The Urchin's Song (5 page)

‘No, Da.’ The lie was immediate and instinctive.

‘She has, Da. I told you--’

Jimmy’s voice was cut off by his father making a downward motion with his hand, but even as her father was saying, ‘Let tonight be a warnin’ to you,’ Josie was thinking what a nasty bit of work their Jimmy was. She could just imagine him sniffing about and then running to tell tales to their da.

However, as she busied herself banking down the fire in the living room with damp tea leaves and slack, Josie’s thoughts were not with her brother. Now the crisis had passed she couldn’t believe her own temerity, nor that her father had backed down from the confrontation without using his belt. And he’d known, he’d
known
Gertie was lying, that they both were, and he’d just pretended to believe them to save face in the end. The knowledge was a revelation and suddenly, miraculously, his power wasn’t absolute and Bart Burns had become a mere mortal, like the rest of them.

After the events of the previous evening, Patrick Duffy’s offer to buy Gertie’s innocence fell on receptive ears, especially as Josie had further angered her father that morning by making sure Jimmy and Hubert attended the Board school in James Williams Street along with their youngest sister.

For the last fifteen years the education in the Board schools had been free, unlike the church schools which charged a small fee of a penny or two a week. Since elementary education had become compulsory four years before, Josie had attended school whenever she could, until she had left at the official age of eleven, and she encouraged her sister and two brothers to do the same.

It had been an uphill battle in the lads’ case, not least because Bart often made use of them during the day when more youngsters were about and their pickpocketing activities were likely to be less noticeable. It didn’t help that the boys themselves couldn’t see any point in learning to read and write, a point of view shared by Gertie, who nevertheless was more amenable than her brothers due to her desire to please her big sister whenever she could.

‘So, same deal as afore then?’

‘Aye.’ Bart inclined his head, glancing round the smoky interior of the noisy public house. The Masons’ Arms in Dunning Street, off High Street West, was Bart’s favourite haunt, being a hotbed of illegal bookmaking. ‘An’ what about after?’ he said, his voice low. ‘You got anybody lined up to take her on?’

‘What do you think?’ The Irishman grinned. ‘You can trust Patrick Duffy to take care of everythin’. You know that.’

Aye, he knew that sure enough. Bart smiled back into the sallow face, but weakly. He had never made the mistake of underestimating the power of the insignificant-looking little man in front of him, but he knew of those who had and who had lived to regret it. There was an innate viciousness about Patrick Duffy that was at odds with his undersized body.

‘Later tonight then.’ Patrick slid a small cloth pouch bulging with coins across the greasy table and Bart quickly pocketed it. ‘I’ll be waitin’ at the back of the Trafalgar Square almshouses near the graveyard round eightish, an’ make sure your missus keeps her mouth shut when the little ’un don’t come back for a day or two. Give it till the weekend an’ I’ll bring her back here with her handler - and you’d better make sure this ’un don’t skedaddle like the other two. Less than best pleased was old Douglas about that.’

‘It weren’t my fault.’ There was a slight whine to Bart’s voice. ‘I lost out same as him, don’t forget.’

‘That’s as maybe. Just make sure this ’un stays put.’

‘It might be better . . .’ Bart’s voice dwindled away. With Ada and Dora it had been easy to keep them living at home and working the streets at night. It had meant he’d had all their earnings after the cut to their whoremaster. But Josie had been nowt but a bit bairn of five or six when he’d put her older sisters on the game; she was twelve now and she thought the world of Gertie.

‘It might be better if Douglas keeps her in one of his houses,’ Bart said reluctantly. ‘Easier on her mam, see? Out of sight, out of mind.’ He couldn’t bring himself to admit to Patrick that it was his other daughter’s wrath he was wary of, should she find out the truth. Or rather the very real possibility that Josie would remove herself from the family home, taking a valuable source of income with her.

Patrick’s brows lifted but he merely shrugged his shoulders before saying, ‘You know your own business best, but Doug’ll take a hefty slice of her earnings that way.’

