Down Weaver's Lane (5 page)

Madge tried to look happy, but the idea of living in the town where she’d grown up - though it had been a large village then, without the new rows of mill houses George talked about - still worried her. ‘I wish it were somewhere else,’ she muttered, ‘anywhere but Northby. I don’t want to see my family again.’

‘Ah, there’s only your brother left. He might not even recognise you - or you him.’

She could see that George’s patience was running out, so summoned up a smile. ‘He’ll probably ignore me completely, knowing him. I don’t know what I’m worrying about, really.’

‘Nor do I, lass. Things are only going to get better for us. Now, how about saying thank you properly?’

It didn’t occur to him to ask who her brother was, any more than it occurred to her to tell him. As far as she was concerned, her brother was nothing to her now and she’d taken another surname because she didn’t want to disgrace the memory of Emerick.

 

When Emmy came home carrying a new loaf, the landlady peered out of her room near the front door. ‘Your ma’s got a visitor.’

‘Who is it?’

‘That big fellow she’s been seeing. He must have plenty o’ money. She’s right up to date with the rent.’

Emmy hesitated then went outside again to perch on her favourite bit of wall, casually side-stepping two urchins bent on tripping her up and giving the nearest one a shove. ‘I’ll scratch your eyes out if you try to take my bread,’ she threatened.

They hooted with laughter but turned away. Emmy Carter could defend herself better than most and had a piercing voice that brought folk running. Besides, she’d chosen her vantage point on the wall carefully. If they openly attacked her, the man in the small shop opposite would come out with his cudgel. He’d done it before to make sure his customers felt safe.

It was nearly two hours before the front door banged open and George went striding away down the street without even noticing Emmy. By that time she had eaten the crust from one end of the loaf, picking it off piece by piece with her fingers.

When she went up to their room she expected to find her mother still in bed, but to her astonishment Madge was piling the few dishes from the crockery shelf and the three cooking implements, kettle, stew-pan and long-handled frying pan, all rarely used, on to the table and frowning at them. ‘Oh, hello, love. Put the loaf down and help me decide. We’re leaving tomorrow morning. Should we take all these things with us? This plate’s cracked, for a start.’

‘We’re leaving tomorrow!’

‘Yes. Isn’t it exciting? I’m sure you’ll like living in Northby.’

Emmy was sure she wouldn’t. ‘Couldn’t we wait a day or two so we can say goodbye to people?’

Madge avoided her eyes. ‘Who’s there to say goodbye to?’

‘Well, the ladies at the Mission.’

‘Them! They’ve given you some silly ideas, them nose-in-the-air ladies have. You’re better off without them. They don’t understand what life is really like for poor folk.’

‘But they’ve been teaching me to read and they gave me this dress.’

‘I’ll buy you plenty of dresses from now on. You won’t need anyone’s charity.’

But Emmy knew she would. Whenever her mother had money it went on gin or clothes for herself, not on her daughter unless the need was urgent.

George’s cousin Gus turned up an hour later and dumped a couple of battered boxes, one full of straw, in their room. Grumbling about the steepness of the stairs, he went on his way after a caution to them to be ready on time the next morning.

Within an hour they had packed everything except for their bedding, which they could bundle up in the sheets when they got up. There had been no need to start packing so early, but Emmy knew her mother and did not protest.

When there was nothing else to do Emmy sat on the stool and Madge on their one chair, a rickety wooden thing with a spoke missing from the back.

‘Not much to show for all my hard work, is there?’

Emmy tried to cheer her mother up, worried she’d start drinking again. ‘If I can find work in Northby, we’ll be able to buy some much nicer things.’ She dreamed sometimes of a little cottage with curtains and tablecloths, sheets and soft blankets. And a polished brass fender which she’d keep nice and shiny. The ladies had one in the Mission and she loved its bright gleam.

She wished she looked older or was taller - and wasn’t Madge Carter’s daughter. She earned a few pence here and there when she could, helping out in the kitchen of the inn at the end of the street, running errands or minding people’s babies. The only thing that would resign her to moving to Northby would be finding a proper job and having her own money coming in regularly. When she’d first started earning she’d given all the hard-earned pennies to her mother, proud of bringing something in. But after seeing them spent on gin, she had started keeping the odd coin for herself sewn into her only petticoat which she never, ever left lying around. Those pennies were needed when you were hungry and there was nothing at home to eat.

