The Narrowboat Girl (6 page)

‘Sal?’ Maryann wondered if she was cross because it was usually her job, not Sal’s, to look after Tony.

‘What?’ She didn’t look round.

‘D’yer want me to do our Tony?’

‘I’ve done ’im now. And don’t you go wetting the bed again!’ She pushed his shoulder. ‘D’you ’ear me?’

When Tony was settled she turned away and undressed. Maryann frowned, looking at Sal’s curving shape in the candlelight. She was clearly in a mood over something, turning her back like
that, when normally she just pulled off her clothes casually and flung on her nightdress. Tonight her movements were abrupt. She put her nightdress over her head and her arms through the sleeves.
Suddenly she sat down on the edge of the bed and put her hands over her face.

‘’Ow’s it with the job, Sal?’ Maryann asked.

There was no reply.

Maryann sat up and moved nearer, laying a hand on her sister’s shoulder. ‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing!’ Sal flung her off and stood up. She threw her clothes savagely into the corner of the room, then climbed into bed. She turned her back on Maryann, blew out the candle and
wouldn’t say another word.

The next day, when she came home from playing with the Black children, Maryann ran up to the bedroom looking for Tiger. He was always her first thought when she came home, and
very often she found him curled up in the dip of hers and Sal’s bed. But he wasn’t there. She peeped into her mom’s and Norman’s room. No sign there, either, nor was he in
any of the warm spots downstairs, by the range or the chimney breast.

‘’E must be out,’ Maryann said, disappointed.

Not long after, Flo got in, tired and irritable from an extra afternoon of chores. Nanny Firkin was feeling poorly and Flo had felt obliged to go and help.

‘You seen Tiger?’ Maryann asked her.

Flo stoked the range. ‘Course I bloody ain’t – I ain’t been ’ere all afternoon, ’ave I?’

‘Is Nanna better?’ Tony asked.

‘Not as yer’d notice,’ Flo said. ‘’Er’s in bed and that ain’t usual. But she said to leave ’er, she’d be awright. I’ve rubbed
’er chest with goose grease and left ’er ’er tea.’

When their own meal was over, Norman stood up behind Sal, hands on his waist, looking round at them all with a satisfied expression on his face.

‘We’ll all ’ave a game of cards, eh?’

He did this, every so often. Decided they were all going to sit together, ‘be a family’ and play whatever he was in the mood for.

‘After I’ve got our Billy to bed then,’ Flo said, sounding pleased. ‘That’s nice of Norman, ain’t it?’

‘I don’t want to play cards,’ Maryann murmured. ‘I want to go and look for Tiger.’

‘Look for Tiger!’ Norman snorted with laughter. ‘Yer don’t want to bother with that! Cats can look after themselves, that they can.’

‘I’m tired,’ Sal said quietly. ‘I think I’ll just go to bed, ’stead of playing.’

Norman laid his hand on the back of her chair. ‘Oh, I don’t think a game of cards’ll hurt before yer turn in, Sal.’ His voice was soft, but Maryann heard a firm edge to
it which always meant Norman wasn’t going to be crossed. ‘Young girl your age shouldn’t be tired this early. Come on – help yer mother clear up then we can get to it the
sooner.’

They had no choice but to do as they were told, as was the case with all his ‘treats’. His taking them to church every Sunday, visits to the pictures, walking down the street all
together, usually to see something that was too old for Tony and Billy, who would sleep or fret through it all. Maryann did like the pictures, but she loathed sitting anywhere near Norman.

Before going in for the dreaded card game she opened the back door into the little yard.

‘Tiger! Come on, puss – where’ve yer got to?’

Nothing. No sign of him. She was filled with unease. He’d never done this before. What if he’d got under a train – or a car like her dad. Or what if he’d fallen in the
cut?

Sal stuck her head through the door from the front. ‘Come on – ’urry up. Let’s get it over.’

‘Coming,’ Maryann said reluctantly.

Norman had pulled out the little table and was sitting shuffling his dog-eared packs of cards.

‘Come on, our Maryann,’ he said in a jolly voice as she slipped into the room.

Maryann sat down next to Tony.

‘We’ll ’ave a game of rummy,’ Norman said, licking his thumb and dealing the cards. He paused to light a cigarette.

‘You play with me,’ Maryann whispered to Tony. Flo sat yawning. She wasn’t the least keen on card games, but if Norman said they were going to do something there was no
arguing.

‘I’m not used to being a family man,’ he’d said to her. ‘I’m out of practice, Flo. But I’m doing my best . . .’

