The River Folk (3 page)

‘That’s enough chatter from you, our Duggie,’ Bessie said. ‘Get on with your tea.’

As they ate, Bessie kept a surreptitious eye on the child. At last, the young girl took her thumb out of her mouth and picked up her knife and fork. Bessie noticed that she watched every movement Dan made and attempted to copy him.

Dear me, Bessie thought to herself, has the child reached twelve or so without having learnt basic table manners? Pity for the girl almost robbed Bessie of her own appetite as she watched the child eating very little of the food placed before her. She picked at the shepherd’s pie and vegetables and played with the apple charlotte that followed, patting it with her spoon and then mixing it with the custard before spooning only a little into her mouth. Then she pulled a wry face.

‘Give the little lass a spoonful of sugar, Bessie love,’ Bert said kindly, noticing the girl’s grimace. ‘Mebbe the apple’s a bit tart for her.’

Bessie rose from the table at once and went in search of the sugar, returning to heap generous spoonfuls over the girl’s pudding. But still, Mary Ann pushed the food around her bowl and made little effort to eat it.

‘So, are you going to tell us your name?’ Dan asked when the meal was finished.

Again there was silence. Then, as they watched her, she raised her hand slowly and put her thumb into her mouth once more. Her huge eyes continued to stare at each one of them in turn, but returned each time, Bessie noticed, to Dan.

Dan leant forward, resting his elbow on the table, watching her with concern in his eyes. At eighteen, he was now a man, whereas the younger ones – even Ernie at only a year younger – still had boyish features.

Bessie Ruddick counted herself a lucky woman. None of her family had been involved in the dreadful war that had just ended the previous year. Her boys had been too young and her beloved Bert had been too old – just. They had felt the effects of the war, of course, as had the whole country, but she gave thanks every day of her life that her sons’ names would not appear on the war memorial that the town was planning to erect in memory of its war dead.

The war had touched Waterman’s Yard, though, for Amy Hamilton had lost her husband in 1916 and then her only son too. He had gone through four years of war to be killed with cruel irony only days before the armistice had been signed. Now Amy had locked herself in her house in the corner of the yard and rarely ventured forth. Not even Bessie had been able to prise her out. At least not yet, for Bessie was not one to give up a battle. She’d have Amy Hamilton out of that house and back in the land of the living one of these fine days or her name wasn’t Bessie Ruddick.

For the moment, however, Bessie’s attention was taken up with the little girl who sat at her table.

‘Has she said anything, Mam?’ Dan murmured.

Bessie, her gaze still on the girl, shook her head.

‘Maybe she can’t talk,’ Duggie said.

With surprising speed, the thumb was pulled out of her mouth. ‘Of course I can talk.’ Then she popped her thumb straight back into her mouth and glanced around at them triumphantly.

Bessie laughed. ‘There you are, our Duggie, that’s telled you.’ But Duggie only grinned, pleased that his remark had at least sparked a response.

‘Come to live next door to us, have you?’ Dan prompted. ‘That’s nice.’

‘Well,’ Bert stood up. ‘I’m off for me pint, Bessie love. All right?’

‘’Course it is, Bert.’ She heaved herself up from her chair and began to stack the dirty plates. ‘I think it’s time you went home now, love. Must be nearly your bedtime.’ She paused before asking sensitively, ‘Will ya dad have gone out, do you think? Does he go to the pub for a pint in the evening?’

There was fleeting fear in the child’s eyes and all the Ruddick family saw it. Dan, for the first time, noticed the faint bluish mark on the child’s jaw and glanced at his mother. A swift look of understanding passed between mother and son as Bessie gave a little nod. She saw her son’s mouth tighten in a gesture so like her own.

‘I’ll take you home, little ’un, but first, are you going to tell me your name?’

She removed her thumb briefly and wriggled down from her chair. She moved to stand beside Dan and looked into his face on a level with her own. ‘Mary Ann Clark and I’m twelve, nearly thirteen.’

Dan stood up. ‘Well, Mary Ann Clark, twelve-nearly-thirteen, then you’re quite old enough to allow me to walk you home in the moonlight.’ He tapped the side of his nose and winked at her as he added, ‘But don’t you be telling my girlfriend, Susan.’

Bessie watched as Dan held out his hand to Mary Ann. The girl looked up at him, standing so tall above her now. Suddenly, a beaming smile illuminated the girl’s face. Her brown eyes sparkled with mischief and two dimples appeared in her cheeks as she put her hand trustingly into his.

‘Mam, what’s going on in that house next door?’