She did wish she could have said goodbye to the kind ladies at the Mission, though. She was going to miss them. How would she improve her reading and writing now? You had to be able to read and write to get a job in service, they’d told her, and becoming a maid in a respectable household was her greatest ambition.

 

As they drove north out of Manchester the next day in Gus’s slow, lumbering cart, Emmy breathed in deeply. She hadn’t realised how much fresher the air was outside the city. It had stopped raining now, so everything looked clean, with drops of water sparkling on leaves and blossoms. She stared round in amazement at fields and meadows, dry-stone walls, trees covered in new leaves of a tender green and the odd whitewashed farm house. Would Northby be like this? She did hope so.

It wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t. Northby was a big disappointment, hardly large enough to be called a town, and when you looked down on it the rows of red brick houses lay like scars along the sides of the narrow Pennine valley. At the upper end there were a few bigger stone houses, with a church in the middle and a mill on the lower ground to one side. It had a big square pond next to it. The moors were still green, but below them smoke lay like a haze over everything in the valley. It poured out in thick charcoal-coloured clouds from the tall mill chimney and rose in smaller trails of transparent grey from the chimney pots of houses.

‘It’s grown a lot bigger!’ Madge exclaimed, staring around. ‘Look at all those new houses they’ve built!’

‘Ah, well, it’s the mills,’ Gus said. ‘Brought a lot of work into Northby, they have, especially Rishmore’s, the big ’un. T‘others are only little places, but still, they provide a few jobs for folk. Old Rishmore owns most of the town now. He’s the one as built most of them new houses over there. Had to have somewhere for his new workers to live, didn’t he? Eh, folk have moved here from all over the place, from as far away as Ireland even - though them Papist buggers could go back again to their bogs and I shouldn’t miss ’em a bit.’

At the outskirts of the town he reined in his two horses, which were now looking tired. ‘Here we are, then.’

On one side of the road was a dry-stone wall, beyond which stretched a ploughed field, while on the other was a row of tumble-down stone houses, three storeys high with big windows on the top floor. Some of the panes were cracked and broken, stuffed with rags to keep the weather out, and the houses were leaning against one another as if they might otherwise fall down. The roofs were sagging and even the chimneys looked crooked.

Emmy looked at her mother, pleading wordlessly for this not to be their new home.

‘This is the lower end of Weavers Lane,’ her mother announced in a tight voice that said she was not happy, either. ‘George has got us a room here.’

‘Mum, are you sure we can’t find somewhere better?’ Emmy whispered.

‘We’re not paying for it, are we, love?’ She forced a smile. ‘Ah, it’s just temporary, to give us a start. I dare say George will find us somewhere else quite soon.’

Gus sniggered. ‘If you think he’ll find you a whole house, you’re far and out. He’ll not spend a penny more than he has to, old George won’t. Terrible fond of keeping his money to hissen, my little cousin is.’ George was a big man, but Gus was even bigger and picked up one of the tea chests as if it weighed nothing. Shoving the front door open with his shoulder, he carried his load inside without bothering to knock and disappeared up the stairs.

Madge hesitated just inside the front door and Emmy stayed close to her mother.

A voice from the back shouted, ‘Who’s there?’

Gus came clumping downstairs again. ‘It’s only me, love. I’ve brought you your new lodgers.’ He went out for more of their things.

An old woman appeared from the rear, wiping her hands on a grubby pinafore. ‘You’ll be Madge Carter. I’m Jen Miggs an’ I don’t allow no fighting in my house.’

Emmy took an instant dislike to her, hating the way she eyed them up and down. And what did the old woman mean, fighting? Her mother didn’t behave like that. It was men who got into fights usually, or the lowest sort of street walker. Her mother talked nicely and she made people laugh, not get angry.

‘Are you the best he could find?’ Jen asked Madge scornfully, then grasped Emmy’s arm with one bony hand and held her at arm’s length to study her carefully. ‘How old is she?’

‘Only ten.’

Emmy cast a startled glance sideways. Her mother knew very well she was thirteen.

