Alley Urchin (13 page)

‘Oh, Sal . . . as if I would,’ said Molly with mock seriousness. ‘O’ course you haven’t been drinking. You told me yourself that we can’t have anything to eat, because there’s no money. And, if there’s no money for food, then there’s no money for booze . . . ain’t that right?’ With Sal’s fingers clutching her shoulder tightly, and having to pick her way carefully over the rubble and boulders strewn hereabouts, Molly couldn’t afford to glance up at Sal’s face, but she felt Sal’s round violet eyes turned on her. ‘I think Mr Entwistle paid me a good day’s wage,’ she said. ‘He’s a nice fella . . . and he always has a good word to say about
you
.’ At once, she was brought to a halt.

‘About
me
?’ Sal demanded, a little smile teasing the corners of her mouth. ‘What does he know about me, eh? I don’t know the bloke . . . do I?’ Her deep, ruddy forehead was creased into a multitude of wrinkles as she struggled to place the name in her mind. ‘How come this Mr Entwistle knows me, eh?’ She was puzzled. ‘An’ where might I have made the fella’s acquaintance, I wonder?’

‘I don’t know, but he mentioned summat about a public house,’ lied Molly, manufacturing a suitable expression of bewilderment. ‘I
think
it was the Sun.’

‘Naw, I don’t fancy that place too often these days . . . not since the landlord said I were blind drunk and fit fer nowt but causing trouble.’ Sal gave a little chuckle, before resuming a serious face. ‘Well . . . I might a’ been just a
bit
tipsy . . . but there were no call fer the bugger ter set his dog on me!’ She fixed her round, marble eyes on Molly’s upturned face and, even though they were shot through with tiny pink blood vessels and appeared vague from drinking, Molly thought what a pretty violet colour they were. ‘The Swan!’ Sal exclaimed, seeming pleased with herself. ‘I bet it were the
Swan
e’ were talking about. What do he look like, this fella?’ When Molly gave a deliberately inaccurate description, for fear that Sal might still track him down and cause a rumpus, she jubilantly slapped Molly on her back, and grinned broadly, saying, ‘There! I’ve a feeling I know the bloke . . . played cards with him, I expect. And, who knows, it’s likely we’ve supped many a pint together!’ She put her hands on her hips and surveyed Molly in the closest manner. ‘Yer an ungrateful child!’ she scolded in her most serious voice, broken by a series of loud hiccups. ‘Four shillings is a very
generous
wage! An’ I’ll thank you not to call a drinking pal o’ mine a “mean old sod”. I’m surprised at you, Molly gal. C‘mon . . . get orf home an’ clean yerself up. Then well away ter the Navigation fer a pie and a pint. We’ll mek a little hole in Mr Entwistle’s four shillings, eh?’ She laughed, swaying until Molly was sure she’d fall over.

As they wended their way along the canal bank towards the hut, Molly kept tight hold of old Sal’s hand, because the way the old one was swaying and stumbling, it was likely that she’d lose her balance at any minute. When she did, and the two of them ended up fighting to stay upright, Sal erupted in a fit of cackling and shouting. ‘Did yer see that, young ’un?’ she laughed, setting her booted foot forward again. ‘Yer nearly went arse over tip an’ dragged ol’ Sal with yer! I reckon you’ve been at the gin bottle, yer little sod!’

Molly felt herself coming out in a cold sweat when she thought how Sal had been sitting over the canal bank, with her legs dangling down. It was painfully obvious that she’d been drinking, after she’d promised
not
to! What will I do with her, agonised Molly as she took a tighter hold of Sal’s meandering figure. Get her back to the hut, and get her to sleep it off, that’s what! Oh, and what a good job she’d had wit enough to mislead her about poor Mr Entwistle, for Molly was well pleased with her wage and she knew it to be fair. Besides which, if Sal had gone back and caused trouble, he might not have given her any more work, and that would have been a bad thing because honest work was getting harder and harder to come by.

The hut which was now home to Sal and Molly was situated at the widest area of grassy bank, and was half hidden in the undergrowth. There was a tall stone wall immediately behind, and directly behind that, the vicarage. This fact had given old Sal a great deal of pleasure as she told one and all: ‘What more could a body want, eh? . . . I’ve got the ale house down one end, and the vicar at the other. If I’m tekken bad after a jolly night out, I have only ter whistle and the vicar’ll come a’runnin’ with his Bible. He’ll get me ter the gates o’ Heaven right enough. Drunk or sober, the good Lord won’t turn me away, I’m thinking!’

