Birmingham, 1904
Jack Sidwell arranged himself beneath a Bovril advertisement on the platform at Snow Hill station and waited, fidgeting and fretting about his hat.
On a dandyish whim brought on by the sweltering August weather, he had treated himself to a second-hand straw boater. The speckled mirror in the wardrobe dealer’s cramped room, where he tried it on, had flattered his boyish features into looking their full twenty-six years. Even with his neat blond moustache, Jack never looked his age. He paid his one and six and set off along the street with a swagger.
Now that he had agreed to come and meet these two young women off the train, he was beginning to long for the familiarity of his old cloth cap. Bet I look a proper Charlie, and other demoralizing thoughts, started to pester at him, along with the heaviness of his jacket in the heat, the moistness of his back and armpits. He might be a young man with a business all his own – he even employed another lad now – but still, he just felt like a sweaty chump in a silly hat.
Several trains arrived and departed. Sidelong beams of sunlight lit the smoke and steam as it unfurled towards the iron roof beams. There was a feverish feel to the afternoon. The stenches of horse muck and industry blooming in the heat, light glancing off the tracks in the distance, the talk all around of the hanging this morning at the gaol over in Winson Green. He shuddered. Made you feel queer, thinking about that. Jack tugged nervously at his collar and drew in a hot, smut-laced breath.
What were these two women doing, anyway, coming to Birmingham? He’d picked up rumours in the house – some trouble, them needing a bolt hole. But he hadn’t dared ask Mr Watts. It all seemed a bit rum and he was curious to see what these wenches would look like. Not that they were ‘wenches’ exactly, not by the sound of it.
The Bristol train came steaming in, pulled by a magnificent, thudding beast of an engine. By the time the air had cleared and the bulk of passengers began to disperse, halfway along the platform he saw two young women in plain grey clothes and straw bonnets standing, uncertainly, close together. They had to be the ones. In outline, he saw that the taller of the two had a stately bearing, her dark hair fixed in a sober style and fastened low on her neck. The other was smaller, almost elfish in appearance.
Jack, while theoretically intensely interested in women, found that few of these real, alarming creatures seemed to cross his path. His heart began to pound like one of the pistons turning the engine wheels.
‘Here goes, m’lad.’ Pulling his shoulders back, he strode towards them.
Four eyes fixed upon him: two of them wide with some emotion which, oversensitive, he mistook for snootiness. The face of this taller girl was grey-eyed and sternly beautiful, though even Jack could recognize that at this moment it looked hollowed out by exhaustion. The smaller girl’s eyes were set in a heart-shaped little face with strong cheekbones, slender but definite brows, and brown hair hauled back under her hat. These greenish eyes blazed at him with an expression of burning defiance which he found most intimidating. That look she was giving – it was fit to blow you over. She wasn’t pretty exactly, not in a pin-up way – but my goodness, what a girl!
Heart palpitating, he managed to raise the hat with self-conscious aplomb.
‘The Misses Hanson? Mr Ebenezer Watts sent me to meet you.’ Pompously he added, ‘He found himself unable to leave the works this afternoon.’ As an afterthought he held his hand out to the elder, less intimidating sister. ‘I’m Jack Sidwell. I, er . . .’ It seemed a lame finish. ‘I work upstairs.’
The two women nodded. Neither of them spoke, which was even more disconcerting. They seemed completely bewildered. Jack wanted to stare at the fascinating younger one, but didn’t dare.
‘We’ve got to take the tram,’ he said, trying to keep up his courage. ‘Let me carry those.’
He took their old leather grip bags, one in each hand, and led them out of the station. One thing had become immediately clear to him: they both had a lot on their minds, and whatever it was, they were not thinking about him or his hat.
Each time the tram slowed, even a fraction, Margaret tried to look out between the swaying bodies in the packed carriage, to see this great city which was to take them in.
‘It won’t be yet.’ Annie, her younger sister, nudged her painfully in the ribs. Everything about Annie was sharp – her pointed chin, her elbows, her temper. ‘Stop fretting. He’ll tell us when to get off.’
She nodded towards the rear of the carriage, where they could just see their round-faced guide, Mr Sidwell, who had become separated from them.
Margaret did not have the energy to reply that she was just trying to see the place. What she could make out, however, was overwhelming. All those buildings – all the traffic and people! As the tram crawled along, she stopped trying to look out. The high collar of her blouse, her cuffs, her corset, all made her feel imprisoned. In the stifling heat, a sick panic rose in her. If only she could get out. She was shut in here, in this strange place with the hot stench of all these people.
‘Anyway,’ Annie went on, seeming unaffected by the heat and having, as ever, to be right, ‘Birmingham’s a big place.’
‘Oh, do just be quiet, Annie, please.’
Closing her eyes, she clung to one of the leather straps, pressing a handkerchief over her nose and mouth. I need thee every hour, most gracious Lord . . . She kept praying the words of one of her favourite hymns to give herself strength. But the tune brought back Sunday mornings at home in their father’s church, the swell of organ and cello, the things she had always known, that she had never expected to leave – not like this. Tears threatened to overwhelm her and she forced the thoughts away. Be strong in the Lord . . . Pray without ceasing. She must find courage.
