up the mess. Not only because she shared Beth’s bed, but also because she and Beth were getting on slightly better. Whilst Miranda herself had had the measles Beth had brought food up to her occasionally, and had insisted that her cousin should have a share of anything soft that was going. Thanks to Beth, Miranda had kept body and soul together with bread and milk. Now Miranda was actually quite happy to do as much for her cousin, so she went into the kitchen, poured water from the kettle into a bucket, added a scrubbing brush and a bar of strong yellow soap and hurried upstairs. And it was nowhere near as bad as she had feared; the bed seemed to have escaped altogether, and though Beth, lying back on her pillows, was clearly still feeling far from well, it was the work of a moment for Miranda to clean the floor and to grin cheerfully at her cousin. ‘Awful, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘The first three days are the worst, but then you begin to realise you ain’t goin’ to die after all.’ She stood the bucket down by the door and sat on the sagging brass bedstead. ‘Poor ol’ Beth! But at least you’ll get all sorts of nice things once you feel a bit better; I had to exist on bread and milk. No wonder I were weak as a kitten and could scarcely climb the stairs.’
Beth sniffed. ‘You were lucky to get bread and milk,’ she said sullenly. ‘Mam wanted to give you bread and water; said milk were too rich . . . well, conny onny was, at any rate. So if it weren’t for me sneakin’ a spoonful on to your bread and water you’d likely still be in bed and covered in spots.’ She pulled a face. ‘And aren’t you the lucky one? When you had measles it was term time so you missed school, but me, I got ’em on the very first day of the summer holidays.’ She glared at her cousin. ‘I tell you, you’re lucky you even had pobs.’
‘You’re probably right and I’m real grateful to you,’ Miranda said. ‘But if you don’t mind me sayin’ so, Beth, your mam isn’t very sensible, is she? When I were ill and couldn’t clean or cook or scrub, she had to do all my work whilst you got the messages and prepared the meals. You’d have thought she’d be keen to get me back on me feet, and that would have happened a good deal quicker if I’d had some decent grub now and then.’ She sighed. ‘Sometimes the smell of scouse comin’ up the stairs tempted me to go down and ask for a share – like Oliver Twist, you know – but I guessed I’d only get a clack round the ear and I could do without that.’
She waited, half expecting her cousin to react angrily, for though Beth must know how badly her cousin was treated neither of them ever referred to it aloud. Now, however, Beth gave Miranda a malicious smile. ‘Your mam spoiled you when you lived in the Avenue, made sure you got the best of everything going,’ she said. ‘And my mam gives me the best what’s on offer; you can’t blame her for that.’ Her eyes had been half closed, but now they opened fully and fixed themselves on Miranda’s face. ‘You’re an extra mouth to feed; Mam’s always saying so, and neither you nor your perishin’ missin’ mother contributes a brass farthing to this house. You don’t pay any of the rent, nor a penny towards the messages, so don’t you grumble about my mam, because you’re just a burden, you!’
This was said with such spite that Miranda’s eyes rounded. She had always supposed that Beth was jealous of her because she was encouraged to be so by her mother. Aunt Vi knew that Miranda was a good deal cleverer than Beth and found this alone difficult to forgive. But now Beth had made it plain that she resented her cousin on her own account, so to speak. Or perhaps it was just the measles talking? Miranda hoped so, but got off the bed and headed for the door, telling herself that she did not have to stop and listen to her cousin’s outpourings. It was true that she did not contribute to the rent of Number Six, but she thought indignantly that on all other counts her cousin was way out. She washed and scrubbed, dusted and tidied, peeled potatoes and prepared vegetables, and sometimes even cooked them, though usually under her aunt’s supervision. When she earned a penny or two by running messages or chopping kindling, she was usually forced to hand over the small amount of money she had managed to acquire, whereas Beth got sixpence pocket money each week, and quite often extra pennies so that she might attend the Saturday rush at the Derby cinema, or buy herself a bag of homemade toffee from Kettle’s Emporium on the Scotland Road. With her hand on the doorknob, Miranda was about to leave the room when a feeble voice from the bed stopped her for a moment. ‘I’m thirsty,’ Beth whined. ‘I want a drink. Mam went up to the Terrace to get advice on how to look after me and Nurse said I were to have plenty of cool drinks; things like raspberry cordial, or lemonade. Get me both, then I’ll choose which to drink.’
The words ‘Get ’em yourself’ popped into Miranda’s head and were hastily stifled; no point in giving her cousin ammunition which she might well hand on to her mother, who would see that Miranda suffered for her sharp tongue. Instead, she pretended she had not heard and went quietly out of the room, shutting the door on Beth’s peevish demand that she bring the drinks at once . . . at once, did she hear?