‘Aye, I know, but it can’t be helped.’ Bart swallowed the last of the whisky Patrick had bought him and stood to his feet before saying, his voice louder now, ‘See you.’ He didn’t wait for a response, turning and passing through the press of bodies and out into the street.

A weak winter sun had been shining earlier in the day but now, at just gone six in the evening, the air was bitterly cold and here and there a snowflake drifted aimlessly in the darkness. Bart pulled his cap further over his forehead and adjusted the muffler tucked in his cloth jacket before thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers. His fingers closed over the small bag and he gave a grunt of satisfaction as he began to walk home. Strange how Patrick liked them young, but then it took all sorts, and with Gertie being none too bright and sickly into the bargain, this was the best thing all round. She was little use to him, like her mother. All them bairns he’d given Shirl and only six had lived, and four of ’em lasses at that. Mind, he had no complaints with what Josie brought in, and just by opening her gob. Who’d have thought it?

When he opened the door of the house some minutes later he could hear Josie singing. The sound irritated him, it always had, although he hadn’t got it in him to analyse why. If someone had told him it was because the sound epitomised his daughter’s refusal to be brutalised by her life and her surroundings, he wouldn’t have acknowledged the truth of it anyway.

The table was set for four when he stepped into the living room. Jimmy and Hubert normally ate their meal sitting on their bed due to lack of space at the table. The smell of stew from the big kale-pot on the stove was heavy in the air. A full loaf of bread was sliced ready in the centre of the table, and Josie and Gertie were busy in the kitchen, his wife and the lads sitting in front of the glowing fire.

Shirley raised her head at his entrance but said nothing; they had all learned the hard way it was better to remain mute until Bart’s mood had been gauged. Once he had seated himself at the table she too rose, making her way to her chair slowly, like a very old woman. Gertie now scuttled in with a pint mug of black tea which she placed in front of her father, returning a moment later with one for her mother, whereupon she received a quiet, ‘Ta, me bairn.’

Josie brought her father’s plate to the table first. It was twice the size of the rest, being a deep tin one with high edges, and it was full to the brim with thick meaty stew, several dumplings reposing in the middle. Bart reached for a shive of the bread Josie had made earlier which was neither white nor brown but a mixture of both, owing to the quality of Mr McKenzie’s flour, and without acknowledging his daughter began to eat. This released the others to take some bread, the boys sidling up to the table and securing a piece before they returned to their seat quickly, mindful of the fact their father had been in a foul temper that morning.

Gertie brought her mother’s plate next and then one each for her brothers, Josie carrying her sister’s and her own. All this was accomplished without a word, although the two rooms had been merry before Bart had arrived home. Josie had been teaching Gertie the first verse and chorus of Lottie Collins’s song, ‘Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!’, purposely hamming it up in order to make her mother laugh. She loved it if she could make her mam smile. And the lads, entering into the spirit of the thing for once despite their earlier sulkiness at being dragged to school, had chimed in too.

Starting on a demure note for:

Josie had then struck a pose for her mother’s benefit, her hand on her hip and wiggling her bottom as the lads and Gertie had joined in the singing amid shrieks of laughter:

They had carried on like this until tears of laughter had run down their mother’s thin cheeks, but there was no jollity when Bart Burns was around. Josie sat down at the table, her thoughts making her face straight. She couldn’t ever remember their da smiling or even talking softly to them. Why had her mam married him? The only good thing was that no sooner was he home than he was off out again.

And as though her thoughts had prompted him, Bart now raised his head, looking at Gertie as he said, ‘You, you’re comin’ with me tonight,’ before turning to Jimmy and Hubert and adding, ‘An’ you two are stayin’ put.’

As her father reached for another shive of bread and dunked it into the rich gravy on his plate, Josie and Gertie looked at each other in surprise. Of them all, her father had the least time for Gertie, his only communication with his youngest daughter usually consisting of a clip round the ear. Gertie felt herself beginning to tremble; she didn’t want to go anywhere with her da. Whatever he’d got in mind for her to do, it would only end with a beating because she hadn’t been quick enough or bright enough.

