Orphan of Angel Street Page 4

  The handbell to summon them all inside began ringing, growing louder as one of the teachers, Mr Paget, came out, his arm beating the bell up and down in the icy wind.

  ‘What’s all this?’ He strode across to the ring of children. ‘Get inside the rest of you. Go on – hurry up.’ The children fled, giggling with relief at avoiding trouble.

  ‘On your feet, child.’ As he bent down Mr Paget saw a dark, creeping line of blood along the girl’s wrist. With impatience he pulled her hands from her face and saw her nose was bleeding, huge, plum-coloured drops falling on her school dress. Though she had tears in her eyes she stared up at him with that blank yet insolent look of hers which seldom failed to aggravate.

  ‘What’ve you done?’ Mr Paget fished round irritably in his jacket pocket to find his handkerchief for Mercy to hold against her nose. ‘Someone hit you?’

  Mercy just looked at him.

  ‘Well did they?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No, Mr Paget.’ He stared at her, tight-lipped. Who could fathom this child?

  ‘We’ve all had enough of this, Mercy. You cause nothing but trouble. I’m sending you back across the road and I don’t want to see you in school for the rest of this week.’

  This was Wednesday. A terrible crime, the worst, being sent home from school. It ‘besmirched’ the good name of the Hanley Homes if they got into any trouble outside.

  Mr Paget added grimly, ‘We’ll let Matron deal with you as she sees fit.’

  Miss O’Donnell’s footsteps were coming closer.

  ‘Come here, child!’ She loomed into view along the corridor, hair wrapped in a starched white cap.

  Not the cellar! Mercy’s heart seemed about to leap out of her chest. She felt as if she’d fall down if she moved, but she turned and forced herself to walk towards the huge woman who was bearing down on her.

  Miss O’Donnell stopped with a swish of skirts and apron and gaped at the girl. Mercy’s nose had stopped bleeding, but it felt dry and caked up with blood and she was still dabbing at it with Mr Paget’s hanky. She lowered her head and closed her eyes tight, waiting.

  ‘Lord above, we can’t have you looking like that – look at all those stains!’ Mercy opened her eyes cautiously to find Miss O’Donnell bent over and staring right into her face. She could see the enormous bready pores in the woman’s nose. ‘Come on, girl, quickly now, off with that frock and we’ll find something presentable to put on. It’s a blessing they sent you home or we shouldn’t stand a chance.’

  Matron was hustling her along towards the staircase, prodding her in the back every few steps as if she were a work-shy donkey. Mercy was more astonished than she had ever been before in her life. She’d done the worst thing she could do and Miss O’Donnell not only wasn’t punishing her, she was being nice!

  ‘Skin a rabbit!’ Matron’s bosom veered alarmingly upwards as she pulled Mercy’s blood-spattered dress over her head as if she were a five-year-old. ‘Now then, let’s get you cleaned up.’ She looked the girl over, pulled the edge of her vest to see if there were bruises on her torso. Fortunately she seemed clear, although her elbow was scabbed.

  ‘You, Mercy, are going to start a new life today,’ she explained, kneeling in front of the child and vigorously washing her face.

  ‘A lady is going to take you away from here to board out with her. She has no children, so she’s giving you a great opportunity which you are to make the most of, d’you understand? She has a very respectable house in Handsworth.’ Rather bare and sober, Miss Rowney had reported. Perhaps this was some austere religious way of living? But respectable enough, and the woman seemed very keen.

  ‘You’d better behave yourself, Mercy,’ Miss O’Donnell threatened suddenly. She was buttoning Mercy into a plain grey tunic several sizes too big for her. Mercy smelt her bitter breath as she hissed, ‘If you play this Mrs Gaskin up and make her send you back here, I can promise you, I’ll make sure your life isn’t worth living.’

  ‘Well, what a pretty little girl!’

  After getting cleaned up Mercy had been given a thin piece of bread and butter and a cup of milk which almost made her forget the sore throat. Now she stood feeling very small and bewildered on the holey rug in Miss Rowney’s office while the three of them stared at her.

  Miss Rowney and Miss O’Donnell were beaming away at her as if their hearts were going to explode with love and pride. And that Mrs Gaskin was smiling for all she was worth too.

