Orphan of Angel Street (38 page)

Paul stopped, obviously feeling he’d said too much, unsure what was right, to talk or not talk. He lit a cigarette, smoked in nervous little puffs. Once more he looked away across the room and Mercy could feel his unease. She thought of Tom and Johnny. Both of them before the War. Just ordinary lads. The sadness that bled eternally from those years of war.

‘So you left home?’ she asked hesitantly.

Her question seemed to put him at ease, to show him his talking wasn’t a burden and he was able to look at her again, if shyly, drawing on the cigarette.

‘I can’t abide being in the same house as my father. Don’t seem to fit in the way he wants me to. He’d have liked me to be an academic, a man of letters . . . He just has a housekeeper now.’ Paul shrugged. ‘Still, all you can do is go on.’

‘Yes.’ His simple statement hit home. Her own life: her mother, Tom, Susan . . . but she had to go on. ‘I s’pose so.

‘Are you close to your family?’

‘Me?’ Mercy gave a bitter laugh. ‘I ain’t – haven’t got a family.’ It was always a difficult admission.

‘What, no one?’ He sounded startled, and sorry.

She shook her head, took a sip of water from her tumbler, not like the elegant cut glass upstairs, then looked up into his eyes.

‘My mom, whoever she was, left me on the steps of the workhouse – well, orphanage – when I was just a few hours old. All she left with me was a little hanky with my name embroidered on it – least, that’s the name they gave me. Hanley came from the name of the home – the benefactor was a Joseph Hanley. But I’ve looked at that hanky so many times and wondered whose fingers stitched my name; why she couldn’t keep me . . .’

‘Poor woman,’ Paul said. ‘How terrible.’

‘Yes, I know, but . . .’ Mercy felt her emotion boiling to the surface, the hurt and anger. ‘But to just throw away your own child as if she were a bag of rubbish!’ Tears stung her eyes and she wiped them away furiously, hanging her head.

‘Oh dear,’ Paul said wretchedly. ‘I’m sorry. The last thing I want is to upset you.’

When she looked up his eyes were full of concern. She tried to smile.

‘No – it’s all right. I’m glad I told you. I don’t know why it is, it always feels like summat to be ashamed of. I’ve tried so many times to think what it must’ve been like for her. I don’t know whether she was too poor to keep me. She might’ve had a whole host of other kids. She might be dead . . . I just wish I knew who she was, that’s all.’

The soup arrived, leek and potato, plentiful and tasty. Paul put out his cigarette. For a time they chatted more lightly, about the ship, the voyage.

‘We’re not up to speed, you know,’ Paul told her. ‘Barely managing twenty knots. She used to be able to average twenty-six before the War – more sometimes.’

‘Does that mean the journey’ll take longer?’ She’d been told they’d be five days on board.

‘A few extra hours at least.’

‘Oh well – I won’t complain about that,’ she smiled. ‘I’m enjoying it all too much to want to hurry.’

The dishes were cleared, and plates arrived arranged with slices of well-cooked meat and generous servings of potato, carrots and greens.

‘This is the nicest beef I’ve ever had,’ Mercy said.

‘It is good.’ Paul spooned horseradish. ‘Makes you appreciate good food when you’ve done without it, doesn’t it? In the army we were all obsessed with the food – well, when nothing much was happening. Food and dry boots!’

‘Where were you, Paul?’

‘The Somme area. I joined up towards the end. I was there five months – not that long really but it felt like a whole lifetime. Ended up near le Cateau. I went in with two friends – with the Lincolns.’

She waited, seeing he had more to say.

‘Neither of them came back. John went first, early on. Eric and I – well, he said I had a charmed life and I suppose it turned out to be true. He was shot. I don’t know how exactly, or where. I found out afterwards. And I—’

‘You got through without a scratch?’

‘Well, no, I didn’t as a matter of fact. That was the extraordinary thing. I was hit twice. The first time it came from a long way away – the bullet caught the rim of my helmet. Must have been that far from my eyes.’ He held out his finger and thumb. ‘The second time I was holding my rifle, like this, elbows out. A bullet zipped straight through here, under my left arm and out the other side. Burned a lump out of my arm as it went. I remember looking down and my uniform was smoking – there was a whopping hole in it. The arm bled like anything, but in fact there was no serious damage. Again, a few inches further across and it would have killed me.’

‘What fantastic good luck!’