But it was Shirley who brought Josie’s eyes opening wide as she said, her voice a whimper, ‘No, Bart, no. Not again.’

‘Shut your mouth, woman, or I’ll shut it for you.’

‘You . . . you’re not goin’ to make her--’

As her father’s hand rose, Josie cried shrilly, ‘Leave her be, Da! She hasn’t done anything!’ There was an edge of bewilderment to her words. Her mam never talked back to their da or questioned him about anything. There had been times - lots of times - when her da had taken every last penny they had and left them without coal or oil and not a bite to eat, and their mam hadn’t said a word. Not a word.

‘You can’t, Bart, not now. Not with Gertie. We don’t need the money like we did with Ada an’ Dora--’

As the flat of her father’s big hand across his wife’s face sent the sick woman rocking backwards on her chair, Josie jumped to her feet, her chair skidding into the wall behind her. Without pausing to think she threw her plate of stew straight into her father’s angry face. Bart was stunned into immobility for a moment, more by the shock of one of his own daring to commit such a crime than by the liquid running down his face in rivulets. In those couple of seconds’ grace, Josie had sprung round the table to her mother’s side.

The stew had been hot but not scalding, but by the torrent of abuse which now began to pour out of Bart’s mouth, one could have been forgiven for thinking he had been branded.

In the same moment that Bart lunged forwards, Josie bent and whipped up the heavy black poker standing to one side of the small grate, and now she was screaming at the top of her voice, ‘You dare! You dare touch me and I’ll kill you! I will, I’ll kill you!’

It was Bart’s misfortune that he chose to ignore her. As he made another stab for her, Josie brought the poker whacking down on his right forearm with all the force her slight, twelve-year-old body could muster, and they all heard the bone snap.

His scream ascended into the two rooms upstairs, bringing Maud and Enoch bolt upright on the hard wood settle in front of their small fire, and then he was on his knees holding his dangling arm and his curses filled the house.

Josie was shaking uncontrollably as she remained standing close to her mother, but she kept the poker raised in front of her, not at all sure whether her father would try to attack her again. And then, as Gertie edged behind her and Jimmy, who now cautiously approached his father, said, ‘Da? You want me to get someone, Da?’ her brain whirred into action.

‘Leave him.’ It was a curt snap, and such was Jimmy’s surprise that he did exactly that, backing away from the kneeling figure of his father as though Josie was going to wield the poker at him next.

Josie couldn’t have said exactly when in the last few seconds her father’s intentions had become plain to her, only that it was as if a fog had cleared somewhere in her memory. Now she recalled Ada, and then some many months later Dora, leaving the house with her father, and her mother spending hours crying into her apron. And when her sisters had returned they had been different somehow, quite different, barely speaking to her mam any more and only really having time for each other.

It had been Vera who had told her, quietly and gently one night not so very many months ago when someone in one of the pubs had sniggered on hearing Josie’s surname and made a comment she hadn’t understood, the rumours about how her estranged sisters had earned their living before they had left Sunderland. All her mother had ever said was that Ada and Dora had run away to parts unknown to escape their father; something Josie had been able to accept quite readily. But she’d assumed, naively she now realised, that her sisters had chosen their path in life themselves.

‘You did it, didn’t you?’ She advanced on her father, hearing her mother’s, ‘Lass, lass. No, lass,’ through the swirling horror in her head. ‘You made Ada and Dora do that.’

Her father made no response beyond more muttered curses, his face as white as a sheet as he sank back against one of the table legs, leaning against it for support as he held his broken arm to him, clearly on the verge of passing out.

‘And you’d have done the same to Gertie tonight.’ She was speaking the words out loud, but even now she could hardly believe them. She knew her father was harsh and unfeeling, a bully and the type of man who had little conscience, but this . . . She fought the tide of nausea rising in her throat. This was something so unnatural, so
wicked
. Oh, Gertie, Gertie. She turned, staring into her sister’s small bewildered face, her plain, snub-nosed,
dear
little face, and the urge to bring the poker down again, this time on her father’s head, was so strong it frightened her.