  ‘You’ll find she’s an intelligent child,’ Miss Rowney was saying. ‘Doing so well at school. Of course, all our children attend St Philip’s Elementary School across the way, and Mercy’s progressed so very well – learned to read in record time, I gather.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s very good,’ Mrs Gaskin said, sounding as if her mind was on other things completely. ‘She must be a credit to you. Bit small though, ain’t – isn’t she?’

  There was something funny about the way this Mrs Gaskin was talking, Mercy thought. It was like the way Dorothy and Miss Eagle talked but sort of poshified.

  ‘Small perhaps, but very strong and wiry. Come and shake hands, Mercy,’ Miss Rowney instructed her. ‘Mrs Gaskin has very kindly offered to take you in and she will in effect be your new mother, so you have to be a very good girl for her.’

  Mercy stepped forward and shook Mrs Gaskin’s cold, fat hand. The woman had black hair which was taken up under a wide, flat hat perched on top of her head, and she was wearing a long, jade green skirt and jacket, which strained across her hips, the buttons of the jacket appearing quite desperate to release themselves. Mercy looked up into a face with dark, rather hooded eyes, round cheeks which protruded more as the woman smiled down at her, and thick lips between which Mercy could see square yellow teeth.

  ‘Well, say something, Mercy!’ Miss O’Donnell urged her.

  ‘Where’s Dorothy?’ Her voice had risen high in panic.

  Miss Rowney laughed nervously. ‘Dorothy is one of our staff,’ she explained to Mrs Gaskin. ‘Mercy is rather attached to her. As you know, Mercy, Dorothy’s very poorly at the moment – touch of pneumonia, I gather. She won’t be with us for some time. Never mind that dear. Is there anything you want to ask Mrs Gaskin?’

  Mercy looked up again into the face of this woman whose relentless yellow smile was beating down on her. She could think of nothing to ask about another life, for until now she had known only the almost unchanging rhythm of the orphanage and school. All she wanted was Dorothy.

  Eventually she said, ‘Do I ’ave to take my bed?’

  More tittering from the women.

  ‘It’s awright, bab,’ Mrs Gaskin said, her posh accent slipping for a moment. ‘I’ve got a bed for you at home. And you’ll have some pretty clothes for yourself and some toys. We’ll ’ave a lovely time together, won’t we?’ She turned to Miss Rowney and asked with sudden abruptness, ‘Can I take ’er now then?’

  ‘’Er, yes – a few papers to sign of course. Matron, could you make sure Mercy’s things are ready?’

  ‘Oh they are,’ Miss O’Donnell said fervently. ‘Yes, all shipshape.’

  Miss Rowney handed Mrs Gaskin her payment for Mercy’s first week. ‘You’ll be sent the rest regularly. It’s only a supplement, of course,’ she said. ‘But then your husband . . .’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Mrs Gaskin nodded hard. ‘Albert’s earning a good wage. But could you give a week or two’s in advance – for a few extras for ’er like?’ Miss Rowney hesitated, then handed over a ten-shilling note.

  ‘We shall of course be calling on you to see how things are going, Mrs Gaskin,’ she said. ‘And if there are any problems – which I’m sure there won’t be – you can always contact us.’

  ‘Oh I’m sure we’ll get on very well, won’t we, Mercy? Got a coat, has she?’

  Mercy found herself wrapped in an old gaberdine and Mrs Gaskin carried her bag to the door.

  ‘Before you go, Mercy—’ Miss Rowney actually had to lay her hand on Mrs Gaskin’s arm to
stop her rushed progress out of the door. Her tone changed to that of memorized speech. ‘We’d like to present you with a little gift, as we do to all children who go forth from here. We know you’ll take the good name of the Hanley Homes out into the world with you.’

  Mercy found a parcel wrapped in thin brown paper laid in her hands.

  ‘I want Dorothy!’ Tears welled in her eyes. How could she go without saying goodbye to the only adult who had ever shown her any kindness?

  ‘Don’t be silly, dear, Dorothy’s not here.’ Miss Rowney pushed her briskly towards the door. ‘We’ll tell her where you’ve gone, don’t fret.’

  None of the other children were summoned to say goodbye as Miss O’Donnell and Miss Rowney saw Mercy off with no embraces, kisses or demonstrations of any kind.

  ‘Be good now, dear!’ Miss Rowney called as Mrs Gaskin took the girl’s hand and led her down into the road.

