CATHERINE COOKSON

Catherine Cookson was born in Tyne Dock, the illegitimate daughter of a poverty-stricken woman, Kate, whom she believed to be her older sister. She began work in service but eventually moved south to Hastings where she met and married a local grammar-school master. At the age of forty she began writing bout the lives of the working-class people with whom she had grown up, using the place of her birth as the background to many of her novels.

Although originally acclaimed as a regional writer - her novel The Round Tower won the Winifred Holtby award for the best regional novel of 1968 - her readership soon began to spread throughout the world. Her novels have been translated into more than a dozen languages and Corgi paperback editions have sold more than 40,000,000 copies. Three of her novels - The Fifteen Streets, The Black Velvet Gown and The Black Candle - have been made into successful television dramas, and more are planned.

Catherine Cookson's many bestselling novels have established her as one of the most popular of contemporary women novelists. She and her husband Tom now live near Newcastle-upon-Tyne. CORGI BOOKS THE RAG NYMPH A CORGI BOOK 552 13683 2

Originally published in Great Britain by Bantam Press, a division of Transworld Publishers Ltd

PRINTING HISTORY Bantam Press edition published 1991 Corgi edition published 1992

Copyright � Catherine Cookson 1991

The right of Catherine Cookson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Conditions of sale 1. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. 2. This book is sold subject to the Standard Conditions of Sale of Net Books and may not be re-sold in the U.K. below the net price fixed by the publishers for the book.

Set in 1 lpt Sabon by Phoenix Typesetting, Burley-in-Wharfedale, West Yorkshire.

Corgi Books are published by Transworld Publishers Ltd., 61-63 Uxbridge Road, Ealing, London W5 5SA, in Australia by Transworld Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd., 15-23 Helles Avenue, Moorebank, NSW 2170, and in New Zealand by Transworld Publishers (N.Z.) Ltd., 3 William Pickering Drive, Albany, Auckland.

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox Wyman Ltd., Reading, Berks. PART ONE The Child