When Miranda entered the kitchen she found her aunt sitting at the table with last night’s Echo spread out before her and a mug of tea to hand. Miranda contemplated saying nothing about raspberry cordial or lemonade – after all, her aunt had said that she herself intended to be her daughter’s principal nurse – but realised that it would be unwise to irritate the older woman any further. Whilst Vi’s sudden protective interest in Beth lasted, which would not be for very long, Miranda guessed, she would take offence at any tiny thing, and when Aunt Vi took offence Miranda headed for the hills. She went outside and emptied her bucket down the drain, then walked down to the pump and rinsed it out before returning to the kitchen. ‘Beth wants a drink, either raspberry cordial or lemonade,’ she said briefly. ‘Did you buy ’em when you were out earlier, Aunt Vi? If so, I’ll pour some into a jug and take it upstairs . . . unless you would rather do it yourself?’
She had not meant to sound sarcastic, but realised she had done so when her aunt’s hard red cheeks began to take on a purplish tinge. Hastily, she went into the pantry and scanned the shelves until she spotted a bottle of raspberry cordial. Pouring some into a jug, she mixed it with water and, making sure first that her aunt’s back was turned, took a cautious sip. It was delicious. The nicest thing she had tasted over the past twelve months, she told herself dreamily, heading for the stairs. Lucky, lucky Beth! When I had the measles all I got was water to drink and old copies of the Echo to read. Earlier she had seen a big pile of comics beside the bed – Chicks’ Own, The Dandy, The Beano and The Girl’s Own Paper – and had offered to read them to her cousin. Beth, however, clearly thought this a ruse on Miranda’s part to get at the comics and had refused loftily. ‘You can’t read pictures,’ she had said. ‘And comics is all about pictures, not words. Go off and buy yourself comics if you’re so keen on ’em, ’cos you ain’t havin’ mine.’
Upstairs, balancing jug and glass with some difficulty, Miranda got the bedroom door open and glanced cautiously across to the bed. Beth was a pretty girl, dark-haired and dark-lashed with large toffee brown eyes and a neat little nose, but today, flopped against her pillows, she looked like nothing so much as a stranded fish. Her skin was so mottled with spots that she could have been an alien from outer space; her curly dark hair, wet with sweat, lay limply on the pillow, and when she opened her eyes to see what her cousin had brought, the lids were so swollen that she could scarcely see from between them. Miranda, having only just recovered from the measles herself, could not help a pang of real pity arrowing through her. Poor Beth! When she felt better she would be given in abundance all the things that Miranda had longed for when she herself was recovering, but right now no one knew better than she how Beth was suffering. Accordingly she set the glass down on the lopsided little bedside table and poured out some of the delicious raspberry cordial. Beth heaved herself up in the bed and picked up the glass. She took a sip, then another, then stood the glass down again. ‘Thanks, Miranda,’ she whispered. ‘It’s the nicest drink in the world, but I can’t drink it! Oh, how I wish I were well again.’ She looked fretfully up at her young cousin. ‘Why does it taste so sticky and sweet? I so want to drink it, but if I do . . . if I do . . .’
‘Poor old Beth. I felt just the same,’ Miranda assured her cousin. ‘Just you cuddle down, and try to sleep. When you wake up you’ll feel better, honest to God you will. Why, tomorrow morning you’ll be eating your breakfast porridge and drinking cups of tea and telling Aunt Vi that you fancy scouse for your dinner.’ She smiled with real affection at the other girl. ‘You’ll be all right; I told you it’s only bad for the first three days.’
Beth obeyed, snuggling down into the bed and giving Miranda a sleepy smile. ‘You’re all right, Miranda Lovage,’ she said drowsily. ‘I’m sorry I was horrid to you, but I’ve never felt this ill before. When you come up to bed I’ll try some lemonade; perhaps that’ll go down easier.’
Miranda did not point out that she would not be coming up to bed for a good many hours, since it was only just eleven o’clock in the morning. In fact, seeing how her cousin tossed and turned, she had already decided to sleep on one of the kitchen chairs that night. After all, she had done so throughout her own attack of the measles, since Aunt Vi had turned her out of the brass bedstead at ten every night and told her not to return to it until breakfast time the next morning. She seemed to think that this might prevent herself and her daughter from catching the infection, but of course time had proved her wrong.
Miranda trod softly downstairs and entered the kitchen, saw that her aunt was snoozing, and let herself out of the front door and back into the sunshine of Jamaica Close. The girls were still twirling the rope and the game was going on just as usual, so Miranda wondered whether to go over and ask to be put in, but decided against it. The measles, and her enforced diet of bread and milk, had made her lethargic, unwilling to exert herself. She had been aware of a great lassitude when she had climbed the stairs the second time, balancing the jug of raspberry cordial and the glass.