  ‘Good luck,’ Miss O’Donnell shouted, hissing to Miss Rowney, ‘and won’t they just darn well need it.’

  Still holding the parcel, Mercy turned and looked back at them as they stood, arms raised benevolently, on the very step where she had arrived as a newborn baby. She was too bewildered even to wave.

  Part Two

  Chapter Four

  ‘Come on, get moving then – we’ve got a ways to go from ’ere.’ Mrs Gaskin said as they set out along the road in the cold, grey afternoon. ‘Blimey—’ She rubbed one hand vigorously round her jaw. ‘Got a proper face ache after all that smiling!’

  Mercy looked around her, full of excitement suddenly, despite all the confusion of it. She was going out somewhere new, to a new home! She imagined homes as warm, comfortable places with soft furniture to sit on, flowers in the gardens and kind, benevolent people.

  ‘Give us yer things,’ Mrs Gaskin snapped, almost snatching Mercy’s woven bag from her which contained her very few possessions. Mercy held on tight to the parcel though. ‘Can’t stand kids dawdlin’ round me. We’re going to ’ave ter get on the tram. Will yer come on – I want to get out of ’ere, smartish.’ Mercy couldn’t help noticing that Mrs Gaskin’s smile had dropped away as quickly as had her posh accent.

  One hand lifting the green skirt up out of the muck in the gutter, the other carrying Mercy’s bag, Mabel Gaskin jerked her head to indicate that they should cross the road, and strode across so fast Mercy had to run to keep up and avoid being hit by a fast trotting horse and carriage.

  In her entire life so far the furthest Mercy had ever been was Minister Vesey’s church on the Witton Road. Everything else had revolved round Kent Street. Now they were going to go right across Birmingham to some green and mysterious place Miss O’Donnell had called Handsworth.

  ‘’S’Handsworth nice?’ she asked, panting a bit.

  ‘Yer what?’ They’d reached a main road and Mabel was looking up and down. ‘Where’s that cowing tram stop?’

  ‘Handsworth,’ Mercy persevered. ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘Ah – there . . .’ Mabel dashed off along the road. ‘Right in front of me bleedin’ nose. And there’s one coming – quick!’

  The tram trundled towards them. ‘Ooh – can we sit on the top?’ Mercy pleaded, bold in her excitement. The open top of the tram was edged by ornate iron railings and she thought it must be heaven to sit up there and see everything.

  ‘With sparks coming down on yer, and in this weather – you off yer ’ead?’

  The tram swayed to a standstill and Mabel didn’t have to prod Mercy to climb up inside. They managed to find two places on the wooden seats downstairs.

  ‘Don’t trust them buses,’ Mabel murmured, straightening her skirt under her. ‘Least with a tram yer know it’s got to stay on the tracks.’

  Mercy watched, thrilled, out of the window as they lumbered along the cobbled streets past shops, churches, small workshops and dwellings. The walls were painted with signs advertising all manner of things: Birds’ Custard, Hudson’s Soap, Fred Smith’s Ales and Stout, and Mercy tried hungrily to read them all. And it was such a big place! They seemed to have been on the tram for ages already. Mercy kept her eyes fixed on the view through the whole journey, except once when they passed a building which to her looked like a palace. The front of it was all coloured tiles with scrolls and flowers, fruit, and two rounded bay windows with bits of brightly-coloured glass making a pattern at the top.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked Mabel urgently. ‘Cor – that’s beautiful, that is!’

  Mabel had taken her hat off and was busy trying to pin it back on top of her twisted skein of black hair. She half looked, seeming agitated. ‘What – where?’

  ‘There!’

  ‘That’s a pub. Ain’t you never seen a pub before?’ She stared at Mercy for a moment. What was it about this girl with her peculiar piercing eyes that got on her nerves so much already?

  ‘Right – off ’ere,’ Mabel ordered a few stops later. Mercy followed her fat behind along the tram and jumped down behind her.

  ‘Is this Handsworth?’

  ‘No – it’s not bloody ’Andsworth!’ Mabel was suddenly enraged. ‘We ain’t going to ’Andsworth so would you shurrup keeping on about it.’

  ‘But I thought . . .’

  ‘Yes, well you know what Thought did . . .’ They were walking very fast, jostling passers-by, turning into a wide street with enormous buildings, their walls blackened and the tops of them only hazily visible up there in a soup of damp, gritty air.