When he returned from taking Mary Ann back home, Dan’s face was grim.

‘You might well ask, lad.’ Bessie’s mouth was tight.

‘This poor woman came to the door. She’s got a cut lip that’s swelling out here.’ He held his hand about three inches from his own mouth, exaggerating the woman’s discomfort but Bessie got the message. ‘And wasn’t that a bruise on the kiddie’s jaw?’

Bessie nodded. ‘I reckon so.’

‘So? What are you going to do?’

Dan knew his mother well enough to know that she would not be able to ignore what they both guessed was happening within that household.

‘Keep me eyes and me ears open,’ she told him. ‘And be round there like a shot.’

‘She seems a nice little thing. Held me hand and skipped along at the side of me, she did.’ He paused and then met his mother’s gaze. ‘But she didn’t say any more. Not even to her mam. Do . . . do you think she’s, er, well . . .?’ He tapped his forefinger to the side of his head. ‘Y’know? All right?’

Bessie frowned. ‘I’d need to know her a bit more before I could be sure.’

‘Mm.’ Dan was thoughtful for a moment, then he seemed to shake himself. ‘Well, I’d best get mesen changed if I’m to see Susan tonight.’

‘Mind how you go and don’t be late in.’

The young man grinned at her, put his arm about her ample waist and kissed her cheek. ‘Yes, Ma. No, Ma. Three bags full, Ma.’ Then he stepped smartly back out of the way as Bessie’s hand came up to smack his face. But the gesture was playful and affectionate with no strength or malice behind it.

‘Go on with you,’ she smiled at him. ‘And give me love to Susan. Time you named the day with that lass, y’know, else you’ll be losing her. She’s a nice girl.’

‘Oho, I’m not ready to tie the knot yet awhile. I want me own ship first.’

Bessie shook her head, but there was fond pride in her tone as she murmured, ‘You remind me so much of me own father, Dan. He didn’t marry me mother until he skippered his own ship. Mind you, he never owned it. But I reckon he thought of it as
his
boat. I was born on the river, y’know.’ She grinned. ‘Somewhere between here and Newark.’

Dan knew it only too well, as did all their family, but he listened patiently to his mother’s reminiscing. ‘Aye, it was me dad’s life’s ambition to own his own ship.’ Her tone became wistful. ‘But he never managed it.’ Then she smiled at her eldest son as she added softly, ‘Maybe you’ll achieve it for him, lad.’

Dan grinned. ‘I mean to have a damn good try, Mam.’

Bessie was dozing, her feet on the warm brass fender, when Bert came home from The Waterman’s Arms.

‘He was in the pub,’ Bert said without preamble as he lowered himself into the chair opposite his wife.

Bessie opened one eye. ‘Who was?’

Bert jerked his thumb towards the wall. ‘’Im from next door. Sid, er, Clark, was it the little lass said?’

Bessie nodded.

‘He bought me a pint.’

Bessie closed her eye and said drowsily, ‘I hope you didn’t buy ’im one back.’

Bert spread his hands. ‘Bessie, my angel, a chap’s got to play the game, y’know.’

Now both Bessie’s eyes flew wide open. ‘You mean you did?’

Bert shifted uncomfortably. ‘You’ve got to be sociable with the chap.’

‘You may have to be, Bert Ruddick, but I certainly don’t. Not if he knocks his missis about and clouts that bairn of his.’

‘Are you sure about that, Bess? I admit I was a bit wary of ’im at first – after what you’d said. But I have to say, he seemed a nice sort of a chap.’

Bessie snorted. ‘Well, he would be, wouldn’t he, Bert Ruddick, if he bought you a pint?’ Then she smiled as her husband had the grace to look sheepish. She cocked her head on one side, listening. ‘Mind you, I don’t hear any thumps and bumps from next door now, so mebbe I’ve got it all wrong. Mebbe that little woman really did fall over a tea chest like she said.’ She shrugged her well-rounded shoulders. ‘And as for the bairn, well, kids is always getting bumps and bruises, ain’t they?’

Bert nodded, watching Bessie as she levered herself out of the chair. ‘Come on, Bert. Time for bed.’ She held out her hand and hoisted him to his feet. Then she smiled coyly down at him. ‘Feel like a bit of a cuddle, Bertie?’

Bert shook his head. ‘Oooh, Bess, light of my life. Now be gentle with me. I’ve got a headache . . .’

Bess gave a deep-throated chuckle and pulled him towards her, clasping his face to her bosom. ‘It’s not ya head I’m after, Bert Ruddick.’