Now she decided that since no one else cared what became of her she would have to start looking after herself, so she strolled slowly along the length of the Close and for the first time it occurred to her that it was a very odd little street indeed. On her left were half a dozen terraced houses, each boasting three steps and a tiny garden plot. Most householders ignored the latter, but some had planted a solitary rose, a handful of marigolds, or a flowering shrub. However, the houses on her right were not terraced but semi-detached; bigger, more substantial. Rumour had it that whilst the even numbers two to ten had to use the common pump against the end wall of the Close, the odd numbers one to nine had piped water, though all the houses had outdoor privies in their back yards. Miranda frowned. She had never seriously considered the Close before, but now it seemed to her that it was downright odd to have such different sorts of houses in one very short street. And perhaps the oddest thing of all was the wall at the very end of Jamaica Close. It must be twenty or twenty-five feet high and blackened by soot, but what was it doing there? Why had they chosen to block off the Close with what looked like the back view of an enormous warehouse or factory? Yet Miranda knew that it could be neither; had there been a building in which people worked so near to Jamaica Close, then surely she would have heard sounds of movement, or people talking when they took their breaks. And the wall was so high! Because of it, the inhabitants of Jamaica Close could not see the setting sun, though its rays poured down on the rest of the area. For the first time, a spark of curiosity raised itself in Miranda’s mind. What was the wall there for? Why did no one ever mention what was on the far side of the great mass of bricks which chopped Jamaica Close off short? Had it once been all houses, or all factories for that matter? She could not say, but the imp of curiosity had been roused and would not go away. Useless to ask her aunt, who never answered her questions anyway. But there must be someone who could explain the presence of that enormous wall.
She was standing, hands on hips, gazing up with watering eyes at the topmost line of bricks and wondering what it hid – and, for that matter, why the road should be called Jamaica Close. ‘Jamaica’s miles and miles away, and all the other roads which run parallel with this one have nice Irish names – Connemara, Dublin, Tallaght, St Patrick’s and so on. So why Jamaica? As far as I know it’s a tropical island and nothing whatsoever to do with Liverpool.’
‘You don’t know nothing, gairl.’ The voice, cutting across her thoughts, made Miranda jump several inches. She had not realised she had spoken her thoughts aloud, or that anyone was close enough to hear, and, consequently, felt both annoyed and extremely foolish. This, not unnaturally, caused her to turn sharply on the speaker, a boy a year or two older than she, with light brown tufty hair, a great many freckles and, at this moment, a taunting grin.
‘Shurrup, you!’ she said crossly. ‘Trust a feller to stick his bloomin’ nose in!’
The boy sniggered. ‘If you don’t want nobody to answer, then you shouldn’t ask questions,’ he said. ‘What you doin’, gal? Ain’t you never see’d a wall before? You’re the kid what lives at Number Six, ain’t you?’ He guffawed rudely. ‘First time I ever see you without a bag or a basket or without that perishin’ Beth Smythe a-grabbin’ of your arm and a-tellin’ you what to do.’ He guffawed again. ‘Slipped your leash, have you? Managed to undo your bleedin’ collar?’
Miranda glared at him. She knew him by sight, knew he and his parents lived two doors down from her aunt. He was one of a large family of rough, uncouth boys, ranging in age from eighteen or nineteen down to a baby of two or three. Many folk did not approve of the Mickleborough family and this particular sprig, Miranda knew, was reckoned by her aunt – and indeed by Beth – to be a troublemaker of no mean order. On the other hand she knew that she herself was often accused by Aunt Vi of all sorts of crimes which she had most certainly never committed. Could it be the same for this boy? Miranda scowled, chewing her finger. She had not managed to make any friends amongst the children in Jamaica Close, for several reasons. One was that despite the fact that everyone disliked her aunt, despised her meanness, her spite, and her reluctance to help others, they believed her when she told lies about her niece. It seemed strange, but Miranda supposed that grown-ups, even if they didn’t like each other, tended to take another adult’s word against that of a child.
Then there was Beth. She wasn’t all bad, as Miranda acknowledged, but she was an awful whiner, bursting into tears the moment she failed to get her own way and telling the most dreadful fibs to get herself out of trouble and somebody else into it. This naturally made her extremely unpopular.
A sharp poke in the ribs brought Miranda back to the present, and she turned to the boy by her side, eyebrows climbing. ‘What business is it of yours if I stare at the wall? And who are you, anyway? I know you’re one of the Mickleborough boys – my aunt says you’re all horrid – but I don’t know which one you are.’
The boy grinned, a flash of white teeth in an exceedingly dirty face. ‘I’m Steve, the one me mam calls the turnover. I ‘spect you’ve heard bad things about me, but that’s because we used to have a rather mean dad. But now we’ve gorra nice one – a huge feller what could give you a clout hard enough to send you into next week. Not that he has – clouted me, I mean – but I wouldn’t take no chances wi’ a feller as big as the church tower. So I’m a reformed character, like.’
Miranda stared at him, eyes rounding. ‘I’m like that . . . well, my mam was anyway. She and Aunt Vi had different dads; Aunt Vi’s was a right pig, so when he died and Gran married again she chose a gentle, loving feller – John Saunders, that was, who was my mother’s father. I never knew my grandparents because they died before I was born, but Aunt Vi blamed my mother for her own hard upbringing. She said my mam was spoiled rotten, never had to raise a finger or contribute anything towards the household expenses, and that’s why she blames me for every perishin’ thing which goes wrong,’ she said, rather breathlessly.
‘Well I’m blowed!’ Steve remarked. ‘It’s like my family, too, except that there’re more than two of us. I’m the last of the bad ’uns; me little brother Kenny is me step-dad’s kid.’
