The Narrowboat Girl (21 page)

He pushed his way to the door. ‘Oh awright. Yer welcome to ’er, the silly cow.’ He gave them an address in the Jewellery Quarter.

Maryann sat nervously on the tram over to Hockley, beside Flo, who had Billy on her lap. She was desperate to see Sal. Now she knew they would see her she realized just how
much she’d missed her sister and was full of worry on her behalf after what Charlie said about her.
She
’d known Sal wasn’t herself, and now she knew exactly why. She would
have given anything to put the clock back, to feel young and innocent herself, not living in terror of what her stepfather would do next. And to have Sal back as she was – her bossy big
sister, who had been full of herself and her budding young womanhood. She felt like crying at the thought of it.

‘Mom – don’t be too angry with ’er, will yer?’ she begged.

Flo seemed thoughtful. She looked round at her. ‘We might be able to talk some sense into her between the pair of us. Not that you’ve got much yourself. I don’t know
what’s come over this family, that I don’t. Where
did
you take off to last week?’

She kept asking this every so often. This time, though, she didn’t sound angry. Her voice was soft, persuasive. ‘I ain’t going to keep on at yer, Maryann. I want to get this
sorted out. First Sal, then you. I want to know where a girl your age goes off to if she ain’t with ’er pals or ’er sister.’

Maryann almost yielded to the concerned tone in her mother’s voice. What a relief it would be to be able to talk about all the confused and turbulent feelings inside her. To tell her
properly about Norman without it turning into a shouting match, for her to make it stop, and about Joel and how he was like family to her, like a big, loving brother, and about working the cut. To
be able to stop having these burdensome secrets. She looked into her mother’s pale eyes. She came so very close to pouring it all out. But then she remembered the last time she had tried.

‘I
am
your mom,’ Flo was saying. ‘I was worried about yer. And Norman was. I said to him, there’s summat wrong with both my daughters taking off at once. Is there
summat the matter, Maryann?’

I’ve told you!
a voice seemed to scream in Maryann’s head.
I’ve told you and you wouldn’t listen. You wouldn’t believe me.

‘No, Mom.’ She turned away. What was the point in trying? ‘I was just . . . with some pals.’

‘But who?’

‘Just pals, that’s all.’

‘Well, next time yer decide to go gallivanting off,’ she sounded indignant now, ‘don’t go bloody doing it without telling us. Anyway’ – she shifted Billy on
her lap – ‘you’ll be working for Norman soon, so we won’t be having any of that. D’you ’ear?’

Maryann didn’t reply. She stared out of the window at the streets outside.

They found Sal’s lodgings in a street off Constitution Hill: a terrace with an attic. The landlady, a sharp-faced individual, looked at them suspiciously.

‘I’ve come to see my daughter,’ Flo said, pushing Billy in front of her as if he was a certificate proving her motherhood.

‘’Er ain’t ’ere,’ the woman said. ‘’Er’s at work.’

‘Well, we’ll wait then,’ Flo said haughtily. ‘We’ve come a distance and I ain’t stopping out on the street.’

The woman hesitated, then shrugged as if she couldn’t be bothered to argue. ‘You’ll ’ave to wait up in ’er room,’ she said in a snooty voice. ‘I’m
expecting company down ’ere.’

They all climbed up to Sal’s room. The first flight of stairs was covered by a threadbare runner of grubby carpet, its original colour impossible to tell. The attic stairs were bare and
their feet made a racket as they went up. The room at the top was a good size, but the boards were rough and stained and the distemper on the walls was in a terrible state, flaking off and
discoloured. Cobwebs hung in the corners, and the ceiling near the front end of the house was bulging with damp, right over the head of the bed. The bed was three-quarter size, and against the
opposite wall stood a rickety table and chair. There was a small grate, full of dust, with no sign of a fire in it. One of Sal’s dresses was hanging on a hook behind the door, her nightdress
was on the pillow, and there were a few of her belongings in the room: a pair of shoes, a cup and a bar of soap on the table, a candle stuck on a grubby white saucer and, beside it, hair pins and
two little pots. Maryann opened them and looked inside. One contained rouge, the other face powder.

‘Well, this is a cheerless bleeding ’ole,’ Flo said, peering out through the filthy, curtainless window at the houses opposite. She seemed sobered by the sight of it.
‘What the ’ell does she want to stop ’ere for?’

Maryann sat on the bed in the chilly room and made Billy sit beside her. There was one threadbare blanket folded on the mattress. The idea of Sal here on her own made her want to cry. She tried
to imagine Sal coming here with Charlie. They must’ve told the landlady they were married though, heaven knew, they looked too young.

