As soon as they got back, Lizzie caved in and sat limply on a chair, her head resting on the table. Mrs Poole barely had the strength to thank them for going out to buy the food. She lay limply on the floor with Nellie, the baby, beside her, who for the moment seemed to have slipped into sleep. The room smelt a little less rank than before though there was still a sourness to it.
The boy, Den, stood watchful and sullen and the two little girls were back on the step again, eerily like two peas in a pod, saying nothing.
So Annie took charge.
She would have liked to do something for the baby – change her into something dry at least – but there seemed no point in disturbing her for the moment nor was there much hope of anything to change her into anyway.
Annie took off her hat and coat and found a hook on the back of the door. Going to the range, which was still warm, she saw the embers of a fire. At least we can boil some water, she thought, although it’s going to take an age. She went into the scullery adjacent to the downstairs room, but though there was a stone sink, she saw that the waste ran out into a pail below and there was no pump for any water.
‘Where do we get water from?’ she asked Den.
With the air of an old man who has lived much, Den picked up the bucket and disappeared outside, staggering back in with it almost full. Annie looked dubiously into the pail, wondering why three members of the family were sick and not the others. We must boil it somehow, she thought. She had read about Miss Nightingale’s work in Crimea and how to nurse people in the healthiest manner, keeping germs at bay and having plenty of fresh air. She eyed the one cracked window with a sense of despair. These houses each backed on to another, similarly cramped, in the street, so there was no back door. And she could hardly suggest keeping the only door open when it was so cold.
‘Is there anything else for the fire?’ she asked Den. He was staring at her and she thought she had never seen a child with such a hard gaze. His fierce eyes looked out from under an overgrown fringe of brown hair. There was something almost frightening about him. He shook his head.
‘Nobbut that chair.’
Backless and dried out, it was pushed half under the table.
‘It does look rickety,’ she agreed.
As if to demonstrate, Den picked it up and one leg and the supporting bar under the seat fell off.
‘Put it on the fire,’ Annie ordered. ‘We’ll get another chair from somewhere if necessary. But we must get this water boiled. Can we break up the rest of it?’
Den tried, in a manly fashion, then shook his head. ‘I’ll ask Mr Blount,’ he said gruffly, and vanished again.
They managed to build the fire and, after what seemed an eternity to Annie, who was worried about getting home, the water boiled for tea. Annie cut bread for Den and the little girls who came to the table, all three gulping the food down like hungry little dogs. She made black tea, looking round for anything to pour it into. There were two cups so she gave them to Lizzie and her mother.
‘You can all have some after,’ she promised, smiling at the children, who looked solemnly back at her. The two little girls, she noticed, at least had shoes on their feet. ‘But we must wash the cups properly.’
She could see there would be nothing in the way of soap in the house, so very hot water would have to do.
There was nothing else to sit on so Annie stood by the table as the children ate. She had not fitted either of the new gas mantles and the light of the candle was dwindling now, so she lit one of those she had bought, seeing tiny flames reflected in the eyes of the little girls.
‘Are you twins?’ she asked them.
They glanced at each other, then nodded, mouths crammed. With their bird’s-nest hair, grimy faces and cut-down clothes, there was something wild-looking about them, but they had a sweetness to them also, like Lizzie. Annie wondered what had happened to this family, but now did not seem the time to ask. She was about to enquire as to their names, when Den spoke up.
‘That’s Ada, that’s Ivy,’ he said. Some food had improved his mood a little, but he still had a gruff, angry manner.
‘It’s very good of yer, lady.’ Annie heard Mrs Poole’s voice from behind her, so soft that she only just caught the words. She was sitting up, sipping at the tea. Annie had asked Mrs Wills for an ounce of sugar and it seemed to be bringing the woman round a little. Annie had also put some water aside to cool in a saucer for the baby.
‘Oh, everyone needs a helping hand when there’s sickness about,’ Annie said.
‘I don’t know as I can pay yer . . . I’m doing my best to work, but . . . I’m not lazy, yer know – I wouldn’t want yer thinking I’m . . .’ She trailed off.
‘It’s all right, Mrs Poole,’ Annie said.
‘It’s summat going round,’ Mrs Poole said weakly. ‘Next door’ve ’ad it . . . And I can’t manage . . . Not like this . . .’
‘Don’t worry, Mom.’ Lizzie was sipping her tea as well. ‘I’ll soon have my wages . . .’