The pair had fallen into step and were strolling along the Close, heading for the main road. ‘Wish I had a little brother or sister,’ Miranda said sadly. ‘Not that I wanted one when Mum and I lived on the Avenue; we had each other and that was all that mattered.’
‘Aye, I heard you and your mam were close,’ Steve acknowledged. He peered down into her face. ‘Things is a bit different now, ain’t they? I see’d you runnin’ errands, humpin’ water, goin’ up to the wash house with everyone’s dirty clothes . . . and you’ve got a lot thinner than you were when you first arrived. Reckon they only feed you on odds and ends.’
Miranda thought of the plate which would be put down in front of her at dinner time: a spoonful of gravy, a couple of small spuds, a bit of cabbage if she was lucky, and that would be all the food she’d get until tomorrow’s breakfast, unless of course she helped herself and risked being called a thief.
But the boy was looking at her enquiringly, his look half curious, half sympathetic. Miranda gave a rueful smile. ‘You’re right there; I get what the rest won’t eat,’ she admitted. She raised her eyebrows, returning look for look. ‘You aren’t exactly Mr Universe yourself. What did you say your name was?’
‘Steve,’ her companion said. ‘I might be skinny, but I get me fair share of whatever’s going; our mam sees to that. And fellers can always pick up fades from the market, or earn a few pennies sellin’ chips to housewives.’ He looked at her, his own eyebrows rising. ‘What’s your moniker? I know your cousin’s Beth.’
‘I’m Miranda Lovage,’ Miranda said shortly. By now they had reached the end of Jamaica Close and had emerged on to the pavement, which was thronging with people. Women were shopping, children too. Folk were waiting for trams or buses, whilst others sauntered along peering into shop windows and enjoying the warm sunshine. Miranda would have turned right, chiefly because she expected Steve to turn left, heading for the city centre, but instead he jerked her to a halt.
‘What say we pal up a bit, go round together?’ he suggested. ‘Your cousin’s got measles, I’ve heard, so she won’t be out and about for two or three weeks, which means you’ll be all on your lonesome unless you join forces wi’ me.’ He grinned at her and suddenly Miranda realised how lonely she had been, and how much more fun the summer holidays would be if she did as this strange boy suggested.
She turned to face him. They were about the same height – perhaps he was an inch or two the taller – and now she was looking directly into his face she saw that beneath the dirt it wasn’t a bad face at all. His hair was mousy brown, his skin only one shade lighter, and he met her regard steadily from a pair of hazel eyes set beneath straight dark brows. But there was something about his eyes . . . Miranda stared harder, then smiled to herself. His eyes tilted up at the corners, giving him a mischievous look; she rather liked it. But her new friend was jerking her arm, expecting a reply to his last remark, so she grinned at him, nodding so vigorously that her bush of long straight carroty hair swung forward like a curtain, momentarily hiding her face. ‘That’s a grand idea, Steve. We could do all sorts if we could earn a bit of gelt, and two of us ought to be able to earn more than one. The feller who sells carpets from a market stall will always give a kid a few pence to carry a carpet back to a customer’s house. I’m not strong enough to do it alone, and Beth wouldn’t lower herself, but if you and I offered our services . . .’
Steve grinned delightedly. ‘You’ve got the right idea, pal,’ he said exuberantly. ‘We’ll make a killing while your cousin’s laid up . . . but what will happen when she’s fit again, eh? I don’t fancy being dropped like a hot potato.’
Miranda chuckled. ‘Don’t worry; at the mere mention of earning a few pence by working for it Beth will come down with a headache, or find some other excuse to let me get on with it alone,’ she assured him. ‘So what’ll we do now?’
‘Ever been to Seaforth Sands? It’s grand up there on a fine day like this. If we could earn ourselves a few coppers we could stay out there all day. Can you swim?’
‘Course not; girls don’t,’ Miranda said scornfully. ‘Besides, where would I learn? I know there’s a public baths on Vauxhall Road but they charge you at least sixpence – maybe a shilling – and anyway, you need a bathing costume to swim there.’
‘I could learn you. And what’s wrong with the Scaldy, anyhow?’
Miranda opened her mouth to make some blighting remark, then changed her mind. Steve was offering friendship, with no strings; the least she could do was to be honest with him. ‘I’ve never heard of the Scaldy, whatever that is,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve heard of Seaforth Sands, of course, but I wouldn’t have a clue how to get there. You see, when I lived with my mother in the Avenue we hardly ever came into the city, except for shopping and that. Why, I couldn’t even find my way to the Pier Head! I’ve heard other kids talking about playing on the chains of the floating bridge, but I don’t even know what that means. You might as well realise, Steve, that all this is strange to me. I know Prince’s Park – the boating lake, and the café where they sell you a lemonade and a sticky bun for sixpence – and of course I know the theatre where my mother worked, and most of the Madison Players. But apart from that, I’m a stranger here. Go on, tell me what the Scaldy is.’