There was enough to sicken the stomach: the stale stink of garments imbued with grime and chemical smells of industry, of sour breath, decaying teeth, cigarette smoke. She was used to the poor – as a minister’s dutiful daughter, much more accustomed than most of her class. For many of her nineteen years, she had visited villagers in their dank cottages, tending to their sickly children and elders. Nor did she look down on any of her fellow children of God.
But this was different – the city with its looming, soot-blackened buildings, streets going off in every direction which somehow seemed dark, even at this time of day, the rush of people, some now pressed tightly up against her, the pallid faces, clothes patched with sweat and dirt. And the noise! Even walking to the tram, amid the clanging bells, the press of people, the clatter and thump of the place, she had been almost overcome. All this, added to her distress, seemed about to tilt her back into illness again.
It felt like weeks since they had left the village, though it was only this morning, the bus chugging between fields where lapwings settled on the dewy grass. Already, she had been sick with fear and shame. The events of the past days had propelled them out of all that was dear and familiar – into this huge, unknown place. The fact that it was the city of her mother’s birth did not, at this moment, bring much comfort.
As she fought a rising sensation of nausea, beside her a thin man with a drooping moustache spoke to his neighbour in a grim, gloating tone.
‘So – they done another’un this morning.’
‘D’yer go over there, then? The nick?’
‘Nah. Would’ve if I ’adn’t been on early today. See the bastard hang.’
‘You don’t see nowt these days. It’s all done inside.’
The first speaker made a sound of annoyance. ‘Well, as good as. I’d’ve gone all the same.’ There was a pause before he went on. ‘They’ve got a condemned cell there now. I know a bloke ’elped put it in. That’s where they spend their last night, like. Last meal, before they tek ’em out in the morning, get the rope around their neck . . .’
Margaret pressed her hand to her mouth, screwing her eyes tightly shut. Perspiration was soaking through her clothes. She tried to block out the man’s whining voice but it pierced through all her other thoughts.
Hanged by the neck until you are dead . . . Dear God, dear sweet Jesus, stupid, stupid Annie. What might have happened . . . Annie in a cell, Annie being taken out early one morning . . .
The heat rose in sickening waves, overwhelming her. A few seconds later, she was overcome by blackness.
There were voices, the faintest breeze tickling her face. Margaret could feel the hard ground beneath her, but from behind someone was supporting the upper half of her body.
‘I think she’s coming to,’ a woman’s voice said. The gentle sound of it brought back her mother and filled her with longing.
She felt queasy. Smells came to her – smoky, putrid . . . And sweat . . . The sweat of someone very close . . . A man’s arms holding on to her!
Her eyes snapped open and she tried to leap to her feet.
‘Maggs – don’t!’ Annie was squatting beside her, fanning her with a newspaper. Someone else was pressing her down by the shoulders.
‘Don’t rush it, bab,’ the comforting woman said. ‘You’ve had a bit of a turn. Just get up slow, like, or you might pass out again.’ To someone else, she added, ‘Poor thing – ’er looks ever so washed out.’
Margaret struggled to sit up, breathing deeply to force away the nausea. A ring of faces surrounded her, interested in the spectacle.
‘Those two ain’t from round ’ere,’ a man’s voice said. ‘Couple of lookers though, ain’t they?’
For a moment Margaret could see only strangers. Where was she? she thought, panicking again. A street, a horse and dray going by, crowds of people surging past . . . Then her sister’s face again, swimming into view. Annie was squatting beside her now, careless of her skirt hem in all the muck.
‘You fainted on the tram,’ she said. ‘Lucky we were nearly there, and Jack – Mr Sidwell – and I managed to get you off. Other people helped.’
Annie, being Annie, sounded quite excited about this turn of events. Margaret shrivelled inside. She wanted to pass out again with the shame. The humiliation of finding herself collapsed on the filthy brick pavement of a Birmingham street, surrounded by a crowd of interested strangers, only added to the burden of all her other emotions. She could not say a word.
‘You’ll be all right now, bab,’ the kindly lady said. Margaret realized that it had been Jack Sidwell holding her up and that he had now retreated. She saw his dull black shoes planted beside her.
‘Thank you all,’ she managed, as hands helped her to her feet. ‘I’m sorry . . .’
‘Oh, there’s nowt to be sorry about,’ the woman said, squeezing her arm. Her thin, prematurely aged face smiled at Margaret. ‘Could happen to anyone in this heat. And you look new around here.’
‘That’s what a visit to Brum does for yer!’ someone offered, which provoked laughter.
‘Where’ve you got to get to?’ the woman asked Jack Sidwell.
‘Only Chain Street.’ But he sounded flustered. Picking up the bags, he said to Annie, ‘Can you help her?’ He gave a helpless look as if to say, what can I do?
Annie took Margaret’s arm. Jack led the way and Margaret saw him straighten his shoulders. She found something faintly ridiculous about him. Was it that hat?
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Nearly there.’