‘Yes, but the worst of it is, it makes you feel responsible. I don’t know what for exactly. But hundreds, thousands of men had the same luck in reverse. It didn’t miss. And you start thinking, why me? What’s so bloody special about me? Oh, look – I’d better not get going on this.’

‘I don’t mind. I’d like to know.’

He couldn’t look at her and she could sense in him a shame which matched her own.

‘What about other friends?’ she asked.

‘I don’t seem to have too many now. Everything’s different . . .’ He gave a hugely weary sigh. ‘Look, let’s not go into that. Go forward from every day, that’s my motto. Tell me some more about yourself.’

‘I can’t think of anything much. I’m not very educated or anything. Just ordinary, you know. I mean I’m not . . .’ She stumbled to a halt.

Paul picked his knife and fork up again. He leant towards her. ‘Not what?’

Mercy felt herself blushing. ‘Just that I’m not your class of person, am I?’

‘And what class of person am I? Do tell me, because I’m damned if I know any more.’

She stared back at him. In Paul’s eyes she could see a sad, hungry expression which moved her deeply.

‘People are just people, Mercy. That’s all. If there was one single thing the War taught me it was that. So please . . .’

So she talked. About the home. About Mabel and Susan, Elsie, Tom, Johnny. And Paul listened, intently. The waiter brought a steamed marmalade pudding with custard and they ate, barely tasting it.

‘Johnny said the same as you when he got back, that he couldn’t stop at home. I don’t know where he’s gone now.’

Paul looked sorrowfully at her. ‘You’ve had so many losses.’

‘I’ve been so lucky working for the Adairs though. Dorothy found ’em for me. They’re ever so good to me.’

‘You were lucky in Dorothy too.’

‘Oh yes – she’s awright, Dorothy is. She’s a good sort.’

‘You don’t think . . . Perhaps I shouldn’t say this . . .’ Paul eyed her sideways on, hesitating.

‘What?’

‘Well, that Dorothy might actually be your mother?’

Mercy stared at him in speechless astonishment. She started to laugh. She laughed so hard that people stared and her bubbling mirth eventually made Paul join in as well.

‘Dorothy? You mean – oh no. No!’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realize the idea was that absurd!’

‘She’s just not. No . . . Oh dear no. She’s just Dorothy.’

‘I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have even said it.’

‘D’you know, it’d never even crossed my mind.’ Mercy wiped her eyes. She looked thoughtful for a moment, then shook her head. ‘No. No, she just isn’t.’

‘Ready to explore now?’ Paul asked impishly when they’d finished.

‘Let me just look in on Stevie. He’s a very good sleeper but I must make sure.’

Paul waited as Mercy tiptoed in and replaced Stevie’s covers which he was forever kicking off. She leant over and kissed him.

‘He’s so beautiful when he’s asleep,’ she smiled, relocking the door. ‘All warm and peaceful. Where’re we going then?’

‘Let’s just follow our feet, shall we? Hmm.’ He stopped as they reached the third-class staircase. ‘I suppose just meandering round inside might get a bit dull. Shall we go and get our coats?’

‘OK.’ Mercy didn’t mind in the least where they went. It was all fun. More than fun. She surprised herself with the thought: this is the best night of my life!

They were just turning back when someone came running up the stairs behind them, three at a time.

‘Eh – eh!’ There came a loud burst of a language Mercy had never heard before.

A man, swarthy-faced with a black moustache, a cap, and black workaday clothes seized Paul’s arm, talking urgently: ‘Daktar – daktar . . .’

‘No, I’m not a doctor!’ Paul said. ‘I’m sorry . . .’

The desperation on the man’s face was unmistakable. He made dramatic gestures, sweeping his calloused hand over his stomach and talking frantically.

‘What the hell’s this language?’ Paul said exasperated. ‘Is it, are you . . . Polska? Polska?’

The man nodded emphatically and flooded them with more incomprehensible language.

Mercy watched his hands. ‘Someone’s ’aving a babby,’ she said suddenly. ‘That’s what. Down in third class.’

‘Wait – I know who can help. Stay there – DOCTOR,’ Paul said to the Polish man, and ran off.

A few moments later he returned with a dour-faced young man dressed in white with almost painfully prominent cheekbones.

‘He’s the kosher cook,’ Paul panted as the two other men spoke. ‘Speaks bits of all sorts – English, German, Yiddish – Polish too, thank heavens.’ Mercy’s eyes were intent on the Polish man’s face.

‘He says’, the cook informed them disdainfully, ‘that his wife is with baby and he needs a doctor.’

