The River Folk (2 page)

The woman closed her eyes and seemed, for a moment, to sway. ‘Happy?’ she murmured, for all the world as if she meant to add, ‘What’s that?’

Bessie heard her husband’s cheerful whistle echoing down the hollow-sounding arched passageway that led into Waterman’s Yard.

Half the townsfolk of Elsborough lived in the yards – a conglomeration of houses that had been hastily built in the spaces behind the larger, grander buildings fronting River Road to accommodate a rapidly expanding population. Regarded by many as insanitary places and a breeding ground for disease, nevertheless the residents of the yards were a fiercely independent and proud community and none more so than the families who earned their living from the river.

The Waterman’s Arms, for years a hostelry for sailors, keelmen and watermen of all description, stood proudly on River Road. Nestling behind it was Waterman’s Yard.

As she heard his boots ringing on the cobbles of the yard where the sun rarely reached, Bessie bent to take the shepherd’s pie out of the oven. Its potato topping crisp and brown, she placed it, piping hot, on the table as Bert stepped into the house and called, as always, ‘Bessie, my angel, light of my life. I’m home.’

Bert Ruddick was a little ferret of a man, small and thin with sharp features and mischievous, beady eyes that missed nothing. His brown hair, turning grey now, was soft and silky. He had worked on, or beside, the river all his life, finding any kind of job he could. He was unskilled but his experience of the river and all her moods was second to none and it was a mark of his worth that whilst he had never had a regular job, he had never once been out of work. He was known as a purchase-man, whose casual labour was ‘purchased’ by the masters of the keels and sloops that plied the River Trent near Elsborough.

‘Summat’ll come in with the tide, Bess,’ had always been his motto and it always had for even if there was no work available aboard ship, there was often plenty to be had on the wharves.

Bert loved his wife with a fierce pride and the marvel of it to him was that she loved him in return. What was it he’d heard someone say once? Something about love being blind and seeing with the heart and not the mind? Well, that must be the case with him and his Bessie. What she saw in him, a scrawny, pint-sized river dweller, he couldn’t imagine. But as to what he saw in her, now that was a different matter. A fine figure of a woman she’d always been. Still was, in his love-blurred eyes. To him she wasn’t the overweight, loud-mouthed woman that others saw. To Bert Ruddick, Bessie was a Boadicea and together they’d raised three strapping lads. Thank goodness they’d all taken after their mother for size, Bert would thank his lucky stars as he downed pint after pint in The Waterman’s Arms and good-naturedly took the teasing of the men around him. Whatever they said about him, no one could deny that he had sired three handsome devils, who would break a few hearts around here before they were much older.

Smiling, Bessie went to meet him. Bert put his arms around her waist as far as he could reach and laid his head against the soft, well-known pillow of her bosom, whilst she clutched his head to her breast and planted a noisy kiss on the thinning hair.

‘Tea’s ready,’ she said.

He lifted his head and sniffed the air appreciatively. ‘Smells good, Bess.’

‘Shepherd’s pie. Just the way you like it.’

‘You always do everything just the way I like it.’

Bessie chuckled, but only said, ‘Wash your hands. The lads’ll be home soon.’

As he soaped and scrubbed his hands vigorously in the deep white sink in the scullery, he asked, ‘Any news?’

It was a question that had become a routine throughout the terrible war that had just ended, a question that had to be asked and yet the answer had always been feared. Now, perhaps, any news might be happier.

‘We’ve got some new neighbours at last.’

‘Really?’ Bert straightened up and reached for the towel. ‘You met ’em yet?’

Bessie pulled a face. ‘Yes, but I aren’t struck with ’em. I’ve had a run in with the feller already.’

‘Oh dear,’ Bert tried to look serious, but failed.

‘You can smile, Bert Ruddick. I reckon he’s a wife-beater.’

Now Bert’s face was sober as he sat down at the table. ‘I don’t like the sound of that, Bess.’

‘You should have heard the racket coming through this wall this afternoon. Swearing and carrying on. Then I heard a woman cry out and when I went round, she’d a gash on her lip. She said she’d fallen, but I didn’t believe it. She’s terrified of him, you can see it in her eyes.’

Shaking his head, Bert picked up his knife and fork. ‘Well,’ he said, knowing his beloved wife almost better than she knew herself, ‘while they live next door, she might get a bit of peace from him.’ He glanced up at her as he added shrewdly, ‘Because you’re not going to stand by and see someone knocked into the middle of next week, are you?’