One

The road was narrow. It could be measured by the width of a coach with a man walking at each side, but even so it was wider than the streets and alleys leading off from both sides of it. It was the last Wednesday in June, 854. The day had been hot; in fact, the previous week had been very hot and so the roads and streets were paved with ridged flags of mud, hardbaked, but not so hard as to prevent their surfaces being skimmed off into dust which, in some streets of the town, seemed to be floating waist high like a mist rising from water. But Felix Road wasn't in the main town, nor yet on the outskirts; it was situated to the north of the city and gave its name to the acres of housing that was home to the poor, the destitute, and the dregs of humanity. It also housed countless bars and gin shops, as well as a number of churches, chapels, and temperance halls, the latter set up, as it were, in opposition to as many brothels. The members of the various denominations fought hard against the evils and wickedness of drink and immorality, and in this they were aided by the Constabulary. However, the law, it would seem, was not so much concerned with those who drank as with those who sold their bodies for gain. It was five-thirty in the evening, and there were still very few people to be seen on Felix Road. It would be different at six o'clock when the surrounding mills spewed out their weary and gin-thirsty humanity. But now, along the middle of it came an old woman pushing a hand-cart on which was a pile of rags. She and the cart were half-covered by the shadow of the buildings on her left; but further back up the road, walking deep in the shadow, was a young woman holding a child by the hand. Yet so striking was the colour of the child's hair and of that which showed beneath the flat straw hat of the woman as to appear like distorted jogging lights in the dimness. Then an odd thing happened. At the sight of a man approaching from a distance the woman seemed about to thrust the child against the wall but, changing her mind, she walked forward again, and she spoke to the man. From the way he gesticulated the man was apparently upbraiding her, and when he lifted his arm and signalled to someone behind her she gripped the child by the hand and ran. The rag woman was turning her hand-cart into a narrow alley when the child was almost flung against it, the young woman crying, 'Go home! Go home!' even as she continued to run. Agnes Winkowski turned from the frightened child clinging on to the side of her hand-cart and looked back to watch two men of the law speeding after the woman. The sight was not an unusual one. Hardly a day went by but she saw some lass or other picked up by them snots. However, what she couldn't understand was why any lass on the make would be lugging a child around with her. She now looked at the child, saying, 'Was that your ma?' The little girl made a movement with her head but did not speak. 'D'you know your way home?' Again the same movement, but now the voice came out in squeaks, saying, 'But Mama has the key.' Mama, she called her mother. Not Ma, but Mama ... 'Where d'you live?' 'Nelson Close ... the bottom.' Nelson Close? Well, there were worse places than Nelson Close. But still, it was on the fringe of The Courts, with only the railway line separating it from Salford. She took up the handles of the hand-cart and began to push it, and now there was room only for the child to walk by the side of it. And this she did, holding on for support to the iron rail that rimmed the wooden edge of the cart and which helped to keep the rags in place. The alley opened out into a large square courtyard from which, on all sides, reared five-storey buildings, all in a state of dilapidation, and outside of each was a mound of filth and rubbish, some giving off a stench which left nothing to the imagination as from what it was derived. As the old woman pushed the hand-cart across the yard a number of children scampered from various heaps to gather around her, gabbling. But the gabble was such that the child couldn't distinguish what it was they wanted, until the old woman cried, 'No candy rock today! 'Tis all gone, all gone,' at which, one after the other, the children, as if at a signal, stopped gabbling and took up the chant: 'Raggie Aggie! Raggie Aggie! Baggie Aggie! Baggie Aggie! Lousy Loppy Aggie! Narrow old bugger Aggie!' The old woman seemed not to hear the children, yet on leaving The Courts to pass through another narrow alleyway, she bitterly emitted one word: 'Scum!' Then as they emerged into a street she looked down at the child, and nodding backwards, she said, 'It saves ten minutes of pushing that way.' She now pulled the hand-cart to a halt and, looking at the child, said, 'Well, what you gonna do, love?' 'I don't know.' The child's voice had a tremor in it. 'Got any neighbours ... I mean, that you could go to?' 'No. Mama doesn't have neighbours, not there. It ... it was in the cellar.' 'What was in the cellar?' 'Where... where we lived. It's... it's down the steps.' Aggie looked closely at the child. Her hair was hanging almost to her small waist and it was of a colour she had never seen before, not around these quarters anyway. Fair-headed little 'uns, but none like this one. Then there were the child's eyes, grey, clear, large and at this moment expressing fear, if she had ever seen it. The rest of the face matched the eyes and the cream blush-tinted skin. She was a bonny young 'un, right enough, and from a bonny mother, from what she had glimpsed of that lass as she skidded down the road with the polis after her. She must be on the game, all right. But why take the child with her? That would put any bloke off, surely. Or did she use her an' all? Oh, no, no; she wouldn't want to think that. And yet, look at all the old buggers that would sell their souls for a little bit of humanity like this one. Kit's brothel down there was noted for it; and the dirty old customers, and not so old, some of them, came in their carriages, but after dark, of course. Why didn't the bloody polis get on to him and clear his place out? They had cleared Paper Meg's out last week. But then, that was nothing; they all knew she would start up some place else. But the churchmen had to be satisfied; hoodwinked would be a better word... 'Please... ' 'Yes, love?' 'Can I come with you?' 'Come with me?' Aggie looked from the child to the heap of rags, then down at the mountain of clothes covering her own body. She smelt; the contents of the cart smelt; the cart itself was impregnated with stench; and here was this gleaming child, yes, aye, that was a word to describe her, she gleamed, and she was asking to come along with her. Well, if she said no, what would happen to her? Oh, she had a pretty good idea: she only needed to go back to Felix Road or even Nelson Close, where she said she lived, to find out. Poor little bugger. 'Don't you know anybody else you can go to? Haven't you any relations?' 'No.' The head was shaking again. 'Nobody?' Aggie watched the child thinking, and then she said, 'Well, there are the uncles.' 'Uncles? You've got uncles?' 'I called them uncle. They came to the house two or three times, but.., but that was last week. I don't know where they live.' 'Jesus in heaven!' Abruptly Aggie picked up the handles of the flat-cart, then almost growling 'Come on!' she pushed it along the road, the child trotting beside her now. It was a good ten minutes later when they seemed to come to the last of The Courts, for the houses dropped down to two-storey, then one-storey; and then they were confronted by an iron open-work gate set in a brick wall all of seven feet high. Aggie did not rest the hand-cart and open the gate but, giving it a hard thrust, she pushed it against the iron work and the gate swung open and into a large yard all of forty feet square, the further half of which was surprisingly paved with flags. And where the flags ended there rose three large stone arches, forming a sort of veranda to the front of a house, a real house with six windows visible, three above the flat roof of the stone veranda and three above that again. As they entered the yard a figure rose from the side of a pile of tins lying on the unpaved part of the ground, in his hand what looked like a piece of iron guttering. This he threw with a flicking movement on to a pile of scrap iron before making his way towards them, kicking out of his path and on to yet another pile the remnants of what had been a pair of trousers. His eyes were fast on the child and hers wide on him and his odd shape as he said, 'What's this then? What's this?' 'Wait and you'll find out.' Aggie answered sharply. 'Get this lot sorted.' She thumbed towards the rags on the cart. 'Aye, I will. Will I sort her out an' all?' 'There'll be somebody else sorted out if you're not careful... Sold anything?' 'Aye, three bob's-worth out of the basket. And Arthur Keeley popped in. He'll take the scrap tomorrow, but I think he wanted to have a word with you. His wife's scarpered. D'you know where she is?' 'No. D'you?' She had turned and was holding her hand out towards the child. 'The kettle's boilin'.' 'I'd have somethin' to say if it wasn't.' The child followed Aggie through the middle arch and towards a heavy, paintless oak door, then into a room dimly lit by a window that looked on to the covered way. The room was filled with an assortment of clothes, some in wash-baskets, some hanging over clothes-lines, others attached to nails driven into a wooden frame fixed to the walls like a chairback panel. The smell wasn't as strong as that which permeated the yard, but nevertheless it was heavy with the odour of ageless sweat. Now they were going through another door and into a different kind of room, and this room caused the child to stop and slowly look about her. A fire was burning in a black grate which had an oven to the side of it; a large black kettle was sizzling on the hob. And at the foot of the iron structure was a high steel fender, suggesting from its dull surface that it had never seen emery paper since the day it left the foundry. Set at right angles to one side of the fireplace was a two-seat wooden settle, and at the other side a much larger leather couch. In the middle of the room was a round table covered with oilcloth, and four high-backed carved chairs set around it. Along one wall stood a plain sideboard. It was black, as if once it had been varnished; and this gave it a sheen of its own. The room was evidently a kitchen, but holding dining- and sitting-room furniture. Along each side of the long window hung a heavy brocade curtain, the colour having long since disappeared, but which still retained an air of quality. The curtains were not drawn half across the window and so closing out the light as most curtains were wont to do, but were wide apart showing, of all things, a piece of grassland parched by the sun but, nevertheless, still giving evidence that it was grass by the strip in the shadow of the house. The child stared towards it as if in recognition of something held in memory; then she turned and looked at the old woman, who was sitting on the couch unlacing her boots, and she said, 'You have a garden.' 'Huh!' Aggie turned and looked towards the window and she repeated, 'Garden? A piece of grass. But I've seen the time it was. Oh aye, I've seen the time it was. Take your hat and coat off. Are you hungry?' The child considered for a moment, then said, 'No. No, thank you. But... but I'd like a drink, please.' 'Well, you'll have that in a minute once I've eased me feet an' got some of these togs off.' The child watched her now stand up in her stockinged feet on what had once been a fine Persian rug but was now worn in parts to its back, and unpin her hat. After her coat was thrown down on to the couch, to be followed by the long mud-fringed skirt and tattered voluminous blouse, there appeared before the child a fat woman, a very fat woman, in what seemed to be a clean blue-striped blouse and a long grey skirt with a fringe. 'Ah! that's better. One of these days I'll go out like this and scare the whole population, 'cos they'll think I'm in me bare pelt.' She now turned and, gathering up the coat, the blouse and the skirt, and the black hat, she threw them behind the couch, saying, 'See you tomorrow, my dears;' then looking at the child, she said, 'Well now, you're dry, you said,' and, taking her hand, led her across the room and into the original large, stone-floored kitchen, and from there into an equally large pantry. Here, taking a milk measure from a marble slab, she bent over a big brown earthenware jar, took off the wooden lid, dipped in the measure and scooped up some clean water, which she handed to the child, saying, 'Drink that.' The handle of the can pushed up by her right ear, the child drank, and then, her mouth dripping, she smiled at Aggie, saying, 'It's lovely, cold.' 'Aye, and it's clean. You can bet on that, it's clean; the well sees to that.' After taking the measure from the child, Aggie refilled it and then she herself drained it, after which she put the lid on the brown jar and hung the can on a nail. Then, from a shelf in the pantry, she took down a large covered dish, sniffed at the contents, and, smiling now on the child, said, 'Nothing much goes rotten in here. Good as an ice box, this.' Then taking a smaller dish from the shelf she turned to the child, saying, 'You carry that in; 'tis butter. Now all we want is some bread and some onions an' we're set. Go on,' saying which, she lifted her knee and pressed the child gently forward. And so they returned to the kitchen again; and after the meal was put on the table Aggie went through the other room and from the door yelled, 'Ben!' just the once before returning to the kitchen. As she sat down at the table she said to the child, 'Sit up now.' When the boy, as she had thought of the youth but who was actually seventeen, came into the room he needed no urging to sit at the table; then grinning at the child, he said, 'What's your name?' 'Millie. What's yours?' The question was innocent but it brought a great guffaw from the youth and he answered, 'Ben Smith, Jones, or Robinson.' Then turning quickly to Aggie, he added, 'Long time since I said that, isn't it?' 'You should know.' 'And you an' all.' He nodded at her. 'It was to your dad in the yard out there.' He thumbed behind his shoulder. 'Seven, comin' eight I was; just like yesterday. I'd heard that Billy Steele had died that mornin' from the fever and there I was after his job. "What's your name?" your da said. "Ben," I said. "Ben what?" he said. "Well, take your choice," I said: "Smith, Jones, or Robinson." And he cuffed me ear, an' not gently at that. But he took me on. Aye.' He looked down now on to the plate on which lay a pig's foot and two pieces of streaky pork; and picking up the pig's foot in his two hands, he gnawed at it for a moment before looking at the child again and asking her, 'Well, what's your other name?' 'Your hands are very dirty.' There was the sound of a smothered chuckle from Aggie. And now the child watched Ben slowly lay down the half-eaten trotter and hold up both hands before his large face. Looking first at one, then at the other, he said, 'Aye, you're right, they are dirty. But a speck of dirt never hurt anybody, as far as I've learnt. And if you're goin' to stay here you'll get your hands dirty an' all before long.' There was a slight clatter as Aggie dropped her trotter on to the plate, demanding, 'Who says she's goin' to stay here? She'll be home tomorrow; her mother'll be out.' 'Out of where?' Aggie drew in a long breath and glanced at the child before answering Ben. 'Out of where she'll be spendin' the night,' she said. 'Now, no more questions. And your hands are dirty, mucky's the word I'd say.' 'What about your own?' 'I can have dirty hands if I like. You're here to take orders, an' don't forget it. You're gettin' too big for your boots.' 'No! Am I? Well, that's good to hear after ten years, Aggie. Well, now that I'm too big for me boots, d'you think me legs'll sprout?' Aggie turned her head slightly away, took up the knife that was lying to the side of her plate, cut a piece of meat in two, then picked it up with her fingers and ate it; then she turned to the child and said, 'What's your second name?' 'Forester. It's spelt, F-o-r-e-ster.' 'My! my! we've got a learned one here.' Ben was nodding his head towards Aggie now. 'And by the look of her she hasn't seen six yet.' 'I'm seven.' They both stared at the child. 'Seven, are you, me love? Well, as he says, you don't look it.' 'Can I have a fork, please?' Aggie again looked to the side as if to help check the escape of some quick retort from her lips. Then, without looking at Ben, she said, 'Get her a fork out of the top drawer.' When Ben came back to the table he placed the fork with great ceremony to the side of Millie's plate, saying, 'There you are, madam. Is there hanything belse you would desire?' He was bowing over her, and he was nonplussed when, smiling up into his face, she said, 'You are teasing me now, aren't you? But I always have a fork, a knife and fork; it's.., it's bad manners to eat with your fingers.' Then looking quickly from one to the other, she added, 'At least for.., for children.' Ben now straightened his back and returned to his seat and, looking at Aggie, said, 'Besides which, there is what is called a diplomat in our midst, Mrs Winkowski.' When Aggie sat back in her chair and her great fat body began to wobble, slowly from her open mouth there issued deep bellows of laughter. Ben, too, joined in, and Millie, looking from one to the other, smiled widely at them. Of a sudden Aggie rose from the table and left the room, and the smile slid slowly from Millie's face and she looked at the funny young man, as she thought of him, and said, 'Is she vexed?' 'No. No, she's not vexed. But you've done something tonight, you know. It's the first time I've heard her laugh in years.., years and years. Chuckle, aye, smile now'n again, but never laugh like that... Have you got a dad?' She shook her head. 'No, not now. I had.' 'Is he' - he paused - 'is he dead, then?' 'I... I think so. Mama said he was dead.' 'You don't seem sure. Is he dead or is he not?' 'He... he went away.' 'Just recently.., like?' She paused before answering him, her eyes blinking as if she were thinking; and then she said, 'It was last year.., or sometime longer, when.., when we lived in Durham.' 'Oh! You lived in Durham, did you? All the way up there? Durham's near Scotland, isn't it?' She thought for a moment, then said, 'Not really. It's... it's near Newcastle. That's the city.' 'Oh aye, Newcastle. And your dad.., did he work in Durham?' 'Yes; sometimes I think, and Newcastle.' 'What was he?' 'Oh, he was a tall man.' Then she shook her head and laughed. 'I thought you meant, what was Dada like. I ... I don't rightly know but only that he worked in a shop, a big shop, and he always wore a nice suit. It was black and he had a big shiny hat. And sometimes--' She looked away from Ben towards the corner of the room where a picture was hanging at a slight angle, and her head moved to one side as if to see it better. Then looking at him again she said, 'He sometimes had a walking stick, and.., and on that day he bought me a parasol.' Again her eyes were blinking as if her memory were groping to recall the special occasion when her father had a walking stick and she had a parasol. 'How long have you been down here in Manchester?' Neither of them now took notice of Aggie's returning to the room and seating herself down on the leather couch. And when Millie answered him, 'It . .. it was before Easter, in March. Yes, in March,' she was nodding her head. Ben now sat back in his chair, then glanced towards Aggie. Following this, he took the last piece of pork from his plate, chewed on it, then swallowed it before asking the next question. 'Does your mother go to work?' he said. 'Well, she went to the factory to make buttons, but they didn't give her enough money. Then she hired a machine to do shirts, but they wanted too many shirts done. I liked the hat room.' She looked from one to the other. 'It was right upstairs above the shop and all the women were nice. And there were lots of pretty colours, but--' She now looked down towards her hands, her fingers flicking against each other, and after a moment she said, 'I fidgeted. It was a long time to stay quiet all day until eight o'clock at night. And one day at dinner time I tripped and spilt a can on the table. It... it was full of beer and it flowed over the ribbons and spoilt a hat and the mistress of the room was very angry and told Mama I hadn't to be brought back again, so Mama left.' Aggie, sitting looking into the fire, nodded as she thought: And aye, Mama took the only step left to her, and look where it's got her. She now turned towards the table when Ben said, 'You finished?' and the child replied, 'Yes, thank you. Can I help to wash up?' 'Who said I was goin' to wash up? We just blow on the plates here.' Millie smiled widely at him now, and once again she said, 'You are teasing me.' 'You seem to know a lot about teasing, young lady. Well, take your plate into the kitchen and put it into the sink. And oh, don't forget.., your fork, and your knife an' all.' As she went out of the room carrying her plate and the cutlery, he stepped towards Aggie, saying softly, 'What d'you make of her? She's canny, isn't she? And did you ever see such a bonny piece? She must have been decently brought up.' 'Aye, maybe. But I can't see her with a very decent future with the mother she's got.' 'Bad type, was she?' 'No; no, a young lass really, very like her.' She nodded towards the far door. 'But by the sound of what she has just said her mother wasn't cut out for work, not the kind you'll find in this quarter, except her last job. And then she's made a hash of that an' all. They must have been on to her or somebody's given her away, one or t'other, 'cos it must have been a set-up cop. I'd passed that fella on the road an' when I looked back she was talking to him; then when I turned the cart into the alley the next minute, she was flying past, almost throwing the child at me. Well, not at me, she yelled at her to go home. But as the bairn said, she hadn't a key, it was on her mother. So there you have it, that's how it happened. And from what she's been prattling on about she's had a number of uncles.' 'It sounds as if the old man scarpered. She doesn't seem to know if he is dead or not. She said he wore a black suit and worked in a shop.' 'Oh aye. Sounds like a shop-walker.' 'Could be. Shush! Here she is.' 'I couldn't find any water but I've rubbed my plate with a cloth, and my knife and fork.' 'Well, that's a clever lass for you.' Ben was laughing down at her again. 'D'you want the job as in-between maid, one pound, one 'an wompence a week?' 'That's what my mama was; she was a maid to a lady.' She now turned quickly towards Aggie, adding, 'She will come for me in the morning, won't she? She ... won't go away, will she? I mean ... not like' - she now lowered her head - 'I want her. I want my mama. She always put me to bed.., and read me a story.' They both remained silent, looking at her; then Aggie said, 'She'll come for you in the mornin'. Would you like to go to bed now? There's ... there's a nice bed upstairs. Well, it's a big one with a feather tick. It's a snuggler.' She smiled. 'I'm... I'm afraid to be in the dark.' 'Well, it won't be dark for a long time yet. By that time I'll be upstairs.' 'Will... will you be sleeping with me?' 'Well!' Aggie glanced at Ben; then her head drooped and wobbled from one side to the other before she said, 'Well, if you don't mind, miss.' 