‘Ten last month,’ Madge said airily.

‘She’s well growed for ten. Pretty, too. A year, two at most, an’ she’ll be ready to join you.’

‘She’s not going into it,’ Madge declared. ‘My daughter’s going to have a better life than me.’

Jen laughed, a wheezing choking sound that went on and on until she hacked up a gob of phlegm and spat it into a ragged handkerchief. ‘Don’t allow no spitting on the floor, neither,’ she commented as she stuffed the handkerchief back into her apron pocket. ‘I get gentlemen visiting here sometimes an’ they like things kep’ nice.’

Emmy felt a shiver run down her spine as she realised what sort of house this was. It was bad enough that her mother let men visit her and use her body, but Emmy wasn’t going to do that. Never, ever.

‘They all say their kids aren’t going into it,’ Jen said once she’d stopped laughing. ‘It never happens, though. Young flesh brings in more money than old an’ they can’t resist that.’ She cast a scornful look in Madge’s direction. ‘Well, aren’t you going to bring the rest of your things in? George said to send you down to the alehouse as soon as you arrived. Your lass can unpack the stuff an’ get the room ready. She’s plenty old enough for that.’

The house was bigger inside than it looked, running backwards for three or four rooms. But they were shown only one room at the front on the first floor.

Emmy stared round it in dismay, hating the thought of having no privacy.

‘It’s nice and clean,’ Madge said, with a bright, false smile fixed in place. ‘And I’m glad there’s a table and proper bed. Four chairs, with mine. That’s really nice.’

‘George sent ’em round. See you keep everything clean.’ Jen started to leave, then turned back again. ‘Come and get directions from me when you’re ready to go into town. George wants to see you soon as you arrive.’

‘I know Northby,’ Madge said, losing her smile. ‘I grew up here.’

Jen peered at her. ‘I don’t recognise you. What was you called then?’

‘Never you mind. I’m Madge Carter now and that’s all anyone needs to know.’

As Jen stared her mouth fell open in sudden recognition. ‘I thought you looked familiar. Madge Butterfield! That’s who you are.’

‘Shh! Not any more. I don’t want to - you know, embarrass my family.’

Jen cackled. ‘Call yoursen what you like. It don’t worry me.’

When she had left Madge fumbled in the side slit in her skirt to find the purse hanging on its string beneath. She pressed a florin into Emmy’s hand. ‘I’d better go and see what George wants. If you walk into town with me, lovie, I’ll show you round a bit. There used to be a bakery behind the church. We’ll get a nice new loaf and some cheese. Growing girls need good food.’

‘Why did you tell her I was only ten?’ Emmy whispered, pushing the florin carefully into a little pocket she had sewn into her skirt waistband.

‘Because it’ll keep you safe for a year or two, that’s why. It’s a good thing you’re so small or we’d never get away with it. If your breasts start to grow we’ll have to bind them flat.’ Madge fished out their small mirror from one of the bundles, studied her face in it and searched for her rouge pot, leaving things lying all over the table as she did so. She slapped the colour on with a liberal hand. ‘There, that’s better.’ She pinched Emmy’s cheek affectionately. ‘Now we’re both nice and rosy.’ Picking up her shawl, she draped it round herself before turning towards the door, fluffing up her hair absent-mindedly with one hand.

‘Aren’t you going to wear your bonnet, Mum?’

‘No, I’m not. It’s a small town. By the end of the evening, everyone’s going to know what I am.’ Taking a deep breath, she led the way out, tossing her hair back and fixing another of those bright, glassy smiles on her face.

 

It was a week before Isaac Butterfield found out that his sister had returned to Northby. He was writing out invoices in his small private office when the overlooker poked his head round the door. ‘Good. You’re alone.’

It was not unusual for Martin Graslow to call in for a chat, because the two men were old friends, but when he glanced furtively over his shoulder before slipping into the office and pulling the door to behind him - a door that was never normally closed during working hours - Isaac put down his quill pen with a sense of foreboding. He sat bolt upright with his hands resting on either side of the ledger while he waited to find out what was wrong. Wasn’t it enough that they’d lost some of their workers in the recent troubles, that the town was still uneasy, that folk scowled at him as he passed, that someone had thrown mud at his wife?