Thus challenged, Steve began to explain, then gave up. ‘When does your aunt expect you home?’ he asked. ‘Can you get away for a whole day? If so we’ll do the grand tour and I’ll show you everything as we go. It’ll be easier if you can see what I’m talking about with your own eyes.’
Miranda sniggered. ‘I shouldn’t be able to see with anybody else’s eyes,’ she pointed out, and dodged as Steve gave her a friendly punch. ‘I can’t say when Aunt Vi expects me home but she won’t worry, even if I disappear like my mother did. So come on, let’s have the grand tour.’
By the end of that momentous day, Miranda felt she was now as familiar with the delights of the city as Steve himself. They had visited the Scaldy, just past Burlington Bridge, so called because that was where the Tate and Lyle sugar manufactory belched out the hot water it no longer needed into the canal. They had watched enviously as boys small and large ran along the towpath and plunged into the steaming water. Miranda had wanted to follow, clad in knickers and vest, but Steve, though he applauded her pluck, had thought it unwise. ‘Girls don’t swim here,’ he had assured her, ‘but now you’ve seen it we’ll skip a lecky out to Seaforth Sands. There’ll be a deal of folk there, but if you tuck your skirt into your knickers you’ll be able to paddle. After that we’ll go up to the barracks – sometimes the soldiers will chuck a kid a penny or two to buy tobacco for ’em – and after that . . .’
After that they had a marvellous day. They went down to the floating road, slipped under the chains, and played at mudlarks. They begged a wooden orange box from a friendly greengrocer and took it back to Steve’s crowded back yard, where they chopped it into kindling. Miranda divided the pieces into bundles which they sold up and down Scotland Road for threepence each, and with the money earned Steve bought a bag of sticky buns. Miranda had been diffident about following Steve into his mother’s kitchen, partly because she was shy and feared a rebuff, and partly because she was frightened of Steve’s older brothers, who Aunt Vi was always declaring were dangerously wild and best avoided, but this proved to be yet another of her aunt’s spiteful and untruthful comments. Ted, Reg and Joe were easy-going young men, accepting Miranda as their brother’s friend, whilst little Kenny, who was just three, clamoured for her to play with him.
Miranda was just thinking how delightfully different Steve’s home life was from her own when the back door opened and Mr Mickleborough came in. He was an enormous man, well over six foot tall, with huge hands and feet. Steve had told her that his stepfather was an engine driver and Miranda would have liked to ask him about his work, but Mrs Mickleborough began to lay the table and the older boys disappeared, though Kenny, the baby, rushed to his father, winding soft little arms about Mr Mickleborough’s knees and begging for a shoulder ride.
Miranda, all too used to knowing when she was not wanted, thanked Mrs Mickleborough for her hospitality and headed for the back door. She almost cut Steve in two by trying to shut it just as he was following her outside.
Out in the jigger which ran along the backs of the houses the two stared at one another. ‘Isn’t he big?’ Miranda said rather breathlessly. ‘He makes your brothers look quite small. Gosh, I wouldn’t like to get a clack from him!’
Steve puffed out his cheeks and whistled. ‘You’re right there. He’s got hands like clam shovels. But he’s real good to little Kenny, and Mam says he’s gentle as a lamb. Still an’ all, I tries to keep me ’ead down, never gives back answers, stays out of the way as much as possible, and do what he says right smartly.’ He sighed ruefully. ‘He’s strict, but he’s fair, and much better to our mam than my real dad was, so I reckon I should count me blessings.’
Miranda was looking thoughtful. ‘If he’s only your step-dad, why do you have the same name?’ she asked. ‘I thought boys always kept their fathers’ names?’
‘Oh, me real dad were a right mean old bugger, used to knock Mam about as well as us kids, so when he were killed and Mam married me stepfather she asked us if we’d mind being called Mickleborough too, since she wanted to forget everything to do with our dad. I don’t think Reg and Ted were too happy, or even Joe, but I were only a nipper meself and couldn’t see as it made any difference, so I said yes at once and the others came round in the end. So now we’re the Mickleborough boys – isn’t that what your aunt called us?’
By this time the two of them had emerged into Jamaica Close, and Miranda looked towards Number Six, half expecting her aunt to appear in the doorway shouting for her, but the doorstep was deserted, as indeed was the Close itself. Most families would be either preparing or eating their evening meal, so if she wanted to be fed she would have to go indoors at once and think up some good reason why she had been away all day. She said as much to Steve, who shook his head. ‘You’ve already said they don’t care where you go or what you do, unless they need you, and since you also said your aunt was staying at home to look after Beth you don’t even have to invent an excuse. All you have to do is look astonished and say if they needed you why didn’t they call.’
Miranda sighed. ‘It’s been the nicest day I’ve had since Mum disappeared,’ she said wistfully. She fished in her pocket, produced her share of the money they had earned, and thrust the pennies into Steve’s hand. ‘You take care of it; my aunt will only nick it if I take it into Number Six. She’ll say I have to pay something towards the rent, or she needs some coal . . . any excuse to take it off me.’