'Oh no. I... I think I would like you to.' 'That's very kind of you.' They now looked towards the door through which the young fellow was making a hurried exit, and, somewhat impatiently, Aggie said, 'Come along with you, come along,' and led the way through yet another door and into a passageway, and so into a square hall from which a stairway rose. The stairs were bare, and before mounting them Millie looked down at Aggie's stockinged feet and said, 'Aren't you afraid of getting splinters?' It was on a sigh that Aggie replied, 'No, love, I'm not afraid of getting splinters. I crawled down these stairs forty-eight years ago and I've walked up and down them ever since, mostly in me bare feet, and I've never got splinters.' On the landing Millie stopped and, looking about her, she said, 'This is a big house.' 'Aye; I suppose it is.' 'There are lots of doors.' 'Aye, there are lots of doors, and through this one' - Aggie pushed a door wide - 'is me bedroom. Now come on and no more lip, an' get your clothes off and into that bed, 'cos there's things I've got to do before I sleep tonight.' 'Are you vexed with me?' Again Aggie sighed and she half closed her eyes before answering, 'No, child, I'm not vexed with you, but, as I said, I've got things to see to. Now, off with your clothes and no more chatter. D'you hear me?' Her voice had risen and the child now sat down on a low chair and quickly took off her shoes, then pulled her grey stockings down over her knees before, standing up, she asked, 'Will you unhook me, please?' And Aggie, bending down, undid four buttons on the back of her dress. After the dress, the child took off two white petticoats, and Aggie noticed that the material was quite good; and when it seemed that the shift was about to be taken off too, she said, 'I would keep that on, if I were you; you haven't got a nightgown.' 'Oh yes. Yes, I forgot. I haven't got a nightgown.' 'Well, up you get!' 'I must say my prayers.' 'Oh. Oh aye. Well, get on with it.' When Millie knelt by the bed and the mattress seemed out of reach, she had to raise her clasped hands head high to rest them against it. Then she began: 'God bless Mama and Dada, and please take care of them. And thank you for this day and make me grateful for what I've got. And God bless Mrs Melburn and this big woman.., lady who has been kind to me today. And please bring my mama back early in the morning. Amen.' As she rose from her knees Aggie said, 'Who's Mrs Melburn?' 'She was a lady in Durham who was kind to us, the parson's wife. She let us stay with her for a week after Dada..' She paused, and again her hesitation appeared as if her mind were groping for an answer or a revelation to something she couldn't understand; then she said, 'After Dada... died. And ... and she set us to the station, and.., and Mama promised to write.' 'Did she? I mean, did your mother write?' 'Yes, and so did Mrs Melburn.' 'Well, get up into bed.' 'Do you have bed bugs?' 'No! I do not have bed bugs. A flea now, here and there, but no bed bugs. Get in!" When the child shrank back against the edge of the bed and made no attempt to climb up on to the mattress, Aggie put a hand to her head before muttering, 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Don't look so scared. But I'm particular about me bed. All right, you might find everything that crawls in the yard an' they might get as far as downstairs here and there, but not up here. And not on me clothes either, not if I know anything about it. If I do find them, they get short shrift. So come on, love.' And she leaned down towards the child, her thick arms going out and around her, and she lifted her into the bed, saying softly, 'There now. Isn't that nice and comfy?' Still shaking somewhat with fright, Millie swallowed twice before she brought out in a small voice, 'It's very nice, thank you.' 'Well then, go to sleep now. But I'll leave the door open, and it won't be dark for a long time. I'll be popping up and down to see how you are, an' when it gets dark I'll light the lamp. But I'll be up long before that. Now the pot's under the bed if you want to do a number one. You'll be able to get out on your own, won't you?' 'Oh, yes, yes, thank you.' 'Well then, snuggle down.' Aggie took two or three steps backwards, smiled, and turned and went out of the room, leaving the door wide open. At the head of the stairs she paused and gripped the broad banister; then slowly descending the stairs, she muttered to herself, 'A little of that one will go a long way.' Back in the sitting-room she found Ben packing the fire with tins filled with coal dust mixed with dried mud, and he turned to her, saying, 'One of these days you'll go daft and buy some real coal.' 'Why should I? What'll we do with all the tins?' 'You could always get a few coppers for them.' 'Coppers, aye, but it takes more than coppers to cart them there; they won't come and pick 'em up.' He straightened his back and while dusting his hands he said, 'You got her off, then?' 'Aye, I got her off, and thankfully. By! she's got a tongue.' As she sat down on the couch, Ben sat opposite her on the settle, his big body and large head topping the back of it while his short legs hardly touched the floor. 'She's been well brought up,' he said. 'Aye, she has, finicky, I would say. And you can imagine it, if her mother has been a lady's maid or some such. I wonder what happened to the father? I bet you a shillin' he's not dead. Done off, more like it. By what I can gather they must have lived in Durham for a time, 'cos when she was saying her prayers she brought in a Mrs Melburn, a parson's wife, who was kind to them after the father died or whatever, an' from what I made out of her jabbering the woman and the mother have written to each other. Now' - she leant towards him, her finger wagging - 'first thing in the mornin' you get down to the station and have a word with Constable Fenwick; he'll know what's goin' to happen to that lass. Don't say anything about the bairn being here. Just make out you're interested in her the woman called Forester.' 'Oh, Aggie, that's a laugh for the wrong side of me face. Now, I ask you, me being' interested in somebody, a woman who looks like that bairn upstairs... Have a heart.' 'Well, all right. If your feelings are so tender about your damned legs, tell him that Aggie was enquirin' about her. Make up some tale that I've spoken to her on me rounds. D'you hear what I'm sayin' to you?' Ben's voice was solemn as he said, 'Aye, I hear you, Aggie. Sometimes I wish I didn't; you don't half rub it in.' 'I don't rub it into you more than you rub it into yourself. You're not above mentioning your height, even bragging about it at times, saying you're as good as any two men twice your size. Aye well, you might be, the upper half of you, but you've got to reach them and you do it with your tongue. So I'm not speakin' about any part of you you don't bring to the fore yourself.' A silence fell on the room, and its increasing heaviness made her heave herself up from the couch and take the three steps to throw herself on to the seat beside him; and to put an arm around his shoulder and say, 'Come on, lad, come on. You know me. There's nobody in this world more sorry for you at times than I am, for you could have been a real good-lookin', strappin' fella. You're still good-lookin'; and after all, you've got Annie.' 'Aye, I've got Annie.' He turned towards her now, adding, 'And you don't think much of Annie, do you? And you've made that plain enough.' 'Well, lad, it's only because I think you're worth somebody better than her. And it isn't the first time I've said that, is it? You undervalue yourself. There's plenty of men that haven't half your appearance and are five feet or so who have married decent lasses and brought up a family.' 'Aye, well, Aggie, there's a lot in the "or so" bit. "Or so" could be two, four, or six inches. But I'm five feet dead and it wouldn't look so bad if I was narrow from the legs up. But to have an upper bulk like mine and a head like a bull, well, I can't see all the good, kind lasses falling over themselves and saying, "Aw, Ben come on to bed with me." ' His voice had changed during the last few words and she pushed him hard against the end of the settle as she said, 'No, they won't come running, but have you ever thought of you doin' the askin'? Anyway, what I'm askin' you to do now is to get on your feet and go and get me a drop of gin and a couple of pints of beer.' 'Is it a party?' 'Well, it could be; but then, you might want to get away.' 'No, I don't want to get away. They can all wait, all those stupid bitches beggin' me to strip 'em. You get tired of doin' it.' Aggie pushed him and he got to his feet, saying, 'Will I take the money from the box?' 'Aye, where else?' she said as she, too, rose from the settle and returned to the couch, from where she watched him go to the box that was standing on the end of the sideboard, and from it take a piece of silver, then button his coat across his broad chest, take his cap from his pocket and, having put it on at an angle, salute her, saying, 'Your servant, madam.' Then, clicking his heels together, he turned on his short legs and marched from the room. After the door shut behind him, she sat looking at it, wondering what she would have done over the years without him. She, too, remembered the day he had come into the yard and cheeked her father, telling him he could choose his name from Smith, Jones, or Robinson. He had said he thought he must have been eight but that he didn't really know. At that time he would have been like many thousand of other youngsters, the sweepings of the hungry 'forties. He must have been born in the middle 'thirties, when hunger was already rampant. The corn laws had seen to that. He had been with them for some time; two or three years before, he had told her that he didn't know where he had been born, or who his parents were. He only knew of the life he had led in the baby-farming house, one of seventeen young children. He had made his escape on the day he later confronted her father in the yard. She had taken to him from the first, and he to her, perhaps, on his part, because she had given him some hot mutton broth and let him eat as much bread as he could manage, which had been half a loaf; and then she had rigged him out in odd things. Her father would joke about him to her when he'd had a drink over much: 'Ready-made son you've got now then, daughter, is it?' he'd say. 'Why didn't you have a shot when the goin' was good? It's too late now.' And many were the times when she had wanted to bawl at him, 'And who was to blame for that? You were, and me mam.' Lazy bitch, she was: lying on this couch day after day feeling too bad to move; but she could go upstairs and carry out the duties of a wife whenever the fancy took her. More likely in case he should go along the road to ease himself on Alice Mulcahy. Yet he was the kindest man you would wish to meet when the drink wasn't on him. It was she who had cared for him, and looked after him, too, until he died, and in the bed upstairs in which he had been born, and his father before him, in the days when this house had really been a farmhouse and the land about had been glowing with crops in their rotation. There had been cows in that yard outside and horses stabled around. Her great-grandparents had lived in this house; it was her great-grandfather who had bought the farm; but from where had come the money for a Polish immigrant to buy a farm in those far-off days remained a mystery to both her grandfather and, of course, her father. All her father remembered about his grandfather was that he was a dour man and that the only relaxation he ever gave himself was at the races. Therein, she thought, lay the source of the money as well as its eventual loss, because, when her grandfather inherited the place, the farm was already in debt. By the time he died there were no animals left in the yard, nor land to call his own, for it had been sold to the building men, who were throwing up The Courts in order to house the rabble from starving Ireland and those flooding in from all the villages from miles around, all in the hope of being set on in the great new factories that made linen and lawn and blankets and shawls, everything that would go to cover a human being. It had been from this influx that the rag business had started. Before that they had sold coal from the yard. She remembered when the coal had finished. It was the time when her mother took to the couch because she couldn't stand the sight and sound of the hordes of women and children with their buckets, and the arranged fights among the urchins so that one or two of their gang could get away with some lumps of coal, which would make all the difference between having a fried meal or freezing both inside and out. She could never remember just how the rag business started, but she recollected that she no longer went three times a week to the paid school. Her education from then on was the Sunday afternoon spent in the basement underneath the church in Halton Street, chanting the catechism. It was scrap iron that came into the yard first, and bits and pieces of lead. What prompted her father to go out with the hand-cart she didn't know, because underneath it all he was a proud man. She only remembered that right from the beginning he took her with him, and it was she who was sent to the doors to ask politely if they had anything to sell. At first they never went round The Courts; the route was always to the outskirts and to where houses had gardens, small or large. But there again, he never sent her to the really big houses because, as he said, if there was anything going, the servants would have had the first pick. Later, he was to learn that the terraces were really the best area, for here a woman would take pride in being seen to hand over some cast-offs, because, in a way, this indicated that she was well able to replace them. The Saturday morning market in the yard was taken from the pattern of the street market, where the clothes were laid out in heaps on the ground with a decent garment on the top of each pile to tempt the passer-by to look further. So, what they had managed to gather during the week, her father would arrange on makeshift trestles in the yard. Should it rain, he would bring the stuff under the arches. But if a woman should ask for a particular garment, he would take her into what had been the front room of the house and there, in comparative privacy, she could make her choice and try on the clothes. Yet with all his hard work and, definitely, hers, too, he seemed hardly to make a living. It wasn't until almost his last breath that he told her of the board beneath his bed and what was under it, assuring her he had saved it for her. And after raising the board and finding six wash leather bags of sovereigns she had really believed him, and for only the second time she could remember in her life, she had cried. That was until the day of his funeral, when his fancy woman, Alice Mulcahy, through gin-inspired sorrow, told her that they had been making plans to go to America. She had known her father to be a kindly man." he would do anything to keep the peace and keep people happy. But then, a week later, she had a visit from a strange man enquiring for her father, and who, after being told of his demise, informed her he had been asked to sell the property for which he had felt able to assure her father he would get a good price, seeing that land around was scarce. And he had ended by saying, 'He'll never get to America now.' She remembered, following the man's visit, that she had sat dumb with rage, and had then rushed upstairs to his room, and every article belonging to him, even to his razor strop, she had brought down and thrown into the yard for the Saturday morning onslaught. And that morning's takings had trebled and brought her new custom, for he had always seen to it that he was shod well and had good small clothes and shirts. It was now ten years since he had died, and during the first year she had herself pushed the handcart out almost every day for, except for young Ben, she was on her own. With the years, it had seemed to get heavier, so that now she made only two excursions a week, mostly to the outskirts, making a point never to visit the same house more than twice a year. And there was also another point she made: she would discard her black coat, black skirt, and black hat once she left the environs of The Courts. Early on, she had learned one thing: if the poor saw you prospering they didn't deal with you if they could help it, their idea being they weren't going to give you a hand. So, for The Courts she would wear the old black coat with the large pockets at the side holding the narrow strips of candy rock in one and the coppers in the other. However, it wasn't often she had to fork out the coppers when pushing the handcart through The Courts. A caring parent would pay a penny or tuppence for some old coat or skirt that could be cut up to meet the needs of some child. She had discovered, too, one good source of decent clothing: periodically, churches and chapels would hold a sale of garments given them by their better-off parishioners. To those ladies who were responsible for dealing with this charitable effort, she would offer as much as five shillings for a bundle of what appeared to them as less attractive articles, especially if they were food-stained, as some old gentlemen's coats often were. But she knew that Chinese Charlie would clean and press a garment to make it look almost new and she could get as much as two shillings for a good overcoat or a suit. So, over the years there had been a number of leather bags added to those under the loose floorboards beneath the bed in which she now spent her nights and, in her time, expected to die... Ben came in, saying, 'Billy the welder is roaring in The Crown. That'll mean he'll flail the lot of them tonight, an' there won't be a penny of his pay left for her. He was screaming his head off about the war and the Russians. He was all for sending Gladstone over to the "bloody" Russians.' He grinned now. 'It was really funny to listen to him. They just stopped him from choking the life out of Bobby Carter because he had said everybody was for the war: if we didn't show them Russians what was what, who would? By! I thought Bobby Carter was a brave man to stand up to Billy, and him twice his size.' As he put the bottle and the can on the table, he said, 'Have a drop of gin first, eh?' 'Aye,' she said. 'An' don't leave the glass dry. But about Billy Middleton. Something should be done in that quarter. He's practically crippled that oldest lad of his, and him not ten yet, and she won't have a word said against him. Stupid bitch! The next thing'll be, he'll do for one of them, then she'll find out where she stands.' 'Odd, when you come to think of it' - he handed her a full wine glass of gin - 'but they say he's like he is because his father and mother were religious. When he was a lad they used to tie him up in the cellar, starve him for days and read the Bible to him as food for his soul. So since his old fella died and he couldn't take it out on him, he's taken it out on his young missis and the young 'uns.' He again sat down on the settle opposite her, and sipped a glass of beer before saying thoughtfully, 'Funny, when you come to think about it, but it's what happens when you're a bairn that sets the pattern for a man or woman, in most cases anyway.' Then looking up towards the ceiling, he added, 'I wonder what she'll turn out to be like, that young 'un?' 'Well, there's one thing that seems sure to me: she's not goin' to have it as easy as she's had it up till now, by the sound of her.' 'What d'you think'll happen to her if her mother goes along the line?' 'It'll be the workhouse, where else? But then, from what I hear, that's overrun with bairns; they've stopped gathering them in from the streets. So, likely, they'll farm her out to somebody and she'll be put to work, probably as a runner in one of the mills.' 'That'll be a pity. I wouldn't like to see that happen to her.' He looked down into his glass and in a much lower voice now he said, 'Annie was put into the mill when she was seven, the same age as that young 'un.' Again his head jerked towards the ceiling. 'She did a twelve-hour day, sometimes fourteen. They say things are better for the bairns now since they brought the hours down to ten, but some of the pigs get over that. Before, they used to count their breaks in the twelve hours, now their breaks are in their own time. It's against the law, but they get off with it. Annie never knew what it was to have a pair of boots on her feet until she was ten.' 'Oh, my God! D'you want me to cry over her? Anyway, she's had almost twenty years since that to get her feet warm.' 'There's two sides to you, you know, Aggie, and one's unfair and as bitter as gall.' As he rose from the settle and put his glass down none too gently on the table, she said, 'Aye. Well, now go on and tell me me good side.' 'I doubt if you've got one.' For a moment, she said nothing, but sat watching him pour out a mug of beer; then she said bitterly, 'You're an ungrateful devil. You know that?' He put the can back on the table, placing his free hand across the top of it for a moment; then he took the mug over to the couch and, handing it to her, said, 'You know that isn't true. The fact that I'm here at this minute proves it.' She sipped at the froth, then sat looking towards the fire. But when he went to take his seat again on the settle, she said, 'There's no need for you to hang about; get yourself away. But lock the gate and take the key with you, and don't make a rattle when you come back. And tomorrow, you could put a drop of oil on that loft door, and the stable one an' all; they screech like barn owls.' He grinned at her. 'Barn owls?' he said; 'well, they might be an' all as we only close them at night. Barn owls ... You'll be all right?' 'Have you ever known me to be anything else?' 'Aw!' He shook his head with impatience. 'Nobody can be kind to you, can they, Aggie? You won't take kindness, will you? You get worse, you know that? more sour.' He turned now and went hastily from the room, and she repeated to herself, 'You get worse, you know that? more sour.'... The twilight was fading fast when she entered the bedroom but she could see that the child was still sitting bolt upright in the bed. 'You should be asleep.' 'I... I was waiting for you. It... it was getting dark.' 'It's a long time off dark. Lie down now.' The child lay down; then she watched the big fat woman undress herself, noticing particularly that she did not wear corsets like her mama, but that she wore a habit shirt, and one bodice petticoat and two waist petticoats. Her shift, too, was white, but it was sticking to her body here and there with sweat. She watched Aggie ease it off her flesh, then take a nightdress from a drawer and pull it over her head, and lastly, sit on the side of the bed and draw off her stockings. When Aggie climbed into bed, such was her weight that the child rolled towards her, and her head seemed to fall naturally between her breasts and when the small face peered up at her and the small whisper said, 'You're very big,' Aggie said, 'Aye, I'm very big. An' you're very small; an' you have too much to say, so go to sleep.' As the head snuggled into her and the thin arm came round her waist, Aggie drew in a long tight breath; then when her own arm automatically went around the child, she closed her eyes tightly, because for the first time in her life she was feeling flesh close to her own.