It was a ritual they often played when alone and, giggling like two young lovers, they climbed the stairs to their bedroom.

It was two thirty in the morning when they heard the sounds coming into their bedroom through the thin wall. First a thud and then a woman’s cries. A man shouting and then the chilling sound of a child’s high-pitched screaming.

‘I’m not having this,’ Bessie muttered, throwing back the bedclothes and heaving herself out of bed. ‘Bert – get the boys up. All of ’em.’

‘Aw, Bess, do you think you should interfere? The feller’ll be drunk. Why not wait till morning?’

Bessie rounded on him. ‘Listen to that bairn. By morning, she could have been knocked into the next world. And if she hasn’t, then that poor little woman probably will have been.’ She wagged her forefinger at him. ‘I’m not having it, Bert. Not in our yard.’

Bessie was pulling a shawl around her shoulders over her long nightdress and thrusting her feet into well-worn slippers. In the moonlight, shining fitfully into the room, she fumbled to light a candle.

‘Are you shifting, Bert Ruddick, or do I have to face him on me own?’

Bert sighed and rolled out of bed. There was no denying his Bess. Every time she got into her battling mood, part of him shrank away, but the other half of him admired her spirit and wished he was more like her.

‘Shouldn’t we get the police?’

‘Huh!’ Bessie was scathing. ‘What can they do? You know they don’t like interfering. A man’s home is his castle and all that rubbish. No, Bert, it’s up to us to sort it out.’

Bert shrugged and gave in. Not for the first time, he smiled ruefully to himself as he opened the bedroom door to carry out his general’s orders and marshal the troops.

The yard was alive with activity as if it were the middle of a busy day rather than halfway through the night. Candles flickered, sash windows were thrown open and heads peered out. Doors opened and men, dressed in vests and long johns, shouted, ‘What’s all the racket?’ ‘What’s going on?’

Only Amy Hamilton’s house remained in darkness.

From her bedroom window, Minnie Eccleshall shouted gleefully. ‘It’s our Bessie. Battling Bessie’s on the warpath again. Eeh, but yon man doesn’t know what’s going to hit him.’

Gladys Merryweather was already at her door. ‘She’s got all her lads with her an’ all. And Bert.’ She raised her voice. ‘You there, Phyllis? This’ll be good.’

The Ruddick boys and their father formed a semicircle around Bessie as she thumped on the door of the neighbouring house. ‘Come on out here, Sid Clark.’ She waited and, for a moment, there was silence in the yard, as everyone seemed to be holding their breath. Then into the quietness came the rasping sound of a window being pushed upwards and, above their heads, Sid’s slurred voice asked, ‘Wha’d’you want?’

‘You. That’s who!’ Bessie folded her arms as she looked up at him. ‘Get yourself down here and open this door. I want to know if that kiddie’s all right.’ Her voice dropped a little as she added, ‘And ya missis, too, if it comes to that.’

‘’Tain’t none o’ your business.’ He shook his fist, not only at Bessie but at all the watchers around the yard. ‘Get back to your beds all of you and mind your own business.’

Then he slammed the window closed and wrenched the thin, tattered curtains together but at that moment Bessie, close to the door, heard the child whimpering on the other side.

She knocked on it again, but this time quietly so that the man in the bedroom above would not hear. ‘Mary Ann? Open the door, love.’ Bessie tried the doorknob, but the door was locked. ‘Unlock it, lass. Can you?’

There was a moment’s pause whilst they all heard her fingers struggling with the lock. Then there was the sound of a key turning. Bessie tried the door again and it opened. Dressed only in a vest and knickers, her thumb in her mouth, the girl was shivering and sobbing quietly, trying, Bessie guessed, to keep the sound low so as not to anger her father more.

‘Aw, me little love . . .’ Bessie gathered her into her arms and, though Mary Ann was no longer a small child, Bessie picked her up. The girl wound her arms around the woman’s neck and buried her face in her shoulder. For a moment, Bessie patted her back soothingly, rocked her and murmured, ‘There, there. It’s all right. It’s all right.’

There was nothing else she could say, though even to Bessie the words had a hollow ring. Now, inside the darkened house, Bessie could hear the man lumbering down the stairs and through the rooms towards the back door, knocking furniture over in his path. Bessie prised Mary Ann’s clinging arms from around her neck and handed her to Dan.

‘Tek her into our house, Dan. Out of his way.’

Dan reached out, gathered the girl into his arms and carried her away. As he went, Bessie heard him murmuring to her, ‘You come with me, little ’un. I’ll soon razzle up the fire in the range and you can have a nice drink of hot milk . . .’