He jollied them along through a couple of games, laughing loudly at the least thing except at one moment when Tony picked a card to play and he frowned and said, ‘Stupid boy . . .’
and Tony turned his dark eyes on Maryann, looking worried about what he’d done. He lived in constant nervousness of Norman and his exacting ways. His lisping voice and tense face only seemed
to aggravate Norman further.

‘S’awright,’ she told him, loud enough to be heard. ‘You ain’t stupid, Tony.’ She put her arm round his shoulders, avoiding looking at Norman. Apart from
that, and Norman’s efforts at thawing them out, they barely said a word, all waiting for the moment when they could go.

Finally, Norman sat back at the end of a game and said, ‘Well – that’s enough for one night, I’d say.’

Maryann jumped up. ‘Come on, Tony!’ she said, and they ran upstairs, anything to get away from him.

By the time they went to bed, Tiger had still not come back, although Maryann had been to the door several times to check if he was waiting out there.

‘What if ’e comes back in the night and wants to come in, Mom?’ she said. ‘Can we leave the back door open for ’im?’

‘You mad?’ Flo said. ‘It’s perishing cold. ’E’s a cat, Maryann – ’e knows ’ow to fend for hisself without you coddling ’im!’

But Maryann lay in bed that night, miserable without Tiger’s warm shape at her feet.

Sally Nelson sat behind the desk in the austere office of ‘N. Griffin’s, Undertaker’s’. In front of her lay two open ledgers and a small pile of newly
printed death cards, almost identical to the ones they had had for her father. On another pad on the desk were Norman’s various tottings up of the prices of coffin, hearse and cards. It was
Tuesday evening.

Sal’s demeanour was anything but relaxed. She sat chewing hard on the end of her thumb. Every so often she got up and tip-toed over towards the staircase leading down to the double cellar
which ran under the building, and stood, head cocked, listening. After waiting at the top of the staircase for a long time on one occasion, she crept halfway down and stopped. She could hear Norman
Griffin’s voice, talking to Fred, the lad who worked down there building coffins. The last boy had left not long back and Norman was training Fred up. On Tuesdays he sent Fred home early.

‘Shall I put all these away now?’ Sal heard Fred say.

Then Norman’s voice. ‘No – leave that to me. I keep that cupboard locked, with the chemicals and that about. You can get off now.’ She heard the clink of a key. Fred was
about to leave. Her heart beat even faster. She opened her mouth to speak but her throat had dried out and she had to swallow before she could get any words out.

‘Mr Griffin?’ she called downstairs. She knew it was futile, but she had to try it. She felt she was going to explode inside. ‘I’ll be off ’ome now – our
Mom’ll be needing some help.’

Norman Griffin’s face appeared round the cellar door, pale and moonlike in the gloom as he looked up at her.

‘No, Sal – yer not to go yet. There’s a few things want finishing.’ He spoke in the low, respectful tone Sal and Maryann called his ‘Undertaker’ voice.

‘But—’ She tried to protest.

He closed the cellar door behind him, and then came another of his voices. ‘No, Sal.’ Now the voice was soft, wheedling. ‘Yer to stay a bit longer. Don’t want yer going
home yet – or you know what’ll happen, don’t yer?’

Sal returned to her chair upstairs, trembling from head to foot. She was in such as a state she felt as if her throat had closed up, that she couldn’t swallow. Oh God! She could run out
and down the road now. But she daren’t. Couldn’t. Sooner or later she’d have to go home. And when she got home he’d be there. And she couldn’t tell anyone and
she’d have to come back to work with him and then he’d . . . he’d . . . She dug her nails into the palms of her hands.

They were coming up the stairs, Fred clumping along in his boots. He was none too with it, Fred wasn’t. Gangly, greasy brown hair, big feet, yes, Mr Griffin, no, Mr Griffin, everything
Norman wanted.

‘G’night then—’ He nodded at Sal, and Norman Griffin stood at the door as he went out.

Norman pulled his watch up from his weskit and squinted at it.

‘Ah yes – time to close up.’ He locked the door, pulled the blind down over the door and windows and turned to look at her.

‘Don’t do that again, will you?’ He spoke casually, but she could hear the threat underneath.

‘What?’ She could only manage a whisper. The tension in her was like a crushing sensation in her chest.

‘Don’t talk back to me in front of my employees like that,’ he said, as if he had a whole empire of workers, not just herself and Fred.