TWO

It was eight o'clock the following morning when Ben came back from the town. Aggie was dressed for the day: her hands and face looked clean, her hair had been combed; she was wearing a clean blue-striped blouse. She had just finished her breakfast of dripping and bread and a piece of cold bacon when Ben came into the room. She said immediately, 'Well?' 'She'll be up at ten o'clock before the Justice.' 'Did you find out anything more? Who did you talk to?' 'Well, would I talk to anybody else but your dear Constable Fenwick.' 'Well, what did my dear Constable Fenwick say?' 'He said, she's among the others. There's nine of 'em. But he has no details of her because he didn't bring her in, he said.., which was kind of him.' He now pulled a face at Aggie and went on, 'He said he thought she was new to the job.' 'Is that all?' 'Aye, except he pointed out that if she was new to the job and she tried to muzzle in around that quarter, the others would soon make short shrift of her. Remember the other month, it was in the papers, wasn't it? about them tearing the clothes off that one who tried to queer their pitch? If I remember, that was on a Saturday night when the gents came down for their pickings. Anyway, I've been thinkin' about her. She's not up to much, is she, if she takes a bairn like that 'un with her when she's on the make?' 'Well, likely it was the lesser of two evils. She would have had to leave her alone in the house, and Nelson Close isn't in the suburbs, is it?' 'Is she still asleep?' 'She was when I left her.' He sat down at the table now, and she pushed the bread board and the dripping towards him, saying, 'Want a piece of bacon?' 'No; I don't feel like it this mornin'.' 'No, you wouldn't. You didn't get back into the loft until one o'clock, did you?' 'Timing me now, are you?' 'No, but I did wonder why you don't move your bed along there. Dear Annie'll make room for you.' 'Yes, I could. I've thought about it, an' all.' They stared at each other; then, his tone changing, he said, 'What's goin' to happen to the young 'un if the mother goes along the line?' 'Well, we went into this last night, didn't we? All I'm concerned with is handin' her over to her rightful parent or whoever's goin' to take responsibility for her.' 'You're goin' down there?' 'I'm goin' down there to the court? Aye, I am.' 'Well, well, well. You mean to get rid of her, don't you?' She now placed her large square hands on the table and leant towards him, and her voice was low and hard as she said, 'Well, what's the choice? Can you see me keepin' her here? Look around you, look at the refinements I've got to offer.' He didn't answer her for a moment; when he did, it was quietly. 'She could do worse, a hell of a lot worse. I can speak for that, can't I, Aggie?' She straightened up now and bawled across at him, 'You were a lad; now you're a young man. She's just a chit, and a knowin' one at that, who's been brought up in a different atmosphere. It mightn't have been the class but there's been some schoolin' there an' some refinement. Can you see her fittin' into this? Aw!' She shrugged. 'You're soft in the head. You know that? It's them books you're readin'. Mr Dickens is gettin' at you. Help the poor. My God! What does he know about it? The only thing I feel about Mr Dickens is he's makin' his money out of exposing misery.' 'Aye; well-' he got on to his feet now - 'it takes somebody to expose it. God Almighty! there's plenty of it, and nobody's bothered much with it except here and there. They keep their distance; the smell of the poor's enough for them. Mr Dickens is doin' some good.' 'Well, he's certainly got a supporter in you. But while we're on, I'll tell you this; you'll go blind readin' that small print.' 'Oh Aggie, shut up!' He had turned and was starting to walk towards the door when he received a full blast from her as she yelled, 'Don't you tell me to shut up! you young prig, else you'll find the door locked on you. Aye, you will. I'm not as soft as all that. It's come to something, hasn't it, when I can't speak in me own house now.' She addressed the fire, saying, What's come over him anyway? He's never stood up to me before. All through that 'un. She started as the voice of 'that 'un' said, 'Good morning. I found my own way down. There was no water to wash. There was a basin and a jug in the room but no water. And I've managed to do up two of the buttons at the back, but I can't reach the top two. Would you, please?' As the child turned her back to her, Aggie bent down and buttoned the top of the dress; then she said, 'You hungry?' 'Not very; but I would like a drink, please. And may I get washed? I should have washed before I put my dress on, you know. But when I see Mama and I tell her, she won't mind.' Aggie looked down on the child. She said she was seven. As Ben had pointed out last night, his Annie was scurrying between the looms when she was seven, and barefoot. This one had certainly had it soft. And God help her! Whichever way her life was goin' she would never have it soft again, not as she saw it at this present moment. 'There's a pump round the back of the house. Go on out there; Ben'll show you where it is. Ask him to put some water in a bowl, and you can bring it into the scullery. There's soap and a towel there.' Millie looked at Aggie for a moment before saying quietly, 'Thank you.' Then; as if forced to say something polite, she said, 'I slept very well. It was a nice bed. Thank you,' and turning about, she went out, not running like a child but walking sedately. A few minutes later she returned with Ben, who was carrying a tin bowl of water. The child was smiling and she looked up at Aggie, saying, 'The pump was funny. It talked the water out; it went gurgle, gurgle, gurgle.' And Ben raised his eyebrows as Aggie looked at him. When he returned to the room, having left the child in the kitchen, Aggie was pouring some milk into a mug, and she said to him, 'Look at that!

the rain for a long time. By! I'll see that bugger tomorrow mornin' if I have to get up at five, an' I'll tell him what I've meant to do for a long time; I'll take the can along to the authorities. By God! I will. That cow would have kicked the pail out of the byre in shame if it had squirted anything out like that.' 'Oh! Aggie.' His smile was wide. Then changing the subject completely from milk and children to the necessity for a clean yard, he said, 'I know where I can get some broken slabs. I'll only have to pay him a dollar and the cartage, and there'll be enough to cover the rest of the yard. When it's wet it's a mire out there. How about it?'

'Oh, well, yes, if you're afraid to get your feet muddy. Yes, of course, sir. But a dollar, no more. How many loads would it be?' 'Oh' - he shrugged his broad shoulders - 'two, three. It's heavy stuff, even for a horse. It could be done in half a day; I mean, the cartage.' 'Well--' She went to the fire and ground the kettle on top of the glowing tins, then added, 'As you're takin' over, you'd better see to it.' 'That'll be the day when you allow anybody to take over. Anyway, Aggie--' He sidled close to her and looked into her face, saying, 'That little 'un's got under me skin. If her mother has to do the month, keep her here till she comes out. Will you?' She jerked herself away from him. 'Not on your life, lad,' she said. 'Not on your life.' Then in a lowered voice, she added, 'What would I do with her in here all day? And when I'm out, take her with me? Her lookin' like that! Then, look at this place. What is it like? A hovel.' 'Well,' he hissed back at her, 'it needn't look like a hovel, if you'd get off your big fat arse at times and do a bit of scrubbin'.' Her hand shot out and caught him fully on the side of the face, causing him to wince. Rubbing his cheek, he said, 'It's years since you did that. It struck home that, didn't it? 'cos it was the truth. You're always talking of speaking the truth yourself, aren't you, Aggie? but you can never face up to hearin' it. We'll forget about this now but I'm warnin' you, Aggie, never raise your hand to me again. Never! 'Cos I would die of shame if I retaliated and hit back; and I would, because I've levelled men almost as big as you before today, and you know it.' 'Is this milk for me?' They both turned to look at the child. She was pointing to the mug. But Aggie's anger rendering her unable to speak, Ben said, 'Aye, me dear. Drink it up.' And going to the table, he asked, 'Would you like some bread an' drippin'?' 'Yes, please.' 'And there's some bacon there.' He pointed to the plate on which were some slices of cold streaky bacon. She reached over to look at the bacon before saying, 'No; thank you. I'm not very fond of fat.' Making a sound in his throat, he turned his head away, then said, 'Funny thing, but neither am I; yet I've had to get used to it;' and on this he went out, leaving Millie looking at the big fat woman and feeling she must make conversation: 'It's a beautiful morning,' she said. 'You have a lot of clothes in the next room. And why are all those heaps of things in the yard? Is it a kind of shop?' Oh no; she couldn't put up with that, not at this moment; and so, saying, 'Stop your jabber and get on with your breakfast. Then stay put until I come down,' Aggie walked to the door leading to the hall. In the hall, she stopped and looked about her. 'It needn't look like a hovel,' he had said, 'if you'd get off your big fat arse at times and do a bit of scrubbin'.' She had worked like nobody else for years, right from when she was ten, and before that, hard manual labour. But during these last few years she had felt tired, weary. It was as much as she could do to push the hand-cart and to carry her body around with her. It was too big, too cumbersome. If she could only stop eating. But why should she? Aye, why should she? Not one of these questions had hit her before. It was since that child had come into the house last night. Was it only last night? My God! It seemed that she had been here years, and already she had driven a wedge between her and Ben. And Ben was all she had for companionship; those who would have been her so-called friends she wouldn't let over her step, and those she would have liked to call friends wouldn't come near her step. No; she had only Ben, and she had struck him. She must get rid of that child.

She stood at the back of the dingy room, the child close by her side, and she listened to the clerk calling out the offences - soliciting was a common phrase, but once he said 'Procuring of men' - and she noticed that the Justice hardly raised his head: 'One pound or one month. One pound or one month. One pound or one month.' He had seen them all before. They mightn't have a pound between them but he knew it would be paid. Big Joe would see to that, or one of his cronies. But he raised his eyes and then his head when the last one stood before him. He hadn't seen her before. 'Soliciting ... she was known to have men at her house and was seen to stop them in the street. Constables Walton and Makepeace apprehended her.' Et cetera, the et cetera going on to explain that she had been taken to the hospital and there examined by Doctor Bright in the presence of Constable Makepeace. What Aggie didn't know about the ways of loose women, prostitutes, and pimps wasn't worth learning, but it was a business and she believed that everybody should mind their own business. Only one thing she drew the line at and that was when the prostitution took up bairns. She couldn't stand that. Until now her knowledge had come from conversation and confidences and such; she had never before been in a morning court and listened to the proceedings. From this distance, and her being among the other women, the child had not recognised her mother, but when the sentence was passed, 'One pound or one month', and the woman turned about and the child saw her face, a cry escaped her, and she was about to spring forward when Aggie pulled her tight against her leg and, bending down, hissed at her, 'Quiet! Be quiet!' only for the child to hiss back, 'That is Mama. What is going to happen to... ?' 'Shut up! Shut up!' Gripping the child's arm, Aggie pulled her from the room and through into a hall and there she stood waiting, for she guessed that the women lined up like felons against the wall would now be led out to pay their fines at the desk in the corner, or be taken through the door back to the cells. She was not surprised that most of them were laughing and giggling. Two men were standing near the main door. One was a big man with a bullet head and a short neck, with shoulders almost as broad as Ben's; but he had height with it, being all of six foot tall, which in itself made him different from most other men, for it was only here and there you would see his like. His companion was a head shorter and he was thin; but a reader of character would have stamped him the more evil of the two. The women knew that their fines had already been paid, and so, after signing their forms, in most cases by making crosses, they joined the men the while throwing quips at the policemen standing by the door. The last in the line was the fair woman. She wrote her name on the form; then, as the wardress motioned her forward, she turned and looked at Aggie and the child, and with a quick gesture she thrust out her hands towards them. But as the child again made to run to her mother Aggie held her firmly and the wardress pushed the woman through a door; even so contriving to keep her head turned towards her child. The crowd of women and the big man had gone out into the street, but the thin man remained; and he looked from the child towards the closed door before he, too, turned and went out. 'Don't cry. Don't cry.' They were out in the street now and Aggie, for once in her life, stood helpless, knowing not what to do. 'Is Mama wicked?' 'No, no.' 'Then why has she gone away? What has she done? She ... she shouldn't have gone. She loves me. She said she did.' 'Be quiet. Here! dry your eyes.' Aggie took a surprisingly clean man's handkerchief from her pocket and handed it to Millie. 'Where am I going? Am I to stay with you?' She couldn't answer. They were turning the corner at the end of the road when they almost ran into Constable Fenwick, and he greeted them: 'Hello, Aggie.' She didn't respond in like manner but said, 'She's got a month.' 'Well, it was to be expected. When they go into that business they know what they're doing.' 'Was she really in it?' 'Oh yes; using the house an' all.' 'But Nelson Close is quite a way from here. How did your lot find out?' 'Some Nosey Parker in the house. And then they were thinking of--' he indicated the child with a slight nod. 'But I was surprised at her type; you would think she could have got a job, a decent one somewhere. But then,' he again indicated the child, 'they're a handicap where jobs are concerned, unless you farm them out for the day, or altogether. What you going to do with her?' Perhaps it was the term 'farm out' that brought the retort: 'Hang on to her until she comes out, I suppose.' 'That's good of you, Aggie. God knows what would happen to her if she was let loose. Slim Boswell would soon do a bit of trade there.' 'He was there this morning with Big Joe.' 'Oh? Well they look after their own. I can stand Big Joe, but not Slim.' 'Then why don't you arrest him?' Her voice was harsh. 'Oh, we do, we do, Aggie. But when you keep the big names supplied with a particular kind of amusement you can always depend on it that the police are found to be in the wrong, or that they are framing an innocent man, or that the children in question are his nieces. And he will produce a sister, or a cousin, or an aunt. My God! I've seen it all. But things are changing, Aggie, things are changing. It'll take time. It'll take time. And it will be women that'll change it. Oh yes, women. There's one or two ladies already shouting their mouths off. And I can tell you something' - he bent towards her - 'their husbands have been warned to gag them, or else. But I know one in question who said, to hell, or words to the effect' - he grinned - 'that he couldn't gag her if he tried. Women have power, you know, Aggie, if they but knew how to use it. Look at yourself, for instance.' 'You tryin' to be funny?' 'No,' he said, and seriously: 'no, I'm not. There's a good few people around this quarter afraid of you and of what you can do when you open your mouth. And you have once or twice, haven't you? Anyway, have you any news for me?' 'No, nothing of importance, except I think you want to keep an eye on Billy the welder. He'll go berserk one of these days and murder the lot of them. And the papers will get at you and ask why wasn't something done before. He was mortallious last night, so I bet hardly any of those bairns will be able to move this mornin'. She certainly won't. Oh, somethin' should be done with her. I'm not for the workhouse, you know that, but I think they'd all be better off in there.' 'I'll look into it, Aggie, and I'll have a word with the committee.' 'You might as well spit on it as go to them.' 'All right, all right, yes; but they do the best they can.' 'Maybe; but they're knocking their heads against brick walls when it comes to Billy Middleton.' 'He's not the only one that uses the belt, Aggie. You know that. And it's part of the Christian doctrine, you know, spare the rod and spoil the child.' And he added somewhat sneeringly, 'Jesus loves little children, they say. Well, He's the only one who seems to, yet He doesn't do much about it. Get a few ranters together and they give you broth if you let them save your soul. But there' he sighed - 'that isn't altogether true. There's Parson Wheatley, you know, over in the Dyke district. He's got a school going. Free, that's something, free, not tuppence, fourpence, or sixpence. And it's true, you know, some of them do charge sixpence a week, I'm bearing. But with the parson, the youngsters do a half day in the mill and a half day at his school, an' you wouldn't believe the difference it's made to those little 'uns. And what's more, his wife has classes at night for women. And it's growing; you just wouldn't believe.' 'Well, that is something,' said Aggie. 'But different from what you hear about the convent; you know, Christ the Saviour's place. They don't take them under a shilling a week, and God knows what they charge when they live in. And of course they don't want any snotty-nosed ones, no. Holy nuns. My God! mean as muck, they are. I've found that out.' 'Now, Aggie.' He laughed at her. 'Don't stamp on the Catholics; else I'll have to run you in for kicking me mother in the face.' 'You a Catholic then, constable?' 'I am, for me sins.' 'I would never have believed it.' 'It's a dark secret, Aggie. An' you know, little pigs have got big ears and this little pig is looking up at me.' He now smiled down into the wet, tearstained face, saying, 'You're going to be all right. Aggie'll look after you. In the meantime, if you would like to come to church with me next Sunday, it'll be my pleasure.' 'No, by God! She's goin' to no Catholic Mass as long as she's under my care. Good day to you.' 'Good day to you too, Aggie. You're a good woman in spite of the muck.' Her step slowed and she was about to turn round to voice some rejoinder but continued on, gripping the child's hand hard now and stepping up her walk into almost a trot. Well, she had saddled herself with something, hadn't she? Dear God! she had. How she was goin' to put up with the wee 'un's fancy talk and fancy ways, she didn't know. And a month was a long time...