‘Please don’t worry yourself,’ Annie said, going to her. ‘I’m happy to help.’ And as she said it she realized that she did feel in her element, helping like this. Not preaching – but doing and being useful.
She smiled down at Mrs Poole. The baby girl, Nellie, was on her back, a lock of blonde hair across her forehead, sweet-faced in the gloom.
‘I’ll come in tomorrow after work and see how you are. But now I really must get home – my uncle and aunt will be worried.’
‘Den,’ Lizzie said. ‘Take the lady back to her house. Chain Street, ain’t it?’
Outside it was quite cold and the fog had thickened so that they could barely see a yard in front of them. Each gas lamp offered a blurred aura of light, making the dark around it seem even denser. The damp air, full of smoke and other effluents, stung her nostrils and made her and the boy cough. Everyone in the streets seemed to be coughing and hawking as well.
Walking beside Den Poole was like being accompanied by a swaggering little man. Despite walking barefoot, he moved at astonishing speed, so that even Annie, who was nippy on her feet, had to make quite an effort to keep up, trusting that he knew where he was going. She prayed that one of her ankles would not turn on the cobbles or in some unseen hole as they crossed the road. But Den seemed to know every inch of the place, with all the certainty of a little dog. Thank heaven for him! How would she have found the way home through these invisible, sinister streets without this expert guide?
It was then she also realized that she was famished herself. She had no idea what the time was now. It felt like the middle of the night.
‘How old are you, Den?’ she panted, trying to be friendly as they scurried along.
‘Nine,’ he said, to her surprise. He was small for his age, she thought.
‘And your sisters?’
‘Ada and Ivy’re six. Dunno about Nellie. ’Er’s a babby.’
‘And what about your father?’ she said gently, somehow hoping to reach the young boy in him.
But it was like questioning a wall. He did not answer and she regretted asking. She had already wrung out of him the only words he uttered during their trot back to Chain Street. When they reached the end of the road, he stopped and pointed.
‘Thank you, Den,’ she said. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
But he swung round instantly and disappeared into the murk and Annie could not help but think of a young rat, vanishing down a hole.
‘Where in heaven’s name have you been?’
Aunt Hatt rushed to let her in. Annie saw Margaret’s frightened face looking round the door of the family’s living room. To Annie’s surprise, her aunt fell upon her and pulled her into her arms.
‘I’m so sorry . . .’ Annie began, but had the air knocked out of her by the embrace.
‘Oh, my dear – where on earth have you been all this time?’ Aunt Hatt repeated. She sounded close to tears. ‘If anything happened to you I could never look your father in the face again. Come in, come in – we’ve been waiting . . . We didn’t like to start without you.’
Annie hurriedly took off her hat and coat and joined the others now seated at the table. To her horror the clock on the mantelpiece said twenty to nine!
‘Annie, why’re you so late?’ Margaret hissed, furious that her uncle and aunt had been so put out. She had been frightened as well. ‘We’ve all been beside ourselves.’
‘Ah!’ Uncle Eb greeted her. ‘So you’ve not been sold into the White Slave Trade like your aunt was quite sure you had?’ He was smiling, but she could see that he had been anxious.
‘I’m very sorry to cause you worry, Uncle and Aunt,’ Annie said, genuinely contrite as she took her place at the table. ‘I really am. Only, there’s a girl, Lizzie Poole, works in the factory with me – she was very ill. I took her home and when I got there, it was the most terrible place, on a yard, and her mother was sick as well and just lying there on the floor . . .’
She was gabbling, the shock of it coming to her now. In her young years of assisting people, she had never seen a household as abject as that of the Pooles’.
‘So I had to help and it took for ever just to boil some water . . .’
‘You’ve been in those backyards, a little thing like you?’ Aunt Hatt stilled the spoon she was serving stew with for a moment and stared at Annie appalled. ‘What did you want to go there for? They’re filthy, dirty places, those yards. You never know what you might catch – or what sort of rough people’ll be hanging about! You might’ve . . .’ She decided not to share her thoughts about what might have befallen Annie. ‘I’ve never set foot in one of them places – nor would I! Where was this?’
‘In Pope Street,’ Annie said, astonished by her aunt’s reaction. Their parents had always told them that no place was too humble for them to visit, no person beyond the reach of the Lord’s light and care. She knew Aunt Hatt was from a well-to-do family, but had she never set foot in a place where so many people lived close by? Didn’t she care about the people around her?