Steve accepted the money and shoved it into the pocket of his ragged kecks. ‘Tomorrer, if you get up real early, I’ll show you where I cache my gelt,’ he said, ‘then you can put yours there too and know it’ll be safe.’ He hesitated, then jerked a thumb at the great wall at the end of the Close. ‘Remember we were talking about the wall earlier? Well, now we knows each other pretty well I’ll take you round t’other side of that wall tomorrer and tell you something I’ve not told another soul.’
‘Tell me now,’ Miranda said eagerly. ‘Go on. You’ve told me so much I might as well know the rest. I was sure there was some mystery about that wall as soon as I began to notice it. Go on, Steve, tell me!’
But though Steve laughed indulgently, he also shook his head. ‘No chance,’ he said. ‘It’s like what I told you earlier about the Scaldy; better to see it for yourself than me have to drive myself half crazy trying to explain. Tomorrer is quite soon enough.’
‘Oh, but suppose I can’t get away?’ Miranda wailed. ‘Suppose my aunt needs me? She’ll only interest herself in Beth for a bit, then she’ll expect me to dance attendance twenty-four hours out of the twenty-four. And then you’ll be sorry you were so mean.’
But Steve only laughed. ‘Maybe I will and maybe I won’t,’ he said infuriatingly. He seized her shoulders and ran her up the three steps to the front door of Number Six. ‘Off you go.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Don’t forget; meet me here tomorrow at six in the morning.’
‘Well, I will if I can,’ Miranda said. ‘My aunt never gets up before eight o’clock, so maybe I’ll be lucky.’
She left him, turning to give a little wave as she shut the dirty paint-blistered front door behind her. Then she went down the short hallway and into the kitchen. Her aunt was sitting by the table eating cake, having clearly had her fill of the scouse, potatoes and cabbage Miranda had helped to prepare earlier in the day. She swung her chair round so that she could stare at her niece. ‘Where’ve you been?’ she said belligerently. ‘I come back after me shopping trip and you was nowhere to be seen. Poor Beth had shouted herself hoarse, but did you appear? Did you hell! All you thought of was your perishin’ self.’
Aunt Vi continued to upbraid her as though she had done something really wicked, instead of merely being out of hearing when her aunt had called. As soon as she could make herself heard above the barrage of complaints, accusations and name calling, Miranda took a deep breath and reminded Aunt Vi that it was she who was supposed to be looking after her daughter. ‘You said you were going to nurse Beth; don’t you remember?’ Staring into her aunt’s furious face, she saw recollection dawn there and saw, too, how dangerous it was to be right, especially if it made Aunt Vi wrong. She knew she should have reminded herself that a soft answer turneth away wrath, but it was too late for that now: she had erred and must pay the price.
‘Well, since you weren’t around when I were dishin’ up you can go supperless to bed,’ Aunt Vi said, her little eyes gleaming malevolently. ‘Now just you go upstairs and see if there’s anything Beth wants. If there’s nothing you can fetch her, then you can read her the serial story out of The Girl’s Own Paper.’
Miranda hesitated. She had had a large slice of bread and jam at the Mickleborough house and she and Steve had shared some fades from St John’s market and a paper of chips from the chippy in Homer Street, which meant of course that she was not really hungry at all. However, her day with Steve had put fresh courage into her veins and she decided to be bold for once. She pointed to the blackened pan on the stove. ‘I prepared that before I went out this morning, and I’ve had nothing to eat all day,’ she said firmly, though untruthfully. ‘I’ve had measles myself, you know, and it’s left me quite weak. I’m not running up and down stairs at Beth’s beck and call until I’ve had some supper. And a nice hot cup of tea,’ she added defiantly.
Auntie Vi surged to her feet, crossed to the stove and heaved the pan well back. ‘You ain’t havin’ none of this, norrif I have to chuck it out for the perishin’ birds,’ she said nastily. ‘Bread and water’s good enough for you; you can help yourself to that if you like.’
Miranda looked at her. She realised that this was the first time she had ever confronted her aunt and that Vi must be wondering what had got into her, but having made a stand she must not back down unless she wanted to live on bread and water. For a moment she contemplated cutting herself a large slice of the cake which her aunt had been devouring when she had entered the kitchen, then changed her mind. She had prepared the scouse, and had looked forward to having at least a helping of the stuff, so she went to the sideboard, took down a tin plate and held it out wordlessly, almost beneath Aunt Vi’s nose. Her aunt began to gobble that she should not get a shred of the delicious stew, but Miranda continued to hold the plate and, to her secret astonishment, when their eyes met it was Aunt Vi who lowered hers first. To be sure, she did not ladle any stew on to the tin plate, but turned away, muttering. Miranda heard words like ‘forbid’ and ‘don’t you dare’ and ‘defyin’ me in me own house’ as her aunt stomped back to her chair, picked up the teapot and poured herself another cup of tea, though her hand trembled so much that tea sprayed out of the spout and puddled on the wooden table.