Ben said, 'I knew you would keep her.' 'Well, you knew more than me. It was the last intention in me life to saddle meself with her. But I'll tell you this much: she'll have to spend most of her time with you 'cos I couldn't put up with her round me feet all day.' 'Oh, I'll see to her. Don't worry about that. So she got a month? Well, well.' 'Aye, well, well; but I'll tell you, there's one thing I'm sure of an' that's the child will take to the yard quicker than the mother will take to the cells an' the life she'll be forced to live there. Good God in heaven! Aye.' Five days later Aggie felt she could stand no more. The child never stopped talking, and in that refined voice too. And the questions she asked! She was causing a stir in the yard, too, upsetting some folks, while making others laugh. She would advise a customer not to have that: it looked too old, or it smelt. One good thing she had done was to point out two women pushing articles up under their coats without paying. Obviously very pleased with herself over this and Aggie's reaction, she then brought it up so many times that Aggie was eventually forced to yell her into silence. Aggie was now in the market-room, as they called it, talking in a low voice to Ben. 'I can't stand her and her jabber any more, Ben,' she was saying. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry, lad. Look, take this sovereign and go down to the station. I should have done it at first; I could have paid it then. It never struck me at the time. If those pimps could pay, I could've paid. Oh aye, I could've paid the fine. Anyway, take it down. See the sergeant and ask him to let her out. Of course, it'll take a day to get it settled; but I can put up with that.' Ben took the coin from her hand, then looked hard at her before he turned abruptly and went out. She stood looking after him for a moment; then she dropped on to an upturned box, and bending her head into the folds of flesh under her chin, she asked of herself why she had to do this. What was the matter with her? Was it that the child was too refined and showing up her own shortcomings? Was it that just the sound of her voice grated on her? Was it that her bright loveliness caused something like a pain in her chest every time she looked at her? Was it that she was getting old and past bothering with children? What was it she was afraid of? She stopped her questioning, then got up heavily from the box and went into the kitchen. Well, it was done. This was the last day she'd have to put up with her. And there she was, washing the bottom panes of the window. She couldn't reach very far, but for as far as she could, the window was clean, bright. The sun was showing a different sheen as its beams passed over a stretch of the stone floor. The child, now turning a smiling face towards Aggie, said, 'I'll stand on the chair and that'll take me half-way up, but you'll have to do the rest, as I can't reach. It must be a long time since they were cleaned; they are very dirty. I've been over this part twice, and look at the water.' She pointed to the tin dish. 'And I've scrubbed the table again.' Aggie did not remark on the child's handiwork; instead, she said, 'Who taught you to do housework?' 'Mama, of course. We had to keep the house dean; Dada liked a clean house. He was always very well washed, and Mama, too. And from I was a little girl I went round with Mama cleaning the house.' 'And I suppose you're a big grown-up girl now?' A gurgle issued from the small throat as Millie answered, 'Well, not really big, but I'll grow.' 'Did you ever live in a big house?' 'Not as big as this. But in Durham we had three rooms and a toilet outside and a little garden where you could sit in the summer. And then there was the river. The river was beautiful. And the cathedral. Have you ever been to Durham Cathedral?' 'No; I haven't been to Durham Cathedral.' 'Oh, it's very grand. It's the best one in the world, you know. It's built on the edge of the river. When you're in a boat you can look up to it. I've been in a boat.' 'You've been lucky.' The smile slipped from Millie's face and it was moment before she responded: 'Yes, yes I've lucky.' But the words were not said as if from the mind of a child but from that of an adult who had' experienced many things. It caused Aggie to say brightly, 'Well, I think you'll still be lucky, because you might be seeing your ma later today.' 'Oh! Oh! Mrs Aggie. Oh! will I?' The child was now standing before her, gripping her hands. 'Oh! thank you. Thank you. Oh! I'll tell Mama when see her how good you have been to me. You'll Mama. She's very pretty, you know. Well, you her, didn't you? But' - her voice dropped - 'she looked tired. She never used to be tired. She dance with me and take me long walks. Oh, you'll like Mama.' 'Aye. Yes, yes, undoubtedly I'll like your mama.' And she forced herself to add, 'I'll tell her a good girl you've been in cleanin' me place me.' 'Oh, that is nothing.' Millie moved back to the window now. 'I like doing things. I like cooking. I have never cooked here, have I?' 'No. No, you haven't. We... we don't do much cookin' here.' 'But you have an oven?' 'Yes, yes, we have an oven.' 'What a pity! If I had been staying with you I... I would have shown you how I can make a scone... scones. People say sconnes when it should be scones, shouldn't it?' 'If you say so. Yes, if you say so, it should be scones.' Aggie now walked heavily through the market room and out into the yard. And she made herself look about her, at the odd heaps lying on the rough ground, and she said to herself, 'Yes, he was right, it'll be better if it's paved. And I wonder if he's put any oil on that door?' She walked over to an outhouse which, in comparison with the rest of the place, looked extremely tidy in that on the shelves were arrayed different tools of all shapes and sizes; and on the walls, hanging from nails, was all the accoutrement that went to the dressing of a horse: collars, bridles, saddles, some stiffened with age, others looking usable. Taking up an oil-can she went out and towards the old outbuildings, to the door next to the one leading into the barn and, moving it, she found that it hadn't been oiled. The door led upstairs to what had once been the stableman's rooms, and which now housed Ben. After she had oiled the hinges, she paused a moment before lumbering up the stairs. She stood looking about her; at his plank bed with the bedclothes neatly pulled over it; at the old easy chair with the stuffing sticking out of its seat. A hard kitchen-type chair was set near a table with three legs. An orange box was obviously being used as a replacement for the missing leg as well as serving as a miniature bookcase, for there were seven tattered books on the dividing shelf and a stack of old newspapers below it. Whatever it was her mind had said to her, she answered with, Well, it's better than thousands of others in the town, and many a one would be glad of it. And anyway, you couldn't get a decent table up those stairs, they're too narrow. She had just reached the foot of the stairs when she saw Ben entering the yard; and when she stepped from the doorway he called towards her, 'Been on a tour of inspection, then?' 'Aye, you could say that. I think you should try to get a table up there, or at least fix a leg on that one. And of all the single ticks that have come in, there's bound to have been a decent one among them. Why haven't you taken one up?' 'I prefer me hard pallet; it's a sort of penance for me sins.' 'Don't be too bright. What happened?' He put his hand in his pocket, then handed her back the sovereign, saying, 'She's gone. She went the same day, they tell me. I couldn't get it out of them who had paid for her, but old Alex the cleaner told me on the side: Boswell, Slim Boswell.' 'Oh my God! No!' 'Oh my God! Yes! And he's only got to see her' - he thrust his head back - 'and it'll be mother and daughter. Oh aye, definitely daughter.' 'She needn't be with him; he could have paid for o . .' 'Don't talk soft, Aggie. If she hadn't been with him she'd have been here before now. You said she saw you with the child and there's not two Aggie Winkowskis kickin' around this quarter, or the town itself, and somebody would have told her where you lived.' Her response was almost a plaintive mutter: 'What are we goin' to do?' she asked. He noticed that he was being drawn into making the decision by the 'we'; and so he said, 'Well, speakin' for meself, it would sicken me if I thought the young 'un got into his hands.' She started to walk across the yard, and he followed her; and they had reached the house door before her decision came: 'I'll take the cart down there later on; if he's put her to work she's likely pacing The Strand,' she said. 'Oh, I doubt not, not on The Strand, Aggie, for a beginner.' She swung round to him, grinding out in a low voice, 'She mustn't have been any beginner, not goin' by the uncles the child's had. And what's strikin' me now, she took the child with her when she was on the game just as a draw.' 'That needn't have been, Aggie. We talked about that, didn't we? She couldn't have left her in the house. Anyway, as I see it now, if the authorities have got wind of her havin' a youngster, we'll have some of them officials and the do-gooders comin' round, and it'll be the workhouse in the end.' She said nothing directly in answer to this, but carried on into the house, saying, 'I'll have to tell her she's gone somewhere.' In the sitting-room, Millie was standing on a chair and reaching up towards the upper panes of the window. 'Come down off that! Come down off that! You'll break your neck.' 'No, I won't; I'm very steady on my legs.' Aggie closed her eyes for a moment; then slowly she ordered: 'Come ... down ... off.., that ... chair.' The tone brought Millie on to the floor and standing before Aggie, saying, 'I ... I just wanted to help.' Aggie drew in a long breath, bowed her head slightly and said, 'Aye, I know you did, love; but come and sit down a minute.' And she took the child by the hand and walked her to the settle, and when they were seated she looked at the small figure by her side, at the hair, like a golden halo round the oval face, and the limpid grey eyes gazing so trustfully at her. And as she stared, there was interposed on the fair skin the face of a man, a thin man, and he was leering at her as if in triumph, as he would do if he were to get hold of this unusual-looking child, for he'd make a pretty penny out of her, no matter what channel he sent her along, his nursery, the street, or the boat. Any one of them would bring in a good profit. As if the child were sensing her dilemma, she said, 'I am going to see Mama today, am I not, Mrs Aggie?' For once the preciseness of the words did not irritate Aggie, and she answered gently, 'I'm sorry, love, but.., but she's had to go away for a day or two.' 'Where to?' Aggie was stumped for a moment, but then she thought of Durham, and so she answered, 'Durham.' 'But ... but she can't. She said she would never go back there.' Aggie pulled herself up from the seat, saying, tersely now, 'Well, love, she has.' 'But ... but why didn't she come and take me with her? She never leaves me.' 'Well' - Aggie was walking towards the table, her back to the child - 'she ... she was in a hurry. Something had come up.' She now rubbed her hand over the oilcloth as she waited for the next question. But when it did not come, she turned about and saw the child with her head bowed and the tears running down her cheeks. Returning to the settle, she seated herself again by the child and said kindly, 'Come on now, come on. You're quite a big girl. Grownups have things to do, you know, an' they can't always explain them.., well--' She put her arm around the narrow shoulders and pulled the child into her side, and when again the arm came around her waist and the head was pressed between her breasts there arose in her that pain that was both an ache and a pleasure: a pleasure that had no future that she could see; a pleasure that she had been deprived of all during her womanhood. And now here was a pleasure that was also an irritant. It was a pleasure that she wanted to press into her body while at the same time throw it off as far away from her as possible. The sound of the door being opened made her instinctively push the child aside from her. Ben, however, did not remark on the scene he had just witnessed, but said, 'There's a friend of yours in the yard who would like to have a word with you. He dropped in off his beat, sort of.' 'Oh aye.' She nodded at him; then as she passed him she said quietly. 'Stay with her, but keep your mouth shut, else you might contradict my story.' In the yard Constable Fenwick was looking at the pile of tins; and, as she approached him, she said, 'Goin' cheap: a penny a score.' 'What on earth d'you use them for? Who buys them?' he asked, as though he couldn't believe anyone would do so. 'Oh, there's always a buyer for everything. They grind them down. But I use a lot meself. Best form of fuel and the cheapest: fill them with a mixture of coal dust and mud and you've got a fire goin' all day and night. The tins hold the heat.' 'Is that a fact?' 'That's a fact.' 'I've been away for a day or two; I lost me father.' 'Oh.' Her light tone changed. 'I'm sorry about that. Was he dear to you?' 'Aye, very dear, and a good man.' 'Did he live hereabouts?' 'No, in Newcastle.' 'Oh; Newcastle.' 'Aye, that's where I was born and reared. I would have been there the day but I had to go and marry a lass from down here, and she wouldn't leave her mother. Women are the limit, aren't they, Aggie?' She did not respond to this, but stared at him, until he spoke again, saying, 'I'd have been along before now, but I heard about me father the very day when we last spoke, and so I had to go off straightaway to Newcastle. Before I went, though, I managed to have a word on the side with the lass. She was waiting to be moved to start her month. She begged me to take this.' He put his hand in his pocket and brought out a key. 'She asked me to give it to the lady who had been in court with her child, and to ask if you would take care of her till she could come for her.' As he handed her the key, he added, 'Apparently she wants you to take the personal things from her lodgings.' Aggie stood holding the key in her hand.. It was all of three inches long, and as she looked at it, she said, 'I shouldn't be landed with this. What life will it be for a child stuck in here?' 'There's many a worse place, Aggie, and many a worse person to take charge of a child. I can vouch for that. Anyway, if it becomes known the lass left a child behind, the authorities will be visitin' you, and then you'll be able to get rid of her.' 'Huh!' She bridled now. 'What if it should then happen I don't want to get rid of her, eh? What about it then?' ... Why in the name of God! had she said that? 'Oh, well, that could be easily arranged. You'd have to sign some sort of form. And if they ever want a reference, I'll stand for that. And there are others an' all, I'm sure.' 'Where?' Her voice was scornful now. 'A rag woman in a hole like this! What! they would say. Taking charge of a child, and such a one? Aye, and such a one' - she was shaking her head - 'who'd talk a hind leg off a donkey, and with such politeness that it gets up your nose and under your skin and on your nerves.' He was laughing now. 'Well, perhaps you'll learn something from her.' 'I've had all the education I need, thanks. But anyway' - her tone changed again - 'I'm grateful to you for your help.' 'Any time, Aggie, any time.' He again looked at the pile of tins. 'I'll have to tell me missis about that trick, and tell her to get going and save some money ... Ooh! I'd better not, though, not if I want to live a little longer. Well, I'll look in again, Aggie; and mind you, see everything's above board' - he glanced around the yard - 'no dealing in stolen property; no organising of crime in any one of its many forms. But I think you'll stay clear until Thursday.' He grinned at her, then went from the yard. And she stood looking down at the key in her hand, while she said to herself, 'Well, this seems to decide it, doesn't it?' and turning, she yelled, 'Ben!' And when he appeared in the yard, followed by the child, it was to her she spoke, saying, 'Go and put your hat and coat on; we're goin' for a walk.' 'A walk?' 'Yes, that's what I said, we're goin' for a walk.' Then with an impatient movement, she said loudly, 'Your ma has sent the key to your house. We're goin' there to pick up some of your clothes.' 'Oh, we are?'Oh, that is so nice. And I need a clean petticoat on and...' 'Go on.' Get your hat and coat on.' After Millie had turned to run back into the house, Ben said, 'So that's what he wanted. How did he get hold of it?' 'Apparently he had a word with her while she was waiting to be taken along the line. It must have been just before Boswell picked her up. Get the hand-cart out of the barn; there'll likely be things to bring back.' Without more to-do he hurried from her, and she herself went into the market-room. From a cupboard, she took a large, brown, straw hat and a dark grey coat; and after first pinning the hat on to her hair she shrugged herself into the coat. But it wasn't large enough to button and showed her blouse and skirt, and so when she appeared in the yard again Ben, standing ready by the cart, grinned at her, saying, 'That's nice! Smartish.' 'Aye, smart.., ish. Where is she?' She turned and looked towards the house door. 'Don't tell me she's washing her face again!' 'Here she is.' Ben waved to the child, and when she approached them she exclaimed loudly while looking at Aggie, 'Oh, you are dressed! You look different. That is a nice hat.' 'Thank you. Thank you.' That was another thing that annoyed her about the child: she always had to find something nice to say. 'Well, come on, let's get away,' she said. 'Have a nice trip.' Aggie turned a scornful glance on Ben, then pushed the cart through the gateway on to the road. 'Are you a real rag woman, Mrs Aggie?' Here we go again. 'Yes, I'm a real rag woman. Now what are you goin' to make out of that?' 'Nothing. Mama says that honest work, no matter how lowly, is something to be proud of.' God in heaven! That mama, that proven whore who was now in a brothel and was likely to stay there, that's if Slim didn't ship her out an' all, because she was a looker all right. 'Are you going to shout for rags?'