It wasn’t long before they heard voices down below, then feet on the stairs. Maryann braced herself for seeing Sal. Flo turned, standing with her back to the window, silhouetted in its
meagre light, and sharply shushing Billy who’d got up and started clattering about on the bare boards.

The landlady had told her they were waiting there so Sal was prepared. She flung the door open and stood looking brazenly across at her mother. Maryann gasped. She might have walked past Sal in
the street and not recognized her! She’d put her hair up like a grownup lady’s, all piled and pinned round her head, and she was all made up lipstick, the lot. There was something else
queer about her face. Maryann saw that Sal had plucked out all her fair eyebrows and painted them in instead, with dark, thin lines. She looked ten years older than she really was.

Flo fixed her with a stare which took in all of Sal’s altered appearance, and her mouth twisted with distaste. At last, in a bitter voice, she said, ‘Well – I hope yer proud of
yourself. You look like a proper tart in all that warpaint.’

Sal stayed in the doorway, as if ready to run. ‘I ain’t coming back if that’s what yer ’ere for.’

‘Look, Sal—’ Flo moved towards her, realizing she’d started off on the wrong foot. ‘I only wanted to see yer – see ’ow you are. After all, yer just took
off, never a word or a thought for the rest of us. We’ve all been ever so worried about you. Look – if there’s any trouble we’ll get it sorted out, but you can’t just
stay ’ere on your own. You’re only young, running off with that no-good Charlie Black . . .’

‘’E’s a darn sight better than some I could mention,’ Sal spat at her. ‘Don’t you come ’ere lecturing me, mother. I ain’t coming home whatever
you say. I’ve got a job and I can look after myself.’

‘But Charlie’s left you!’ Flo had been trying to be appeasing, to control her temper, but it all came spilling out again. ‘’E ’ad more sense than to stick
around ’ere in this dump. What the ’ell’s got into yer, taking off and going about looking like a trollop! You’ll be in trouble soon, my girl, that you will, if you go about
looking like that.’

‘Charlie Black ain’t the only fish in the sea,’ Sal retorted smugly. ‘I don’t notice no shortage around ’ere. And you’re a fine one to lecture me
– you’re no more than a slut yourself, taking up with Norman for ’is money.’

Flo whipped her hand out to slap Sal’s face, but she stepped back out of the way.

‘Don’t, Mom!’ Maryann cried. There were tears running down her face. ‘Don’t hurt her! ’Er’ll never come ’ome if yer treat ’er like
that.’

‘That’s awright with me!’ Flo blazed back. ‘You can stay ’ere and rot, you ungrateful little bitch. If you can keep yerself then all the better for the rest of us.
But don’t come whining round me when yer in the family way and thrown out on the streets! I’ve warned yer, and I wash my hands of you. Come on, Maryann, Billy – leave ’er.
She don’t want ’er family.’

‘No—’ Maryann sobbed. ‘I want to stay. You go on home.’

Flo stopped by the door. ‘If that’s what you want.’ She looked hard at Sal. ‘You used to be a good girl – you were the easy one. I don’t know what’s got
into yer, that I don’t. I’ve done my best – whatever ’appens now, you can’t blame me for it.’

They heard her clomp noisily away down the stairs with Billy, leaving the sisters alone.

‘Oh Sal,’ Maryann cried. ‘Are you awright? I know why yer don’t want to come ’ome, but . . .’

‘What do you know?’ Sal snapped.

‘About . . . about . . . you know,
him
, what ’e done to yer.’

‘Don’t talk about him!’ Sal came over and got her by the shoulders. ‘I don’t want to talk about him. I’ve got away from him and I’m making my own life
now – and you’ve got to do the same, Maryann. Don’t work for ’im – don’t let ’im near yer. Don’t let ’im get you in that cellar down there . .
.’ She sank down suddenly and Maryann thought for a second that she was choking, her chest heaving, but she was crying, gasping. Maryann was about to embrace her when she stood up and began
banging her head against the wall, hard, sobbing and crying.

‘Sal! Sal, don’t!’

Maryann pulled her away, trying to take her in her arms. Sal tore away. ‘Don’t touch me!’

‘Sal – what’s the matter with yer? I know what’s ’e’s done, what e’s like, but why’re yer doing that to yourself?’

Sal stepped back and collapsed limply on to the bed. She stared ahead of her so strangely that Maryann was even more frightened. At last she whispered, ‘Maryann – don’t leave
me. I don’t know what else to do.’