Miranda could not believe her luck. Never, in her wildest dreams, had she expected it to be Aunt Vi who backed down, but it had happened. She seized the ladle and helped herself to a generous portion, then sat down at the table and began to eat. Halfway through the meal she reached over and cut herself a wedge of bread from the loaf to sop up the last of the gravy, and when she had finished she went across to the sink and put her dirty plate with the others, while Aunt Vi continued to munch cake and stare at her as though she could not believe her eyes.
Miranda gave her aunt a big bright smile and headed for the stairs. ‘I don’t suppose Beth wants anything now, or she would have shouted,’ she said cheerfully. ‘However, a bargain is a bargain; I said I wouldn’t wait on Beth until I’d had something to eat. Well, now I’ve had a meal, and a good one, so I think I’m strong enough to get up the stairs and see if there’s anything I can do for my cousin.’ As she left the kitchen Miranda glanced back at her aunt and had real difficulty in preventing herself from giving a great roar of laughter. Aunt Vi had her hand across her mouth as she shovelled cake into it, and just for a moment she could have modelled for the monkey in the well-known portrayal of Speak no Evil. But she managed to contain her mirth until she was well out of hearing.
Upstairs, her cousin was already looking a little less unhappy, though her skin was still scarlet with spots. She had drunk at least one full glass of the raspberry cordial, but the scouse beside it had scarcely been touched. She looked up as her cousin entered the room and indicated the plate of stew with a weary hand. ‘Want it?’ she asked in a hoarse whisper. ‘I can’t eat the flamin’ stuff; food makes me feel sick.’ She sat up on one elbow, peering at Miranda through swollen lids. ‘Where’s you bin all day? Mam can’t make the stairs more’n twice in twenty-four hours, she says, and anyway I wanted you. She bought the latest copy of The Girl’s Own Paper so’s you could read me the serial story, but you weren’t here.’
Miranda sat down on the bed and pulled the magazine towards her. ‘I offered to read to you this morning but you told me comics were pictures and to go and buy me own.’
‘So I did,’ Beth said feebly. ‘But I didn’t mean it, you know that, Miranda. And anyway, me mam can’t read as well as you. She says her glasses steam up so she misses words out and has hard work to read her shopping list, lerralone a magazine story.’ She gave a gusty sigh. ‘I telled Ma to send you up as soon as you come home.’
‘And I told your ma that I needed some food before tackling the stairs again,’ Miranda said. ‘She let me have a plate of scouse and some bread; I must say it were prime. As for what I’ve been doing all day, you wouldn’t be interested; it was just – just messing around. You know the Mickleborough boys? I know your mum doesn’t like them, but they’re all right really. One of them – he’s called Steve – said he’d take me on a grand tour of the area and he showed me all sorts. Do you know, Beth, there’s a huge art gallery quite near the London Road and a marvellous library as well as a museum . . . oh, there’s all sorts of things I never dreamed of. While you’re laid up I mean to get to know the city as well as he does. Then, when you’re better . . .’ But Beth’s interest in her cousin’s doings was already fading.
‘Never mind that. Just you do what my mam says and read me my serial story,’ Beth commanded. ‘If you want to go around with some perishin’ rough boy, that’s up to you. Oh, and I could do with another drink. Me throat’s that sore, even talking hurts.’
Miranda stood up, took the almost empty jug and returned to the kitchen. Presently she was back in the bedroom and sitting down on the bed with the magazine spread out on her knees. ‘Ready?’ she said brightly. ‘Well, Louisa Nettlebed is hot on the trail of the mysterious letter, though it is to be hoped that Phyllis, the heroine, will get to it first. I’ll read on from there.’
Miranda enjoyed reading aloud, but was rather chagrined to discover, when she reached the end of the episode, that her cousin had fallen asleep. That meant re-reading the story the next day and she particularly wanted to go off early with Steve. Still, when Aunt Vi came up to bed she told Miranda to sleep in the kitchen, which was all to the good. The clock above the mantel has a very loud tick, and if I pull the curtains back so the early light can come in I’ll be ready for the off at six, she told herself.
It was a pearly summer morning when Miranda let herself quietly out of the house. As arranged, Steve was hanging around outside, and he greeted her with a broad grin. ‘Ain’t it a grand day?’ he said. ‘I reckon it’s too good to waste poundin’ the streets and showin’ you where I stash me gelt, so I’ve took some bread and cheese – Mam won’t mind – and we can catch the number twenty-two tram out to Fazakerley and then walk to Simonswood, where we can have us dinners and muck about . . .’
‘Where’s that?’ Miranda interrupted. She could feel excitement flooding through her at the thought of another wonderful day with this new – and knowing – friend, though excitement warred with disappointment. Steve had roused her curiosity about the other side of the wall and she longed to see it. However, the prospect of a day in the country was almost enough to cause her to forget what she now thought of as ‘the mystery of the wall’. After all, the wall would be there probably for the rest of her life, whereas a day out with Steve could be ruined if rain fell heavily, or her aunt discovered her intention and forbade her to leave the house.