When they had first come across the dilapidated workmen’s hut, there were chinks between the weathered boarding ‘wide enough ter drive a horse and cart through’, as Sal had complained. Now, however, the chinks were stuffed with moss which Molly had painstakingly gathered, and the wind couldn’t force its way in so easily. On a hot day like today, though, the air inside the cramped hut was stifling. ‘Bloody hell, lass . . . prop that door open with some’at!’ instructed Sal as she fell on to the narrow bed, this being a scrounged mattress set on four orange-boxes, the whole length of which swayed and creaked beneath Sal’s sudden weight.

In no time at all, Molly had filled the pan from the wooden rain-bucket by the door, and brought it slowly to the boil on the oil-lamp. She might have brought some wood and lit the rusty old stove, but it was such a lengthy palaver and, anyway, it was too hot a day. When the water had boiled, Molly tipped a spoonful of tea-leaves into each of the two cups, put three spoons of sugar into both and topped them up with the boiling water. She threw out the milk, which had gone sour. ‘Come on, Sal,’ she said, fetching one of the cups to where Sal was lying flat on her back, ‘you’ll feel better when you’ve had a sup of hot tea.’

‘Is there milk in it?’ came a muffled voice from beneath a tangled shawl.

‘No. It was sour, so I threw it out.’

‘Then I ain’t having none!’ came the surly reply.

Molly knew there was no point in trying to persuade her.

‘I’ll go to Angela Street and get a gill from the shop,’ she promised, returning the cup of hot tea to the floor beside the oil-lamp.

‘Go on then, and be sharp about it,’ Sal muttered, ‘me tongue’s hanging out.’

Quickly, Molly took up the pan and went running along the canal. It took only a few minutes to arrive at the shop in Angela Street. It was a quaint little place, filled with shelves of all manner and description, and these in turn were filled with jars, tins and other miscellaneous items. Above the wooden counter hung small hams and strings of onions; on the counter were placed huge cheeses and fresh baked loaves of bread; behind the counter stood a short sturdy woman with a broad, welcoming smile and a white floppy mob-cap on her rolled-up grey hair. She wore a severe black dress with starched white collar and cuffs, and the bodice pulled in so tight at the waist that the poor woman had a permanent red face.

‘Well!’ she exclaimed, on seeing Molly’s black face and generally unkempt appearance. ‘You look like you’ve been up the chimney and no mistake!’ She kept smiling all the same and took the pan which Molly offered. ‘Milk, is it?’ she asked. Molly politely requested her to pour in a gill, ‘if you wouldn’t mind, please . . . and a loaf of bread, with a pat of best butter.’ It was done in a minute; the pennies were paid and Molly hurried back to the hut. Sal was fast asleep and snoring loudly, and Molly left her to it. ‘The best thing you can do is sleep it off, Sal,’ she told her fondly, at the same time perching on the stool which she’d rescued from their previous home, gratefully sipping her tea.

Some time later, Molly went down to the canal and refilled her pan. The month of July had been a dry one and she didn’t want to waste good rain-water on washing. When the water had boiled, she mixed it with a pan of cold water in a tin bowl; she stripped off her dress and undergarments, washed herself first and after dipped the clothes. Next, she laid them over the stool and put the stool outside in the sun. Then, very carefully, so as not to wake her, she climbed in beside old Sal. When a long scrawny arm reached out to enfold her, Molly snuggled into it. She was aching all over, and she was suddenly tired. That coal shovelling was hard work, but it wouldn’t stop her from turning up tomorrow. Mr Entwistle would probably be laid up till Monday, but there might be other work to be found. If not, tomorrow was Sunday, and that was the day when most of the gentry took to strolling about in Corporation Park up on the hill. If there was no work to be had along the wharf, it was likely there might be a fat wallet or two just waiting to be separated from its owner. At one time, Molly had told Sal how she thought it was wrong to steal on a Sunday because when, out of curiosity she had taken a peep inside the church, there were ‘all these grim-faced folk sitting there, and a preacher in a long black frock with beads round his waist, talking to the folk in a terrible frightening voice!’

Molly had never forgotten how he had warned that Sunday was the Lord’s Day and a day when all sinners should repent or go to Hell. It had been a glorious summer’s day one minute and the next, in the very moment when he bellowed out in that fearful voice, the sky went black and there was a terrible clap of thunder. ‘The devil’s coming for me, Sal,’ Molly had run home to tell her with big shocked eyes, ‘the preacher’s sent him!’