‘Ooh,’ Aunt Hatt shuddered, rather like a bird rearranging its feathers. ‘I don’t know how you could.’ She passed Annie a plate piled with food. Kidneys gleamed in gravy. Eb was already eating urgently.
‘There’re five children and the father has deserted them,’ Annie said heatedly, feeling harsh judgement on the man rise in her once again. ‘He’s left the poor woman with only one child old enough to do a day’s work – just old enough, anyway. Poor Lizzie – and now she’s sick herself. The boy, who should be at school, is selling firewood on the streets and there was not a farthing nor a mouthful of food in the house. And the baby is poorly as well.’
Annie could see her sister listening to her attentively.
‘Oh, how dreadful,’ Margaret said, her annoyance melting into sympathy now she could see Annie was safe.
Aunt Hatt was staring at her. ‘Well, what did you think you could do about it?’ she said rather tartly.
‘Well, we – the boy and I – put one of the chairs on the fire and I went to the shop nearby and got a few things for them – on the strap,’ Annie explained, proud of herself for acquiring this expression.
Uncle Eb snorted, seemingly in amusement at this.
‘And Uncle,’ Annie said with renewed urgency. ‘I think I must give the family my wages from the factory. After all, we are well fed and the money is not truly necessary for us, is it? I could hold a little back to cover my keep if you—’
‘Give it ’em,’ Uncle Eb said, with a wave of his hand. ‘If that’s the straits they’re in – if they’re on the parish they won’t need to go shouting it about that someone’s giving them a bit extra, though.’ He gave Annie a bewildered look. ‘I don’t know why you’re working in that factory in the first place. But you’ve a good heart in yer, wench, I’ll say that.’
‘It’s what we are enjoined to do,’ Annie said firmly. ‘Matthew chapter twenty-five, Lord, when did we see thee hungry and give thee food? . . . As you did it to the least of my brethren, you did it to me . . .’
Eb stared at her, fork in hand. ‘Ar, well, I wouldn’t know about that. But it’s a hard life for some and we’re doing all right. So give ’em your bits of wages if that’s what yer want.’
‘But you mustn’t go back to those awful yards again,’ Aunt Hatt said, looking round the cluttered room as if it was a haven of safety.
‘But I must,’ Annie said. ‘I’ve promised I’ll go tomorrow. They are in the most terrible way, Aunt Hatt – it’s my Christian duty to go.’
‘Well,’ Aunt Hatt said huffily, ‘I believe in looking after my own, not chasing after every waif and stray. I don’t know why you want to go running after these people as can’t help themselves.’
‘But Annie’s right, Aunt.’ To Annie’s surprise she heard Margaret’s voice speak up gently in support of her. ‘It’s what we believe in – and it’s what we do.’
Annie looked across at Margaret and they both smiled.
That night Annie dreamt about Charles Barber. She fell into bed utterly exhausted, her mind full of the Pooles’ house, the terrible smell of it weaving itself into her memories. But once she slept it was he, instead, who forced his way into her dreams.
This time it was herself he was coming for. His face wore the strange, livid expression she had seen as he had shoved Margaret against the wall of the stables, pushing her to the ground, his hands groping at her . . . An ecstasy of rage boiled in her and she wrestled with him, lashing out, fighting him . . .
‘Annie . . . Annie, what is it?’
Margaret’s voice came to her, very close, and she felt her sister’s hand on her shoulder, soothing her. ‘Are you all right? You’re not sick as well?’
Annie scarcely knew where she was. Her nightclothes were clammy with sweat. Disarmed by the darkness, she said, ‘I was dreaming about him.’
Margaret lay back with a sigh, but she kept her hand on Annie’s arm. Annie found it comforting.
‘I was dreaming about that night.’ She drew in a shaky breath. ‘I can hardly believe now that it was real – that I . . .’
‘You were trying to help me,’ Margaret said softly. ‘You did help me – you rescued me.’ She paused. ‘Are you ashamed?’
The question pierced into Annie. You could have killed him . . . their father had raged, when he saw what had happened. Yes – she felt shame. Yet there was also exaltation, at the time, a thrilling strength in lashing out at something so clearly, utterly wrong. As if it had not been Charles Barber, the fragile disciple of their father, but a wild beast. Should she feel ashamed? What she felt, lying there in the night’s blackness, was frightened and sobered by knowing what she was capable of.
‘Do you wish I hadn’t?’ she asked.
‘No. Of course not,’ Margaret said. After a long silence, still feeling her sister’s hand on her arm, Annie heard her say, ‘I don’t suppose either of us will marry now, will we?’