But Steve was staring at her; he looked annoyed. ‘What do you mean, where’s that?’ he said rather truculently. ‘Didn’t I just tell you? Simonswood’s real countryside; there’s streams with tiddlers in, ponds for the ducks and geese, orchards full of apples and pears and that . . . oh, everything to make the day real special. But if you don’t want to come, of course . . .’
Hastily, Miranda hid her curiosity about the wall and assured him that he was mistaken; she wanted to go to Simonswood very much indeed. As they trotted along to the tram stop, however, she admitted that if she was out for a whole day again there would undoubtedly be reprisals. ‘But I don’t care,’ she added defiantly. ‘Mostly I’m in trouble for doing nothing, so it’ll be quite a change for my aunt to have a real reason to knock me about.’
‘Knock you about? But you’re not her kid, and you’re a girl . . .’ Steve was beginning, but Miranda was saved the necessity of answering as a number twenty-two tram drew up beside them. ‘Tell you what,’ he said as they settled themselves on one of the slatted seats, ‘if your aunt treats you bad, suppose we take back something she’ll really like – a sort of bribe, you could say. I know a little old tree what has real early apples; someone telled me they’re called Beauty of Bath. Suppose we fill our pockets with ’em? You can give your share to your aunt if you think that’ll sweeten her.’
Miranda thought this an excellent idea, and when they got off the tram she chatted to Steve quite happily as they strolled along country lanes whose verges were thick with sweet-smelling spires of creamy coloured flowers, and in marshy places with the delicate pale mauve blossoms which Steve told her were called lady’s smock.
Once again Miranda had a wonderful time. She accompanied Steve to a farmhouse where they bought a drink of milk, and were told they were welcome to take as many apples as they liked from the little tree down by the gate. After they had eaten their bread and cheese, Miranda was all set to dam a tiny stream so that she might paddle in the pool she meant to create, when Steve astonished her by saying that he felt like a nap.
‘You don’t,’ Miranda said scornfully. ‘Naps are for old people. Just you come and help me dam this stream.’
‘I’m too tired,’ Steve said obstinately. ‘I dunno why, but if I don’t get some sleep I’ll not have the strength to walk back to the tram stop. Ain’t you tired, Miranda?’ As he spoke he had been taking off his ragged pullover and folding it into a pillow, but even as he lay down upon it and composed himself for sleep, Miranda jerked his faded shirt up and stared at the back thus revealed.
‘Oh, Steve, you’ve been and gone and got the flippin’ measles,’ she said, her voice vibrant with dismay. ‘I thought you’d have been bound to have had them . . . but you’ve got them now at any rate. No wonder you’re so perishin’ tired; I reckon I slept for near on three days when I first had them, and Beth’s the same. She couldn’t even stay awake to listen to me reading her serial story.’
Steve sat up, heaved his shirt up and surveyed his spotty skin with a groan of dismay. ‘Oh, hell and damnation, wharra thing to happen right at the start of the summer holidays,’ he said. ‘I’ll try to keep it a secret from me mam, but I doubt it’s possible. I say, Miranda, I’m real sorry, but until the spots go I’ll be lucky to escape from the house for ten minutes, lerralone ten hours.’
‘Well, I suppose we ought to be counting our blessings because we’ve had two great days,’ Miranda said. ‘And once you begin to feel better, surely your mam will let you play out? She’s an awfully nice woman and I don’t suppose she’ll want you under her feet for the whole three weeks.’
‘We’ll see. Mebbe she’ll let you come in, ’cos you’ve already had ’em, and read to me, or just chat,’ Steve said, but he didn’t sound too hopeful. He grinned up at her and Miranda saw that already spots were beginning to appear amongst the freckles on his cheeks. Soon he would be smothered in the bloomin’ things, which meant that he would be unable to fool anyone; one look and he would be driven back to his own home, though Miranda thought this was yet another example of the stupidity of grown-ups. When a measles epidemic struck, the sensible thing would be to let all the kids catch it. Then the next time it happened they would be safe, since she was pretty sure you couldn’t catch the measles twice. So Miranda continued her work of damming the stream and paddled contentedly whilst Steve slumbered, though they had to make their way back to the tram stop in good time. Steve pulled his cap well down over his spotty brow and to Miranda’s relief no one tried to stop them getting aboard, though once they were back in Jamaica Close Steve got some funny looks from the kids playing on the paving stones.
As she had expected, Miranda was met by a tirade of abuse from Aunt Vi, and a storm of reproaches from Beth, since the first resented having to look after her daughter and the second wanted amusing, and was fed up with her mother’s constant complaints. As Steve had predicted, the large bag of apples went some way to placating her aunt, but later in the evening, when Miranda went round to Steve’s house, she was told politely but firmly that he was feverish, could see no one and most certainly was not allowed out.
Oh well, I’ve had two wonderful days and three weeks isn’t such a very long time after all, Miranda comforted herself as she pushed two chairs together to form a bed after her aunt had gone upstairs. The maddening thing is that Steve had promised to tell me about the high wall at the end of Jamaica Close, only we both forgot about it when we realised he had got the measles. I wonder when he’ll be able to explain just what’s mysterious about that wall.