‘Is that right, Molly lass?’ Sal had asked with a laugh and a twinkle in her eye. ‘Well, the bugger’ll have ter get past
me
afore he gets ter you! An’ he won’t be the
first
divil I’ve sent packin’ . . . nor will he be the last!’ But, seeing that young Molly was not convinced, she went on in great detail about how ‘the preacher were warning the folk in the church . . . them with their fancy frocks an’ pretty bonnets . . . ’cause its folks wi’ money as do the most sinning. An’ don’t you worry none about the divil chasin’ yer, Molly lass . . . ’cause the Lord looks after them as looks after themselves. ‘That’s what
we
do, lass, you an’ me . . . we look after us selves. Ain’t that right?’ Molly couldn’t deny it, so she told the Lord that very night, ‘I hope them rich folk stop their sinnin’ Lord. Me and Sal, we’ll go on looking after ourselves, and thank you kindly.’ Sal thoroughly approved. ‘That’s the way, darlin’,’ she cackled, ‘y’see . . . we’re doin’ these rich folks a favour when all’s said an’ done. The more money we can relieve ’em of . . . the less likely they are to be sinnin’ with it!’ And Molly’s admiration of old Sal was increased tenfold.

Saturday night saw most hard-working folk hereabouts heading in the direction of the nearest ale house, the Navigation. It was across from the canal bank at the top of Angela Street and it was from there that the jolliest and loudest accordion music emanated, telling its tale up and down the canal and bringing the bargees from their cabins.

‘D’yer hear
that
, me darlin’?’ chuckled Sal, a deep grin lighting up her wrinkled face, and her feet giving a little joyful skip as she swung from the mattress. ‘You stay an’ get yer sleep,’ she told Molly with a crafty look. ‘That coal shovellin’ fair wore you out, I know.’

In a minute, Molly had got from the bed and collected her dry clothes from outside. ‘I’m coming with you,’ she informed Sal, and Sal knew from that determined look on Molly’s small face that it was no use arguing.

‘All right then, young ’un.’ She fetched her flat neb-cap from its nail behind the door and rammed it over her grey wispy hair. ‘But I want none of yer naggin’, like last time! We’ve a few bob in us purse, an’ I mean ter have a pleasant pint . . . an’ happen a game o’ cards.’ She hurried out of the hut, leaving Molly to close the door and secure it. ‘Follow me if yer must. But yer ain’t telling
me
what I should an’ shouldn’t do!’

Molly stayed a small distance behind as Sal’s bent and untidy figure scurried away in her odd, dipping gait. Every now and then she would pull the long shawl about her and make sure her flat cap was secure on her head; all of her sharp jerky actions betrayed her frustration that Molly was on her heels and, before the evening was out, would no doubt remind her that playing cards was a fool’s game. Had Sal forgotten how she lost her lovely barge through playing cards? Forgotten! Sal hated being reminded of it. How could she forget?
How
would she ever forget losing the barge that had been a treasured home to her and Marlow all those years? She
couldn’t
forget, and she had no intention of doing so. But, she did intend winning it back, an’
that
was a fact! It was only a matter of time, that was all. A matter of time.

Molly had grown wise to Sal’s moods and tantrums, so she intended to tackle the subject from a new angle, although she hoped it would still get the message across. The opportunity presented itself when a big chestnut cob went by on the towpath, pulling behind it a brightly painted barge, with a swarthy-looking fellow at the tiller, whistling a jolly tune. ‘Evenin’ to yer,’ he called when he saw the two figures hurrying in the direction of the Navigation. ‘Lookin’ ter cool yerself down and wet yer whistle at the same time, eh?’ he laughed.

‘T’ain’t no business o’ yourn if we are!’ Sal retorted, jerking her shawl over her shoulders and beginning to mutter to herself. The man took no offence, for he knew of old Sal and her misfortunes. ‘Take care o’ yerself, Sal,’ he called out, ‘an’ mind out for the young ’un.’

At the last minute before he disappeared away round the curve in the canal, Sal thought better of her surly mood and came to the water’s edge to shout after him: ‘Thank you very much, bless yer. An’
you
mind how yer go, me darlin’!’ Whereupon, seeing him wave an acknowledgement, Sal caught Molly into her shawl, saying with a little laugh, ‘See that, Molly? . . . We’ve still got a few friends, you an’ me, eh?’

Molly saw her chance. ‘What’s it like, living on a barge, Sal?’ she asked, looking up with round innocent eyes. She was secretly pleased when Sal took the bait.

‘What’s it like? Oh, it’s
grand
, Molly lass . . . right grand! There’s no better life in this ’ere world, than rovin’ the waterways in yer own barge . . . wi’ yer own pots an’ pans an’ the treasures about yer.’ Of a sudden, her eyes grew sad and a look of nostalgia came into her weathered old face. ‘The good Lord shoulda struck me dead fer losin’ that grand old barge,’ she murmured. Molly was hopeful that Sal would not be tempted to go gambling tonight.