'No, I'm not. And keep your tongue quiet.' Millie kept her tongue quiet for some time, until she felt forced to say, 'I would have never known this way home.' Aggie made no reply to this, and the child remained quiet until it was evident that she recognized the entrance to the area, for she exclaimed, 'Oh! now I know where we are.' 'Whereabouts is your house then?' 'It wasn't a house, I think I've told you, it was outside. We go round the corner here.' They went round the corner, and the child stopped in front of a flight of steps leading up to a dilapidated house, one of a number in the street. But to the right of the steps was a low iron gate, and leading from it more steps, but downwards; and the child exclaimed, 'Down there! down here!' Aggie looked up and down the narrow street; then, taking a chain with a lock attached to it from under a piece of sacking in the corner of the cart, she pushed the cart close to the gate, and tied a leg of it to the iron post. 'Why are you doing that?' 'Just in case somebody takes a fancy to it.' 'No-one would run off with a handcart.' 'Well, they've done it before.' 'Really?' 'Yes, rea-lly! Get yourself down those steps, and see if I can follow you.' The stone steps were narrow, and she didn't like stone steps, they were greasy when wet, but she made the bottom of them and inserted the key in the lock. She followed the child into the room, but there she stood aghast. It was a cellar, stone-floored and stone-walled, and stone cold. It was obviously partitioned into two rooms by a rough wooden screen. In the part in which she was standing was a small table and two chairs and an iron contraption that looked as if it might be used for some form of heating. There was no chimney attached to it; so she guessed it was for paraffin oil. She walked round the end of the partition. In this part, there was a narrow iron bed, covered by a patched quilt, and at its foot was a large suitcase. Near the wall was a bass hamper. Clothes, mostly small garments, were hanging from the rails that had been knocked in the partition. The child had followed her, and as she started to finger the clothes, she said, 'It... it isn't a very nice place. It's always cold. But ... but, as Mama said, as long as we kept it clean and it was only for a short time... But--' She turned and looked at Aggie as she ended slowly, 'But it wasn't like the house we had in Durham. That... that was so nice. I... I miss that house. I miss Durham. I... I... ' 'Now, now! there's no time for cryin'. Come on, come on. Stop that! I'll take these clothes down and you fold them on the bed there, nicely, then we'll put them on the cart. And the cases an' all.' 'Why? Why? Mama will be coming back.' 'Look! Do what you're told! Your mama sent word for me to do this. You understand? I told you. And you're to stay with me... well, until she comes for you or other arrangements are made.' 'Where is Mama really?' 'I told you, she had to go to Durham.' 'I... I don't believe you, Mrs Aggie.' To put it in her own words, as she explained the scene later to Ben, she was flabbergasted. And she had to ask herself if this young 'un was seven or seventeen. 'You don't, eh? You don't believe me? Well then, all right, you can stay here by yourself, and see to yourself, until your mother comes for you.' 'I... I cannot stay by... by... my... self. I'm ... I'm afraid, and.., and I'm too little.' 'You're only little in stature, not in your tongue or your mind. So look, let's have no more of it. If you don't fold them up I'll just toss them on the cart like I do the rags. It's up to you.' She now stripped the partition of the clothes, threw them on the bed, and then went and lifted the lid off the case, only to find that it, too, was full of clothes, both the woman's and the child's. She groped under the clothes, thinking there might be anything else, probably a small box of some kind, and recognized the feel of leather. When she took out the leather writing case, the child turned and cried, 'That's Mama's! She keeps her letters in there.' 'Oh aye!' Aggie retorted, while thinking, that should be interesting. And then she said, 'Look, there's no way I can get this case and that bass hamper up them steps, full as they are, I'll have to tie the stuff in bundles an' put them on the cart. I'll hand them up to you from the bottom of the steps, and you stay by the cart.' During the next half hour they worked in this way, and when the empty cases and the bed covers were at last placed on the cart, Aggie locked the door, then hesitated for a moment, wondering what to do with the key. Her rent would have certainly been paid in advance and the rent man, whoever he was, would likely be the only one who would come down here, except of course the child's uncles, and they must have been hard put to it to resort to this hole. Aye, but, of course, there was the bed, and the woman. But what did this child do while it was going on? Likely what hundreds of others had to do: wonder, and think, and stick their fingers in their ears; some, on the other hand, might even ask themselves how long it would be before they could try it. But this child was so different, and so bonny. Oh, for God's sake! get on with it, woman. With a final gesture she put the key on the sill of the narrow window and pulled herself up the stone steps. After unlocking the cart from the gatepost, they were off, the child now walking between Aggie's outstretched arms and adding her small strength to the pushing.

'What d'you make of it all?' Aggie looked at Ben, who shook his head, saying, 'Beats me. Those are all good clothes. Best quality; some of the woman's bits are real high-class stuff, I would say.' 'So would I. But about these letters. They tell you something, and yet they tell you nothing. This Mrs Melburn, the parson's wife.., she seems a motherly figure, in a way, but that bit' - she pointed to the page of a letter that was on the table - 'that bit tells you why they came this way.' She picked up the page and read aloud: 'I'm sorry at the disappointment you found that your friend had left the town without leaving a forwarding address. I can understand how upset you were after expecting to make your home with her. Human nature is very odd. Perhaps it was her husband's doing.'

Aggie lifted her head and looked at Ben, saying, 'Reading between the lines, the husband of this friend, whoever she was, wasn't going to allow his wife to get mixed up in something. What d'you think?' 'It reads like that.' 'Then this other one.' She picked up another letter, and again read aloud:

'I think of you often and of the happy times we had at The Hall, and they were happy times. We never thought then that there was such a thing as tragedy in life and such falseness.

'Then this last one. Just a few lines on this page:

'I am distressed for you, my dear. You must come back. Don't do anything silly or anything you would be ashamed of. It isn't like you. Do come back. People forget. They have short memories. John is with me in this. My love to you in friendship. Yours Jessie.

'Again I ask, what d'you make of that? I think it must be as I said: either she'd done something or her man had done something. That's as far as I can think. Except that it's more likely the man, because, you know, the child talked about him dying, but in a funny way, as if dying was another name for something else. Well, I don't suppose we'll ever know the real ins and outs of it. But I've got a good idea about one thing: that little miss upstairs knows more than she lets on. That look that comes over her face when you start probing. Like this afternoon, when I said to her, "There's no letters from your father in here. Didn't he ever write to your mother at some time or other?" and she said, "I ... I don't know." But there's something she does know and she's keepin' it to herself. She had another cryin' bout, too, when I took her upstairs.' 'If the authorities find out that her mother's walking the sidelines,' Ben said, 'there'll be no chance she'll get her back. Would you then sign a paper for her?' Aggie gathered up the letters from the table, returned them to the writing case, then rose heavily, saying, 'Time enough to think about that. See what happens in the meantime. But I think I'll write to that parson's wife and see what she has to say about it.' The meantime came to an end three days later. The weather had changed. It had been pouring with rain all day, and half the yard was a quagmire. The lanes, courts, streets, and roads were the same. It was Aggie's day to visit the outskirts, but as she looked out of the window on to the patch of grass that was welcoming the steady downpour, she said, half to herself, 'It's a good job I'm not forced to go out,' and a voice in her mind added, 'You need never go again if you don't want to.' And she answered it: 'Then what would I do with meself? Sit and listen to Madam Correctness for the rest of me days? Oh no!' She turned and looked towards the child, who was sitting hugging a doll. It had a china head, a stuffed cloth body, and wooden legs. But the legs were cleverly jointed at the knees and the ankles, and the whole was prettily dressed. They had found the doll in the bass hamper where, Millie had informed her, it slept when they were out of the house. She had been foolish enough to ask if it had a name. And when told it was Victoria after the Queen and that the Queen was a wonderful lady, and her Prince was wonderful, too, she'd had to bite her tongue to prevent herself from saying, 'Aye, she's a wonderful lady all right, she's still for bairns your size working twelve hours a day. And she with a squad of her own. Don't talk to me about the wonderful Victoria.' As she looked at Millie rocking herself slightly 78

thought, If I were to tell her her mother has died, she would likely think it was the same way as her father had, whichever way that was, which wasn't real dead. So what am I to do? Her answer came at seven o'clock that evening. She heard Ben come into the market-room, but when the kitchen door did not immediately open, she went over to it and saw him throwing off a wet sack that he had been wearing over his head and shoulders like a cape. And when he bent to take off his boots, she said, 'You're wringin'.' 'What d'you expect?' he said, without looking at her. 'D'you think I walk between the drops?' 'Take off your pants.' The pants can stay where they are ... Is she upstairs?' 'No. Come right in and close the door.' Inside the room he wiped his face and neck with a piece of old towelling. Then he said, 'The decision's been made for you.' 'What d'you mean?' 'She hung herself.' He straightened up, and they stood looking at each other. Then Aggie turned and looked around her before making her way to an upturned box, saying, 'Oh, dear God! No!' 'It's the best way, I think.' 'Oh, shut up! How did it happen?' 'By puttin' a rope round her neck.' 'By God! If you joke about this I'll put a rope round your neck.' 'I wasn't meanin' to joke, Aggie. It just comes out with me. You know it does. I'm sorry... I'm sorry for the lass: she's past feeling anything now. And it wasn't the rope, it was a pair of fancy stockin's that they dish out, so I was told.' 'When did it happen?' 'Last night. And I'll tell you something more: it would have been hidden up, as many another's been, an' she would have been dumped somewhere, or found in the canal, but one of the lasses that found her had a screaming fit and ran out into the street, went barmy, they said, yelling, "She's hung herself! She's hung herself!' Well, the polis was brought, naturally, and they took the body away to the workhouse mortuary. And you know what happens from there, she'll be dumped in a common grave: there'll be no pious words said over her, her being a suicide. But the other thing. Apparently, when the polis went back this morning he found the house empty, bare, absolutely stripped, and Slim Boswell and the lasses gone, and every stick of furniture just vanished, the lot. It's happened before, the midnight flits. But that was a biggish house, ten rooms or more, so I heard. Slim'll surface again, though, never fear. You see, he knew if they had taken him in and it was proved he had been using her, or, as a little bird told me, he had got her ready for shipment, they would have surely sent him along the line this time, and stripped the house of all his fine pieces. And that's another thing I heard: it wasn't only bairns and young lasses he collected, but furniture and foreign crockery, mostly from China, they say. Oh, he had taste in his own way. But my God! When I think what that lass must have gone through before doin' that, I could spew.' And then he added, 'I was talking to one of Big Joe's bouncers and it was his opinion that she got wind of what was to happen, before they had time to give her a dose, likely. He seemed pleased that Slim had disappeared from the district 'cos Big Joe was never for tradin' in bairns. Huh!' He tossed his head. 'You wouldn't believe it, Aggie, but he talked as if Big Joe, being above that kind of thing, could be classed as a caring, honest man. People are funny, aren't they?' She looked up at him, saying, 'That's enough for now. You talk as much as she does.' Then added, with a little concern, 'Go inside and get yourself warmed.' 'I'm not cold, not now. Anyway, you'll keep her if you can, won't you?' She paused and allowed her gaze to wander round the room before she said, 'I hate the authorities and their bits of paper.' 'Well, far better that. And do it now rather than them pounce on you later and accuse you of hidin' her. I'm sure your friend will put a good word in for you,' which brought from her the sharp retort: 'Yes, he will! There's good and bad in every quarter, and he's a good bobby. He's been kind to me.' 'Oh, you've repaid him: you've opened his eyes to things that've been under his nose, and he couldn't see the wood for the trees. Oh, you've repaid him.' 'Huh,' she said, and then smiled faintly as she said, 'odd, you know: you tell me that Annie's a good woman, and I suppose she is, but I can't stand the sight of her; then I tell you the constable's a good man, and you know he is, and you can't stand the sight of him. Funny, isn't it?' 'Aye, Aggie, it's funny.' And he was about to add, 'But you know as well as I do there's a reason in both cases,' but instead, he said, 'Well! well! Now I'll go and join the new permanent member of the family. I suppose I can look upon her as a younger sister?' 'That you can't, because I'm mother to neither of you.' He had been about to open the door into the kitchen, but now he turned and looked at her, and his next words cut her to the bone as they were apt to do when they spat the truth at her. 'And for that you're to be pitied, Aggie.' PART TWO