Despite the gravity of their conversation, Bessie laughed. ‘You’re right there, Bert, and — ’

Whatever Bessie had been going to add was lost as the back door opened and they heard Dan calling, ‘Mam, where are you?’

Tall and broad-shouldered, his dark brown hair curling on to his forehead, their eldest son appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. Dan’s jaw was firm and square, his nose straight and his mouth wide and generous and, more often than not, smiling. But at the moment his face was serious, his hazel eyes worried. ‘Mam, there’s a little lass standing in the middle of the yard by the pump. She looks as if she’s been crying. I tried to talk to her, but she shied away from me.’

Bessie followed him into the scullery and together they peered through the window at the young girl. Dressed in a dirty cotton dress, the hem ragged and uneven, her tangled black curls looked as if they hadn’t seen a comb in days, let alone soap and water. Her face was thin and tears had washed pale streaks through the grime.

‘I bet she’s the little lass from next door,’ Bessie murmured and went on to tell her son about the new arrivals. ‘The woman asked me if I’d seen her.’

‘How old do you reckon she is?’ Dan asked.

‘Anywhere between ten and thirteen. Difficult to tell.’

‘But she’s sucking her thumb. She’s a bit old to be doing that, isn’t she?’

Bessie gave a wry laugh. ‘Aye, lad, and you’d be still sucking your thumb, I reckon, old as you are, if you had that feller next door for a dad. Come on, let’s go and see what we can do.’

‘Give us a minute, Mam,’ Dan said, sitting down on a stool, ‘while I get me boots off and I’ll be right with you.’

Dan removed his flat cap and then eased off his heavy leather seaboots and thick socks, pushing his feet into a pair of slippers. Then he took off his gingham neckerchief and the thick woollen gansey that nearly all keelmen wore aboard ship and slipped on a checked shirt that Bessie kept hanging behind her scullery door for him to change into. His brown corduroy trousers he kept on. ‘Right, Mam, ready when you are.’

Whilst Dan hovered near the back door, Bessie crossed the yard towards the girl. Closer now, she could see a faint bruise on the girl’s jaw, purple turning yellow. And she was barefooted too. Bessie clicked her tongue against her teeth. Such neglect.

Bessie frowned. The girl was just standing there, motionless, with her thumb in her mouth. She was not even looking about her with a child’s natural curiosity. She was silent and so still. That was what worried Bessie. At that age, Bessie’s own lads would have been running riot about the yard, yelling and shrieking, with the neighbours appearing at their doors calling, ‘Shut up, ya noisy little beggars. Bessie, can’t you keep them lads of yours quiet?’ But Bessie would only smile and lean against her doorjamb, arms folded, to watch her healthy, growing boys.

This child was quiet. Unnaturally so, to Bessie’s mind.

‘Take your thumb out your mouth, lass. You don’t know where it’s been.’ Bessie was teasing gently, but the girl, apart from a darting glance upwards at the woman towering over her, made no sign that she had even heard.

The sight of this pathetic child touched Bessie Ruddick’s big heart and her voice was soft as she asked, ‘Are you the little girl who’s come to live next door to us? Are you Mary Ann?’

Again, a swift glance from eyes that Bessie could now see were dark brown and fringed with long, black lashes. There was suffering in those soulful eyes, Bessie thought. She could see it, even in one so young.

‘Poor little bairn,’ the big woman murmured, resisting the urge to gather the child into her arms and carry her into her own home.

The girl had looked away again, but now there was a tiny nod of the head. Bessie thought quickly. She was obviously terrified to go home, and with good reason, if her father carried out his threat.

‘I ’spect your mam’s busy getting things straight. Tell you what, would you like to come into my house, seeing as we’re going to be neighbours? You can have a bit of tea with us, if you like. My Bert’s already tucking into his shepherd’s pie. How about it, eh?’

The girl stared up at her for so long now that even Bessie felt disconcerted by the look. Still, she did not speak.

Bessie held out her hand and, after staring at it for a moment, slowly the girl put her own grubby hand into it and allowed herself to be led towards Bessie’s door. Then, suddenly seeing Dan standing there, she hung back.

‘It’s all right,’ Bessie soothed. ‘It’s only Dan. He’s big, but he’s as gentle as a lamb.’

He must have sensed the young girl’s reluctance, for Dan moved away from the door and disappeared into the house.

‘Now then,’ Bessie said, leading her into the scullery. ‘Sit up on that stool there and let’s wipe them mucky paws.’ She reached for a damp cloth from the draining board. Gently, she took hold of the thin wrist. Feeling the bones, the big woman tutted to herself.