‘I’m sorry.’ She kept her gaze on the desk in front of her, hands clasped tightly together in her lap. Her heart was beating so hard it hurt.

Then the wheedling voice was back. ‘Come on then, Sal. You know what
will
please me, don’t yer?’

She didn’t answer, just kept her head lowered, and she heard him moving towards her. Sal squeezed her eyes tight shut. When he reached down and took hold of her hands she cried out,
startled.

‘Oh, don’t get in such a state,’ he said impatiently. His voice became clipped and cold. ‘You know what yer ’ave to do – and then it’s over and yer can
go home. Simple. It ain’t asking much.’

Much, she thought, as he pulled her towards the stairs. Ever since that first time, the start of it, when he had come up behind her and pressed his hands over her breasts, hurting her, it had
been much. Far too much.

The cellar was a double one, extending under the premises behind. At the back end, through a white door, was the chapel of rest. The walls in there were plastered and distempered and it was kept
very neat and clean. It contained a long trestle table and a small side table on which were a Bible, a candle and an arrangement of dusty silk flowers. There was access to it from the street
behind, and any visiting bereaved were escorted in through there and all hammering silenced while they were there. Tonight, on the long table in the Chapel of Rest, a Mr Alfred Johnson lay in his
coffin. His family hadn’t wanted him at home taking up the room. The front end, under the shop, was much more workmanlike: unplastered brick walls, cobwebs trailing under the grating through
which only shreds of light filtered from the street so that it had to be lit by gas lamps all day long. At one end, abutting the wall of the Chapel of Rest, was Mr Griffin’s cupboard, but
most of the space was taken up by a workbench and a long table. On the workbench tonight sat the almost completed coffin which Fred was due to finish the next day.

Mr Griffin was breathing rather fast. He reached up and made some adjustment to the light so that it burned less brightly. ‘Now then, Sal, my dear.’

‘No,’ she begged, starting to cry. ‘No – please. Not today. I’ll do it tomorrow, but not today – I feel a bit bad today and I can’t . . .’

‘Sal—’ He was speaking in his soft, fluid voice. ‘You’re just not used to it, my dear. You’re young – you have to learn to enjoy it.’

She was shaking her head, wretchedly, unable to stop the tears from pouring down her cheeks.

His mouth was right close to her, his hot breath wafting the words into her ear. ‘And if you don’t, you know what’ll happen, don’t you?’ He pointed to the far end
of the cellar. ‘There’s my cupboard.’ He patted his pocket. ‘And here is the key. And you know what’s in my cupboard, don’t you?’

Sal nodded, gasping.

‘Right then.’ There was nothing wheedling about his speech now. It was icy, clipped. It made Sal wither inside. He pulled at the buckle of his belt with one hand, reaching out with
his other to grasp her by her long hair, yanking her close to him.

His other hand was under her skirt, tugging, tearing.

‘Let’s get on with it.’

When Maryann got home from school that day she ran straight in shouting, ‘Mom – Mom! Is Tiger back? Has ’e come home?’

Flo Nelson shook her head. She hadn’t given a thought to the flaming cat. ‘No – I ain’t seen ’im all day.’ She saw the hope drain out of Maryann’s face.
Maryann had been so sure he’d gone wandering and would be back by now. Her lips quivered and her eyes filled with tears.

‘Tell yer what.’ Flo saw an opportunity for a few more minutes peace. ‘Yer could go and ask up and down the road if anyone’s seen ’im – the neighbours and
that. Someone might of done. ’E might be asleep by the fire in someone’s ’ouse just along the street, yer never know. Or maybe ’e’s sloped back off to Garrett Street.
And take our Tony with yer, eh?’

A little cheered by being able to do something, Maryann called Tony. They went to Garrett Street and called at the Blacks’ house. Blackie came to the door and the usual stink of urine and
soiled baby’s napkins assailed their nostrils as it opened. He stood blearily in the doorway, not seeming to know who they were. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway down and she could see black,
springy hairs on his chest.

‘’Allo, Mr Black,’ Maryann said. ‘It’s me – Maryann Nelson.’

‘Oh ar,’ Blackie said. For a second Maryann felt sorry for him. He looked such a wreck. But she had more urgent things on her mind.

‘’Ave yer seen my cat? ’E’s a little tabby with a face like a tiger . . .’

‘Cat? No – I ain’t seen no cat . . .’ He stood looking at them, as if thinking what to say next.

‘Maryann, is that you?’ Nance came running downstairs. ‘What’s up?’