The Nursemaid

ONE

Millie stood by the pony's head, stroking its muzzle while she talked to it, saying, 'Don't worry, you'll soon be home, laddie, then you'll have your tea. I could do with my tea an' all.' Two years ago she would not have said 'an' all', but, 'too'. However, many things had happened during the two years since she had been told that her mother had died of the fever and that, prior to this, she had not been allowed to see her in case she should catch it and spread it further. And it wasn't until she had knelt by the heap of earth that signified her mother's unconsecrated grave that she had stopped crying. It was as if she had accepted the fact that her mother had gone out of her life and that her future lay with this big fat woman, who alternately yelled and cajoled, and the nice man called Ben. She had been content to stay in the house all day and to try to clean it; but Mrs Aggie had told her she must go to school, at least for part of the day. They both told her that. And so she went out to school every morning, not to the threepenny one run by the Council, nor to the Church of England, but to the penny school run by the Methodists. At first she had complained to Aggie, saying they were stupid because they taught nothing but the abc and counting, and that most of the time was spent singing hymns and listening to stories from the Bible. She remembered, too, how surprised she had been when Ben had said, 'Well, you can go to the Ragged School and see if you like it there. There's one thing sure, you won't have much time to grumble because you'll be taken up with scratchin' yourself. And that beautiful hair of yours will walk off your scalp with dickies.' Yes indeed, she knew now if she had ever gone to the Ragged School that's what would have happened. She always felt sorry for the children at the Ragged School and there seemed to be hundreds and hundreds of them. Another funny thing she had had to have explained to her was why some grownups would go to the Ragged School at night time. Oh, she knew she had learned a great deal during the last two years; she also knew that a good part of herself was happy, mostly, she thought, because she had come to like Mrs Aggie and living in her house. Of course, she still shouted at her and still grumbled. But she, too, seemed to be learning. She had heard Ben tell her it was about time, too, but almost too late; that was when she had stopped pushing the hand-cart and bought Laddie and the flat-cart. What was more, she'd also got a cover for the couch and some rugs for the hall and a stair-carpet. As for the yard, it had become almost clean over the last two years; it was all paved now. And Ben had painted the front of the house, and the barn doors and such; and the market-room had been moved into the barn itself, and that room had been painted, and papered, and odd pieces of furniture put in. She smiled as she recalled that Mrs Aggie had sworn a lot whilst that was being done. But that, too, was the time when Mrs Aggie struck her so hard that she had fallen on her back, and all because she had called Mrs Nelson 'a bloody cow'. Well, that was Mrs Aggie's other name for Mrs Nelson. Anyway, Mrs Aggie had been very sorry she had struck her and she had taken her into the town and bought her a real new bonnet, although she would allow her to wear it only on a Sunday. During the week, whenever they were out, she insisted that she roll her hair up and put it under the cap. She liked wearing the cap; it made her feel different, as did the long grey coat that went down to the top of her boots, because then she did not feel like Millie Forester, whose mother and father were dead and had no-one belonging to her, except the fat woman and the man with short legs, but more like a princess who, every now and again, donned strange clothes and went out among the common people, and was kind to them, and yet always remained a princess under the disguise. It was during the night that she would conjure up this picture of herself; in the daytime she was practical. That Mrs Aggie no longer went ragging in The Courts, but, instead, encouraged the children to bring what rags they had to the yard, there to receive their candy rock, and also the women to come on a Saturday morning to the barn and buy what they wanted, she knew was very wise. She also felt somewhat pleased, feeling that it was better for Mrs Aggie to concentrate her collecting efforts in the nicer part of the town. Ben called it breaking new ground; she herself would have put it 'widening her scope'. She had read the words, widen your scope, in a phrase book. She liked it. But she recalled it was to do with God. All the books that people read were to do with God. Everybody seemed to be praying; except, of course, the children who went to the Ragged School and those who flooded The Courts at the back of the house and round about

that everybody prayed, because Mrs Aggie didn't pray, nor did Ben, nor his Annie. She liked his Annie, but Mrs Aggie didn't. She wondered why. Perhaps it was because Annie was thin and not very pretty. But, then, she was nice to talk to, and she was jolly. The last time Ben had taken her there - on the quiet; it was to be a secret Annie had done the clog dance to Ben's playing his tin whistle. That was another thing that gave her pleasure; to listen to Ben playing his whistle. He could make it sad or gay, or even funny. Ben liked Annie, and Annie liked Ben. But she was older than him. In fact, she was very old; she was twenty-four years old and she worked in the mill and earned eight shillings a week. She herself earned a wage. Mrs Aggie gave her a shilling a week, because, as she said, she was her assistant; for there must be someone to hold the horse and look after the cart and see that the children didn't nick.., steal the clothes off it. Mrs Aggie was now paying a visit to one of her good houses. She called it a good house, because the maid always kept things for her. Mrs Aggie would give her anything up to a shilling for them. Generally, they were the cast-offs of two children in the house who happened to be about her own age, and this could mean a pretty flock coming her way, but only if, Mrs Aggie said, she kept her nose clean. That was a funny saying, wasn't it? because her nose was always clean. She now turned from the pony and looked towards the side gate separated from the front gate by a hedge of trees. All the houses along this road had two gates. From where she was standing she couldn't see the house, but she knew it was big, red-bricked and square. They were all big, red-bricked and square along this road. It would be very nice, she told herself, to have a house red-bricked and square with two entrances. Perhaps one day she might live in a house like this. Perhaps, in the years to come, she would get Mrs Aggie to move, but that would only be when she was too old to take the cart out. A snort from the pony interrupted her daydreaming; and immediately her slight body stiffened: walking quickly down the road towards her was a man, and even over the distance she knew he was smiling at her. She almost jumped forward and darted towards the side entrance, dashed through the gate, up the shrub-bordered path and into the yard where, at a far door, Aggie was standing in the act of handing something to the maid And they both turned startled faces and looked at her, as she cried, 'The man! Mrs Aggie. The man! He's... he's in the road.' Bending and whipping up the wicker basket full of odd garments, Aggie nodded hastily towards the girl, saying, 'Ta, lass. Ta.' Then as fast as her legs would carry her, she shambled down the path towards the gate. Outside, she looked up and down the road; then turning to Millie, she said, 'There's nobody here now.' 'He was, Mrs Aggie, he was. And ... and it was the same man who ... who took off my cap that. day when he was with the lady, and before that, asking if ... if I'd like to see the fair on the green.' 'Get up.' Aggie pointed to the seat at the front of the cart, and immediately Millie had done so, she gripped the iron frame of the seat, heaved herself on to the first step, then, almost with a lunge, on to the seat; but this time she didn't say, as she usually did, 'I'm past this; I'll sit on the back in future and you'll take him,' but she jerked the reins and put the pony into a trot. Twenty minutes later, she was driving into the yard. Neither she nor Millie exchanged a word during the journey, evidence of the seriousness of the situation felt by them both. Ben was there to help her down, and once on the ground, she said, 'I want to see you inside.' 'Oh?' He turned an enquiring gaze upon her as she marched towards the house, but before following her he held out his hands to Millie as she went to jump off the last step, saying now in a low tone, 'It looks a good enough day' -he pointed to the back of the cart- 'what's up?' She had her head down as she said, 'That man, the one who frightened me. He was on the road. He was smiling, and I ran to the house and told Mrs Aggie.' Even before she was finished speaking he was walking quickly from her towards the house. Aggie had taken her hat and coat off and had dropped on to the settle, and as he entered the room she said immediately, 'Somethin' will have to be... ' but paused as Millie came in on Ben's heels, and she nodded towards her saying, 'Go and take your things off and set the tray.' Millie was about to speak, but Aggie barked, 'Go on! Do as you're told for once, without opening your mouth.' After Millie had flounced away to do her bidding, Aggie said, 'She came in that yard as white as a sheet. She senses what he's after: she can't exactly explain it, but she knows that he could take her away. Something's got to be done. I can't keep a stronger tag on her than I do now, almost night and day. I hadn't left the cart more than five minutes. Oh! no, not that.' She shook her head. 'The lass had apparently got the bundle ready for me. A nice lot of stuff: a whole man's outfit an' all, the granddad had died; an' there was bairns' clothes. I gave her half a dollar this time. She was pleased an' all. But before she could say a word that 'un came rushin' in.' She sighed deeply before ending, 'What's to be done, Ben?' He was standing before her, one arm extended, the hand gripping the mantelpiece, and he said, 'You can't keep her here much longer. I've told you that before. He or one of his bloody cronies will pick her up. I don't know how he found out that she belonged to that lass, but find out he has. God help her! She seems to be suitable material for what he wants: her father a murderer and her mother a prostitute.' 'The parson's wife's letter didn't actually say he was a murderer. A man had died through him, that's what she said.' 'Well, you don't get twelve years for a busted jaw or a black eye. I thought it odd when you wrote and asked her how it had come about an' you got no answer. And d'you remember what else you put in the letter? You asked her if she would like to have the bairn, her being a minister's wife. But no; their Christianity wasn't goin' to go that far.' 'Blast her to hell's flames!' And with this interjection Aggie now beat her closed fist against the end of the settle as she added angrily, 'If she had acted like the friend that she was supposed to be to the mother I wouldn't be faced with this lot tonight.' 'You could send her away to a school.' 'How could you be sure that he wouldn't pick her up from there? He could dress up one of his ladies to look respectable an' make a call.' 'He wouldn't know where you put her. Anyway, if it was some place like where those sisters are.' Aggie was on her feet now. 'Nuns? No. I'm surprised at your suggestin' them.' 'I thought it would have appealed to you, being' as your friend Fenwick's one of their ilk.' 'He's not one of their ilk, not in that way; he's respectable, an' there are respectable ones.' 'He's a Catholic, nevertheless. And it surprises me that they took him into the Force, 'cos he's made no secret of it an' you know yourself how they're thought about.' 'Aye, I do, by the Protestants, the Baptists, the Methodists, the Temperance-ites, an' every other bloody one of the ranters. But I didn't think you were among them.' 'Oh, me? You know me, I run with the hare an' hunt with the hounds: I'd suck up to the devil himself for a penny.' 'Oh, shut your mouth an' talk serious about what we're goin' to do.' 'Well, I'll talk serious. You've got to get her away from here if you don't want her to end up where her mother was; an' the best place, as I see it, is a closed school, an' there's not a closer one, I should imagine, than the one under them sisters. Now don't let your hair rise. You asked me advice an' I'm givin' it to you. I get around, as you know; I've seen all the schools, right from the ragged one, the penny, the tuppence, the threepence, right up to the fourpence a week one. I've seen the type of bairns that go in and out of them. And I'll tell you something else. I've heard mothers enquiring why their little daughter hasn't come home. Even little boys have gone missing. There's a racket goin' on, Aggie; but you know as well as me it's been goin' on for years. Probably always has done. But the middle class an' the upper lot don't seem to recognise it goes on, not until lately anyway, when one or two ladies seem to be trying to get somethin' done about it. As far as I understand from the gossip there's nothing'll come out of it by goin' to the polis; it's got to come from Parliament. They've got to make a law, like, an' them that break it... well' - he drew in his breath noisily 'I would like to see them swing.' He turned abruptly away now, saying, 'Take my advice, Aggie, get her into a closed school.' 'What closed school?' Millie had come into the room carrying a tin tray, and as she put it down on the table, she looked from one to the other and said, 'What are you talkin' about, closed schools? Is the school going to close?' In answer, Aggie did not bawl at her but said quietly, 'Come here, love. Sit down there.' She pointed to the couch, and when Millie was seated she lowered herself down beside her and, taking her hand, said, 'You're frightened of that man, aren't you?' Millie bowed her head and said, 'Yes. Yes, I am.' 'Why?' 'Why?' She was looking up into Aggie's face now. 'Well,' She thought for a moment. 'I ... I didn't like his face and.., and the way he got hold of my arm that first time,' she said. 'And then, when he brought the lady.., no, she wasn't a lady, she was just a woman, and her voice was common and she called me duckie and ... and I said to them, "I'm going to scream." And when there were two men passing he let go of me and I ran. I ... I--' She turned to Ben now, saying, 'I don't know why I was afraid, they just made me afraid. They weren't like . .. well, ordinary people. I don't know.' She shook her head. 'I just didn't like them, nor him. His face was nasty, and he kept smiling.' 'Well, love, you're nine years old, coming on ten quick, an' you've got a head on your shoulders, so, I'm goin' to talk to you straight. He's a bad man. A very bad man. And I'll tell you somethin' else: your mother wouldn't have died if it hadn't been for that man.' 'But ... but Mama died of a fever, you said she did.' 'Yes, it was caused by that man.' 'How? How can a man cause a fever?' 'It's hard to explain. But... but when you're a bit older I'll... I'll tell you how. In the meantime, tell me, has.., has he ever said anything to you except askin' you if you would like to go to the fair?' 'No; but the woman said she would show me some pretty dresses, new ones, not--' She looked downwards now before she said, 'Smelly stuff off the cart.' There was silence for a moment, and then Millie lifted her head as she said, 'He ... he called me a funny name. I... I didn't tell you before because it was about the rags.' 'What did he call you then to do with the rags?' 'Rag Niff. That's what I thought it was at first but when he said it the next time it sounded different, it was nymph, rag nymph, that's what he called me. "Hello, Rag Nymph," he said.' 'Nymph?' Aggie was looking at Ben, and he looked questioningly at Millie as she said, 'A nymph is a kind of fairy, I think. I've read about them in one of my stories. They live in woods and dance round toadstools.' The almost simultaneous intaking of breath by both Ben and Aggie was audible; then, again taking Millie's hand, Aggie said, 'Listen carefully, child. That man is bent on takin' you away from us. He is an evil man, bad, very bad. Now neither Ben there, nor me, can watch you every moment of the day. You go to school. Ben takes you there and he brings you back, but there are the in-between times, and evil men are clever. And then there's the time with the cart when you stand, like this mornin', lookin' after it and the pony. Well, you know, if you hadn't been quick and run into me he could have caught up with you. And what then? Now, I want the best for you, the best that I can give you, because in a way you belong to me now, and Ben there.' She put her hand out towards him. 'And we both.., well--' She could not bring herself to say 'love you', but instead said, 'care what happens to you. So, we think for a little while ahead you should go to a school where you'll be looked after; I mean, where you can sleep, and where he won't get at you.' 'I ... Oh! Mrs Aggie, I don't want to go to a school where I won't be able to get out and come home. Why can't you tell the police about him?' Aggie looked helplessly at Ben and he, moving forward and dropping on to his hunkers, brought his face level with Millie's as he said, 'He ... he hasn't done anything yet. He hasn't run off with you. There's what you call no case against him, not at present, anyway. Aggie's friend knows about him, but, as he said, they can't pin anything on to him; they've been tryin' for a long time. But he's got to be caught in the act. You understand?' 'Yes' - she nodded at him - 'I understand. Oh ... oh, Ben, I ... I don't want to leave, I mean' - there was a break in her voice now - 'I don't want to go away. I ... I love it here; and ... and I keep everything clean, don't I?' She turned towards Aggie, who had to turn away and look towards the fireplace. It was Ben who answered for her, saying, 'Aggie knows that. You've got the place like a little palace, or a big palace.' He grinned now. 'It's never been so clean in its life. You're a marvellous worker; and what's more, you make the best currant buns I've ever tasted. Oh, love.' He now put out a hand and stroked her cheek. 'I'll miss you; we'll all miss you. But you see, you'll come home for the holidays, Easter and Christmas; and they have holidays in the summer an' all, don't they, Aggie?' Aggie mumbled something in her throat; then, hastily pulling herself up from the couch, she said, 'Well, now we all know where we stand, so let's eat. I've never had a bite since mornin',' which made Ben exclaim on a laugh, 'I can't believe that. Never! Can you?' He looked down on the bent head, but there was no response from Millie. And now he put his hand on her hair and stroked it, saying, 'It'll be all right. You'll see, it'll be all right. And you'll be what they call educated. Oh aye, and you'll come home and you'll cock a snoot at us.' 'I never will. I never will.' The tear-stained face was turned up towards him now. 'I'll never turn my nose up at you, and never at Mrs Aggie. Never!' 'No, I know you won't, me dear. That's one thing I'm sure of. But come on, set the table. Here's another one that's as hungry as a hunter. We'll leave the tea till after, to wash the chitterlings down. I love chitterlings, don't you?' 'Not very much.' 'Go on with you! Go on! the dish is in the pantry. Go and bring it.' He let her leave the room before going across to Aggie, who was standing now looking down into the fire, and he patted the back of her shoulder, saying, 'You're doin' the best thing, Aggie, the only thing. That kind of education will take her back likely to what she was; I mean, what she could have been. 'Cos you know somethin'?' He bent his head forward and whispered now, 'She hasn't got past the "bloody old cow stage" completely. The other day I heard her come out with a bloody. When Laddie kicked over a bucket of: mash, she said, "You bloody silly donkey." ' Aggie turned quickly towards him now, saying, 'She didn't!' 'She did.' 'Well' - she straightened her broad shoulders 'perhaps everything's turning out for the best then. Let's pray to God it is, anyway.' 'Oh Aggie, that's a daft thing to say. As if He'd have any time for us with the mob of Holy Joes He's got to see to. You might as well hope to get manure from a rockin' horse's backside as help from Him.' Her hand came out and she thrust him backwards on to the settle. And that's how Millie saw them when she entered the kitchen again, carrying the plate of chitterlings: the two people she cared for most, and who were about to lose her, laughing their heads off. The queer feeling came over her, that choking feeling in her throat which she experienced in the night, when she was lying awake trying to recall and piece together dim, fleeting memories of another time in which she had lived, when things had been both happy and sad, when angry broken sentences would not meet and so explain the odd pictures that formed in her mind. It was then that the lump in her throat would break and spill the tears from her eyes and cause her to make choking sounds which she did not try to prevent, knowing they would not penetrate Mrs Aggie's deep snoring. But the sound she now made in her throat brought both Aggie and Ben's eyes on her, and as she turned and fled from the room and Ben made to go after her, Aggie's voice halted him, saying firmly, 'Leave her be! She'll cry over more than that before she's finished.'