‘You want feeding up a bit, lass, don’t you? Come on, let’s have that out of your mouth. A big girl like you didn’t ought to be sucking her thumb, you know. It’ll go all white and wrinkly and you’ll end up with crooked teeth, an’ all. Our Duggie – he’s me youngest – used to suck his thumb when he was a bairn. The times I ’ad to creep into his room in the night and take it out of his mouth. But he’s got the loveliest white teeth now you ever did see,’ Bessie added proudly. ‘And it’s all thanks to me. There you are, all clean. Now, let’s go and get you a bit of tea.’

Leading her into the kitchen, Bessie said, ‘We’ve got a visitor, Bert. Make room at the table.’

Dan grinned at them. ‘Already have, Mam. Come and sit next to me, little ’un.’

Slowly the child moved to stand next to Dan, but she didn’t sit down. She glanced at the chair and then up at Bessie.

‘You can sit down, love, it’s all right,’ Bessie said, aware that in many households, children stood to have their meals. Only the grown-ups had chairs. In the Ruddick household, Bessie’s boys had all been provided with chairs from the day they left school and started work.

‘You’re a man now and earning, so you’ve a right to sit down to eat,’ she’d said to each one in turn as they reached school-leaving age.

‘You’re a guest,’ Dan smiled down at her.

The girl sat down gingerly on the chair. Bert laid down his knife and fork and picked up an empty plate. ‘Like some pie, lass? And some peas?’

‘My mam’s shepherd’s pie could win prizes,’ Dan said and winked at her.

At that moment, Ernie, Bessie’s second son, slipped quietly into the room and sat down at the table.

‘This is Ernie,’ Dan said. Ernie nodded shyly towards her, but then his gaze was firmly fixed upon his plate. ‘He’s quiet, too,’ Dan went on. ‘Never says much. But you wait till Duggie comes home. We’ll none of us get a word in edgeways then.’

‘I’ll put Duggie’s in the oven,’ Bessie said, piling food on to a plate. ‘And keep it warm. He’ll be late, as usual.’

But only ten minutes later, the back door was flung open and the youngest Ruddick boy entered the house in a flurry of noisy greetings.

‘Mam. Dad. I’m home.’

‘Think we can’t hear you, lad?’ Bessie said, but she was smiling as she said it and already getting up again to take his meal from the oven. ‘You’re early, for you?’ She glanced at Mary Ann and explained. ‘Duggie’s always late. I tell him, he’ll be late for his own funeral.’

‘Hello, who’s this?’ Duggie, his brown hair flopping on to his forehead, bright eyes twinkling and a grin that seemed to stretch from ear to ear, sat down opposite their visitor.

‘The little lass from next door. They’ve moved in today,’ Dan told him.

‘Hello, little-girl-from-next-door,’ Duggie said cheekily. At once the girl scrambled up from her chair and stood behind Dan, peering over his shoulder at the newcomer.

Bessie almost laughed at the comical expression on Duggie’s face. Already, she understood the child’s fear of men, but her youngest son, the noisiest, funniest scallywag of the three brothers, was staring open-mouthed at the girl’s reaction to him. It was certainly not how girls, whatever their age, normally treated him.

‘It’s all right, love, he’s a noisy devil, but he won’t hurt you,’ Dan patted the chair beside him. ‘Come on, sit down.’

The girl slid back into her chair, her gaze still on Duggie.

‘What’s your name, then?’ Duggie tried again and Bessie was touched to hear the gentleness in his tone. Even Duggie, bless him, had been quick on the uptake, she thought. ‘That ugly brute you’re sitting next to,’ Duggie was saying, pointing his knife across the table, ‘is Dan and this,’ he added, nodding towards the taciturn figure beside him, ‘is Ernie. And I’m Duggie, the good-looking one.’

There were derisory guffaws around the table from the rest of the family, apart from Ernie, but Duggie only laughed, the loudest of them all. Ernie, with neat dark hair and wearing a white shirt and tie, chuckled softly, but did not speak.

Duggie leant forward as if sharing a confidence. ‘Ernie’s got a posh job in an office in one of the warehouses on River Road. He keeps ledgers and things. He has to write down all what the ships bring in and take out. That’s why he wears a smart white shirt to go to work, but he has a skin the same colour, ’cos he’s always indoors, see? Me,’ he added proudly, ‘I work on Miller’s Wharf at the moment but, one day, I’m going to be an engineer. I’m going to get an apprenticeship at Phillips’ Engineering Works. Do you know it? They made tanks in the war and—’