Sal broke down and cried and cried, at last allowing Maryann to put her arms round her and hold her tight.

‘I’m losing my mind,’ she sobbed. ‘Oh Maryann, I don’t know what’s happening to me – I keep thinking such terrible things I’m frightened to be
’ere alone. It’s not so bad when I’m out at work, but when I get back ’ere . . .’

‘Can’t yer come home?’ Maryann pleaded. ‘You don’t ’ave to work for Norman no more . . .’

‘No!’ Sal clutched at Maryann’s wrist so hard her fingers were digging in. ‘I’m never going back there. Never! I’m never going anywhere near ’im again
– you don’t know what ’e can be like, Maryann. You’ve got to get out too . . .’

‘I will, Sal – I was going to. But I can’t leave you – not like this!’ She could hardly bear to look at Sal. She used to be so pretty and now, with that paint on
her eyebrows, she looked cheap and horrible. ‘Why did yer go and do that to yourself?’ she asked.

Sal shrugged, not replying.

‘Oh Sal!’ She put her arms round her sister again and held her close. She wanted to say, let’s go somewhere together, just you and me. Somewhere where they can’t find us
and we can start again. But she didn’t want to live in some slum with Sal. She wanted to be out on the cut with Joel, with Bessie plodding alongside. It wrung her heart to see Sal in this
state, but it also frightened her. Sal was supposed to be her big sister, but now she was different, not the same Sal. How could she live with her in this state?

‘Look, Sal – I’ll ’ave to get ’ome. But I’ll come and see you tomorrow – and every day I can now I know where you are, awright? And Tony and Billy can
come an’ all. And Mom – I’ll talk ’er round . . .’

Sal’s eyes widened. ‘Not him! Oh God, Maryann – what if she tells ’im where I am! What if ’e comes ’ere? What if ’e starts following me
about?’

‘’E won’t,’ Maryann tried to assure her. ‘Course ’e won’t. You can tell the landlady not to let ’im in. Anyhow – he thinks he’s got me
now.’

Maryann stayed on until it was almost dark and then she made her way home in a turmoil of emotions. This was the afternoon she had been going to leave a message for the
Esther Jane
when
she came back through some time in the next few days. But how could she leave now with Sal like this? She’d felt badly enough about leaving because of Tony and Billy when she thought at least
Sal was happy with Charlie. But now she was the oldest one at home: she couldn’t just desert them all.

On Sunday she left a written message for Joel, hoping one of the toll workers would read it for him. ‘I can’t come yet because I’ve got to look after my
sister but I’ll be back again soon. Love Maryann Nelson.’

She started work for Norman on the Monday, promising herself that if it was too bad she’d go somewhere else. She didn’t want to cause a family row. Flo was in a good mood, and she
watched with approval as the two of them set out together.

Maryann walked beside him along Monument Road. He wore his hat and top coat although it was high summer. He had a rolling, stately walk, said good morning to people with a gentlemanly lifting of
his hat and was always greeted with respect: a pillar of the community walking out with one of his stepdaughters. The shops were opening up, awnings rattling open over the pavement, cars, carts and
bicycles weaving along the busy street at the heart of Ladywood. They passed all the shops with their smells: cooked meat from the butcher’s, strawberries outside the greengrocer’s,
bread from the bakery, then the Palais de Danse on the corner. At last they reached Griffin’s, with its shrouded frontage and sober gold lettering, and Norman pulled out his bunch of keys and
opened up.

Inside, he pulled up the little blind that covered the glass in the door, turned the sign round, and Griffin’s was open for business.

‘Right then,’ Norman said, hanging up his coat. ‘You sit down at the desk. You’re a quick-witted young thing – you’ll soon pick it up.’

Maryann did as she was told, looking at the ledgers, cards, pens and blotter. She kept eyeing the door of the shop. If only Fred, the lad who made the coffins, would come in so that she
wasn’t alone with Norman.

‘I’ll come and show you what you need to know.’ Norman walked round behind the desk and her skin felt suddenly as if it had been scrubbed with sandpaper. He leaned over at one
side of her and his smell of sweat and smoke seemed to envelope her. She found herself breathing through her mouth so as not to smell him.

‘This is a quiet time of year compared with the winter, but then of course you’re going to have people coming to their natural end any time of year,’ he said whimsically.
‘When someone comes in, the golden rule is you treat ’em with courtesy and respect. Our job is to be invisible. If you do it well they don’t remember much about you, but set a
foot wrong and you’re out of business. No laughing or joking in the presence of the bereaved,
ever
. . .’