‘See!’ Mercy said. The cook disappeared, shaking his head.

‘Get him to show you where and meet me back here.’ Paul was already moving away. ‘I’ll find the ship’s surgeon.’

The man beckoned her down the stairs, then down again until they were on F-deck. Their feet clattered on the steps.

In one part of the corridor a small crowd of people, mostly women, were huddled anxiously near one of the doors. Mercy could see they were poor, their skirts made of thick, workaday cloth, clutching shawls round their shoulders. They reminded her of a cluster of starlings. The man spoke to them, pushing past to the cabin door. 114F. Mercy memorized the number. She could already hear the sounds of the birthing woman.

To her great surprise the man indicated for her to enter. She pointed back down the corridor. She had to meet Paul. But he insisted, taking her arm, motioned her inside. The other women outside all stood round the doorway. Mercy began to wonder if they thought she was a nurse but since she had no way of explaining she followed the man in.

The room was lit by one small bulb and was stuffy, full of cloying, intimate smells, especially sweat. Two narrow berths were squeezed in down either side, and Mercy saw that the young woman, barely more than a girl, was lying, panting, on the one to the right. At her head, on the edge of the bed an older woman was perched, talking endlessly in a low voice, a string of beads dangling from her fingers. It took Mercy a moment to see she was praying.

For the moment the young woman was quiet and the man beckoned Mercy forward. Mercy felt timid, confused. What did the man want? She couldn’t speak any Polish. She knew nothing about having babies

The young woman turned her head and Mercy saw that her black hair was drenched in sweat. Such a sweet face, but so exhausted and frightened. She put her hand out and muttered something. Mercy took the hot hand and squeezed it.

‘The doctor’s coming,’ she said. ‘You’ll be all right. You’ll ’ave your babby soon.’

Pain gripped the young woman again and she began to writhe and groan horribly, her body lifting from the bed. She loosed Mercy’s hand and clawed at the thin bedcover, her cries becoming a long, sobbing wail. Mercy felt her knees turn weak. She motioned to the man that she was going up to meet the doctor. She saw in his eyes, then, that he loved his wife and how afraid he was. He had needed her to see. She spoke English: she would be able to speak to the doctor when he was unable to.

Paul and the doctor were coming down the stairs as she reached them.

‘This way.’ She ran ahead of them.

‘What’s the trouble?’ The surgeon was a middle-aged man with a bushy moustache and a brisk air. He smelt of whisky.

‘She’s pretty far on by the sound of it,’ Mercy panted as they clattered along F-deck. ‘I think summat might be wrong but I’m no expert, doctor.’

‘I hardly supposed you were,’ he replied dryly.

‘Here.’ The crowd stood back respectfully to let him through. The door opened, letting out the woman’s distressed cries.

‘Poor thing.’ Mercy leant weakly against the wall on the other side of the corridor. The sound of such suffering made her feel faint. The other spectators were eyeing her and Paul curiously.

‘Well, we’ve done our good deed,’ Paul said. ‘Would you like to go up on deck now?’

Mercy looked at him as if he were a madman. ‘Of course not! I’m not going anywhere ’til I see how she gets on. I want to know if she’s awright and if she has a boy or a girl.’ She folded her arms adamantly.

It took another two gruelling hours. Mercy ran back up twice to check Stevie was still asleep. Several times Paul suggested tentatively that they go up and have a cup of tea before resuming the vigil.

‘You go if you want. I’m staying.’

The young woman was clearly having a very difficult time. At every agonized outburst Mercy tensed, folding and unfolding her arms across her chest, hands clenched, listening. ‘God, I hope she’ll be OK. Oh my . . . oh dear . . .’ she kept saying over and over. She felt as if her own innards were being torn out. The sounds of pain were terrible to hear. Paul paced helplessly up and down, seeming just as bothered by Mercy’s distress as the Polish woman’s. Towards the end it seemed everyone in the corridor was willing her on with every fibre of themselves. They all stopped talking. Almost stopped breathing. There came a final, terrible bout of screams which had Mercy bent double and almost tearing out her own hair. Everything went quiet. After a moment they heard the wild, outraged scream of a newborn child. There was a collective gasp from all the other women, relieved talk and laughter and embraces. Mercy found herself sobbing.

‘Hey, hey . . .’ Paul felt in his pockets for a hanky but failed to find one. After a moment’s flustered hesitation he put his arm round her shoulders. ‘You don’t even know her!’