  ‘Where then . . .?’

  ‘You’ll see. Now shut yer trap for a bit, will yer? We gotta get ’ome quick.’ She spoke with such peculiar venom that Mercy decided to do as she was told.

  As they turned left out of that street with its grand shop fronts, Mercy saw a sign high in the wall, CORPORATION STREET, and then they were in another road with more huge windows full of clothes, shoes, china and glassware and cloth, the like or quantity of which she had never seen. The street was bustling with people and she gawped at some of the more smartly-dressed ladies with their beautifully fitted gowns in soft colours, after all the grey and black at the Joseph Hanley Home.

  Even though she was full of the thrill of being out in all these new places, Mercy began to feel despondent. Her throat was raw in the cold air and she longed to sit down somewhere warm. Mrs Gaskin was walking faster and faster, cursing people who got in her way.

  ‘Come on, yer wretched girl,’ she nagged Mercy. ‘We gotta get back!’

  When they reached the Bull Ring, for a time Mercy forgot she had a sore throat. She forgot her tingling nose and her shivers and this horrible, bad-tempered woman she was with. How exciting it was! From where they came into it, walking down the slope of Spiceal Street, Mercy could see a church at the far end with a tall spire and a big clock with gold numbers marking the face. In between snaked the row of market stalls, most protected by sagging tarpaulins, and a sea of hats: bonnets with little ribbons or posies, cloth caps and Homburgs, even the odd boater here and there.

  Everywhere there was movement and a great outcry of sound, with the traders trying to outdo each other shouting out the prices of their fruit and veg.

  There were others selling crocks, trinkets and bags and flowers and Mercy’s feet were dragging as she stopped to gape. The light was beginning to die and some of the traders were lighting flares at the side of their stalls which burned with a bluish-yellow flame, giving the place a cosy air.

  ‘Keep with me,’ Mabel shouted at her over the racket and seized her arm. ‘If I lose yer ’ere I’ll never find yer again.’

  There were so many smells that were new to Mercy: smoke from cigarettes, and a thick mouthful of it made her cough. But then there came the sweet smell of potatoes baking in a big green and gold handcart which made her mouth water, and other smells, discarded cabbage leaves, crushed onions, bruised apples and oranges left to rot in the street. But not for long. Mercy watched as three ragged children, their clothes caked in filth, slunk round the stalls, darting down now and th
en to grab some piece of refuse even though the stallholders tried shooing them away.

  ‘Can’t we just stay a bit longer?’ Mercy begged as Mabel dragged her past a man selling wire toys and a knife-grinder showering sparks.

  ‘No,’ Mabel snapped. A woman approached them and tried to push a posy of lavender through Mabel’s buttonhole.

  ‘Bugger off, will yer!’ She slapped the woman’s hand away. They hurried past a big statue behind some railings, and the church. The clock made it well after five.

  Soon after they were hurrying up a long, very steep road called Bradford Street. It was dark and the buildings felt high and close together. From every side came the most amazing din Mercy had ever heard. Banging and clanking sounds met them not only from the openings of buildings on the street but from under the ground through the gratings. In some places jets of steam unfurled through holes from down there and drifted raggedly into the air. The hammering and rattling, the sudden scream of metal and tearing crashes of noise met them all the way along.

  ‘What’s that?’ Mercy yelled, her throat rasping.

  Mabel gave her a look which implied the question was almost too stupid to answer. ‘Factories. Brass works and that. Don’t you know anything?’

  ‘Is this still Birmingham?

  ‘No, it’s bloody Timbuctoo.’

  Mercy took this to mean yes. Birmingham really was a big place then. They turned off Bradford Street and there were more factories, and then houses too. Now they’d got out of the bustle of the market Mercy’s excitement was beginning to wear off. It was fast getting dark, the air felt damp and harsh and when they crossed the road the cobbles were slippery underfoot. She felt the throb of her chilblains in the pinching boots, her raw throat and empty belly, and her head was starting to hurt. She wondered again when she was going to see Dorothy, now she was in this strange, dark place. Her dream of a green paradise was dissolving fast.

  ‘I don’t like you,’ she said, still clinging to her parcel as the one thing she had left of the home. ‘I want you to take me back to Matron. She said you could.’