TWO

The House of Christ the Saviour was situated in the better-class district of Benton Fields. Aggie had passed the grounds many times and noticed that the stone wall was topped with broken glass and that there was a double wooden gate with an iron bell pull attached to its side. She'd had no idea what the house looked like, until she was going through that wooden gate when, holding Millie by the hand, she espied it in the distance. The nun who admitted them appeared to be covered from head to foot apart from her eyes, nose, and mouth, for after she had bolted the gate behind them she tucked her bare hands into her sleeves, then led the way up a gravel path, on either side of which a lawn extended as far as a further high, stone wall, its top also embedded with glass. Judging by the front of it, the house was quite large, for it showed three windows each side of the front door, the same above them, and a row of small windows jutting out from the roof. Without a word, the nun ushered them through the broad, thick oak door and into a tiled hall, there to be confronted by a statue of the Virgin Mary with the Child in her arms, and above her, on the wall, a large crucifix hanging at such an angle it appeared that Christ's bent head was viewing Himself as a child in His mother's arms. There were numerous doors leading from the hall, and the nun approached one, knocked, and when bidden to enter, she thrust open the door, stood aside and proclaimed in a low voice scarcely above a whisper, 'Mrs Winkowski, Reverend Mother.' It was so seldom that Aggie heard herself addressed by her surname that she turned and looked at the nun, but the woman's eyelids were lowered as if in shame; then she inclined her head towards the woman sitting behind the desk before turning and closing the door quietly behind her. 'Sit down, Mrs Winkowski.' Aggie recalled that Constable Fenwick had said that the Mother Superior, as she was called, was a bit of a foreigner, half French, he imagined, but a nice woman for all that, and very holy. Aggie sat down on the wooden chair and drew Millie close to her side as the woman at the far side of the desk smiled gently at her, saying, 'I am very pleased to meet you, Mrs Winkowski. I understand you wish to put your ward in the care of the house.' She did not say, in my care, but added, 'Which will be in God's care, too. How old is she?' She looked down at the sheet of paper on her desk. 'Ah yes; you are ten years old, Millie, aren't you?' 'Yes; I am ten years old, but only lately.' The tone of the voice seemed to surprise the Mother Superior just the slightest, and she said, 'You have a clear speaking voice, child. That is good; you will be open to education. Which school did you attend? Was it the Church of England Sunday School?' 'Yes, partly.' Millie nodded towards the woman. 'But that was only on a Sunday. Mrs Aggie' - she turned and glanced at Aggie - 'paid for me to go to the penny school.' 'Oh, was that the Wesleyan or Methodist? It wasn't a Catholic school, was it?' 'No, ma'am; it wasn't a Catholic school, it was the Methodist.' 'Oh, yes, yes.' The Mother Superior was now addressing Aggie. 'So she knows nothing whatever about religion?' 'Well, I wouldn't say that, ma'am. The Methodists preach religion and so does the Church of England.' 'Yes. Yes, of course; but I mean the Catholic religion.' 'No, nothing. Why should she? I mean, how could she? She wasn't brought up a Catholic to my knowledge.' 'You, I understand, have been her guardian for two years?' 'Yes, that's right.' 'And I'm sure you found her a very biddable little girl?' She now turned her smile on Millie, but she received no answering smile, only a stare from what she thought were those very odd grey eyes. A very odd-looking child altogether. Too beautiful for her own good. Oh, yes, from what Father Dolan had said and through information he had got from Constable Fenwick, much too beautiful for her own good. Well, she would have protection here. No sin would reach her in this house. And her next words went on to express this when she said to Aggie, 'Well, you can rest easy, Mrs Winkowski, your ward will be well looked after. You need have no fear that she will come in contact with any intruders. And I think you will agree it will be to the best advantage of all if the holidays were curtailed. You yourself may come and visit her for an hour once a month. Don't you think this is a wise plan?' She was talking now as if the child were not present, but the child was present, and she spoke up: 'An hour a month? Oh, that's awful. And you promised there would be holidays.' She was looking at Aggie now, and Aggie said, 'Well, there will be holidays, dear, there will be holidays;' then turning to the Mother Superior, added firmly, 'she'll have to come on a holiday three times a year, otherwise it's no go.' 'Oh well, it's your responsibility, Mrs Winkowski, when she's out of our care. The only thing is, I want to reassure you that she will be perfectly safe here. And of course she will be mixing with a very good class of pupil.' 'I understand that all right.' Aggie's tone was aggressive now. 'But understand, from my side, that I'd like to see her once a fortnight, if it's just for an hour, and that whatever holidays the other bairns have, she's got to have the same. Is that understood?' There was a long pause before the Mother Superior said, 'Yes, if that's how you wish it, Mrs Winkowski.' 'Yes, ma'am, that's how I wish it, because it'll be me that'll be payin' the fees, won't it? Ten and six a week is a deal of money, indeed it is, don't you think?' Mother Francis stared at the enormously fat and none too clean woman. This is what came of dealing with the common herd. It was hard to remember that God had made them, too, and that He begged for leniency for them. Inwardly praying that she might be able to show her piety and understanding, she said, 'Yes, I'm sure it must mean a lot to you. But, you know, real education never comes cheaply. And then the child has to be fostered, fed, and provided with a school habit and hood, besides night attire. Did you ever go to school, Mrs Winkowski?' God hadn't fully maintained His help to keep condescension from her tone or to prepare her for the answer when it came: 'Yes, I went to school, ma'am. I started at the early age of five, and I was taught until I was ten, and all day at that. And from then on I read. I could repeat the catechism for you from beginnin' to end, and chunks of the Bible. But perhaps I've been misinformed, like, for I understand you don't read the Bible.' 'Yes, I'm afraid you have been misinformed, at least in some parts, Mrs Winkowski.' The tone was stiff now. 'Those who can understand the Bible are allowed to read it, but there are passages that could be misinterpreted by the unintelligent or those of simple understanding.' 'Oh, aye; it's not good to let people know about human nature, is it? And that the so-called Holy men were not above... ' The Mother Superior didn't need to check Aggie's flow, she did it herself, saying, 'Well, this one here' - she now thumbed towards Millie - 'I'd like to bet she's read the Bible from beginnin' to end, an' many other books besides. We get all kinds thrown into our yard, you know.' Then she couldn't help but add, 'It's amazing how educated some of the ignorant people are. Surprising. Surprising.' The Mother Superior knew it was time to end this interview, so now she stood up, saying, 'Well, Mrs Winkowski, I'm sure you can leave your charge with us with an easy mind. And I shall look forward to giving you a good report when you next visit us in a' - she paused - 'fortnight's time. Say three o'clock in the afternoon a fortnight today. Will that suit you?' Aggie, too, was on her feet and her voice was much lower now as she said, 'Aye, it'll suit me.' Then turning to Millie, whose expression almost broke her down and gave her the urge to take her by the hand and run from this place, only her good sense stopped her; and bending down, she put her arms around the child and when she felt the tightness of the embrace and the pressure of the thin body against her belly, it was only with an effort she stopped the tears from flowing. But they were in her voice as she whispered down to her, 'It'll be all right. It'll be all right. And ... and if you don't like it, we'll think of something else. You've just got to tell me. D'you hear? You've just got to tell me.' When the arms reached up and her head bent to the face, for the first time she kissed and was kissed. It was too much. Almost thrusting the child away, she turned and stamped from the room, banging the door behind her; and, had not the Mother Superior moved quickly round the table and caught Millie's hand, the child would have followed her. 'Come, my dear, it will be all right. Sit down. She's upset; and I suppose naturally, she seems very fond of you. Were you fond of her?' 'Fond?' Millie's lids were blinking, and her lips were licking up the salt tears as she brought out, 'I ... I love her. And Ben.' 'Ben? Who is Ben?' 'He is the man who works there, lives with her. She... she took him in when he was a little boy.' 'Oh, she's a good soul.' 'She's lovely.' Lovely? That half-washed, great hulk of a woman? Maybe she was quite intelligent; but she was no more so than were quite a number of the poor she already knew. Yet, what was she thinking, poor? when she could apparently afford to pay the fees for this child. Obviously there was money in rags. But she had to admit that this child was of a different type altogether: her voice, her manner suggested a refined type of background. She'd have to find out more about her. The only thing Father Dolan had been able to tell her was that her mother had died of a fever soon after arriving in the town; he himself had learned this from the constable. Apparently there were no relatives, the father, too, being dead. Again she rang the bell, impatiently this time, and the nun who appeared was contrite, saying, 'I'm sorry, Reverend Mother; I ... I had to show her out. She was agitated; she was walking across the lawn instead of to the gate.' 'It's all right. It's all right, Sister Aloysius. What is your class doing?' 'I left them sewing, Reverend Mother.' 'Well, we have a new member of our family. Her name is Millie Forester. Isn't that right?' She was looking down on Millie now, and Millie answered, 'Yes, that is my name... Millie Forester.' And the tone of the voice seemed to surprise Sister Aloysius as much as it had done the Mother Superior. And the sister was further surprised when, holding out a hand to Millie, it was not taken, but, instead, the child began to walk out before her, only to be brought to a stop by the nun saying, 'You must always ask Mother Superior if you may leave her presence. You say, "May I go now, Mother Superior?"' 'Why? She... she knew I was leaving the room.' The nun and her superior exchanged glances; then Mother Francis, with a small inclination of her head, gave the nun leave to take this very awkward child away. If the Mother Superior and the nun were thinking the child was odd, it was nothing to what Millie was thinking about them and her introduction to the school and its inmates. THREE

Everything that happened to Millie during that first week in the House of Christ the Saviour she objected to. She discovered there were seventeen pupils, ranging in age from six to twelve, and that they were housed in two so-called dormitories, which were divided by panels into cubicles, each being about twice the area of its narrow iron bed, just enough to hold a chest of drawers and leaving standing space in which to undress. There was no chair. And that first night she experienced how one undressed for bed and how one was expected to lie. Sister Mary saw to that. Having been told to strip off her clothes, even her shift, without looking at her body, and don a long, unbleached, calico nightdress, she was then told how she must lie in bed, straight down, her hands by her sides. And when she protested she never lay like that and had proceeded to demonstrate how she did lie, crossing her legs and pulling her knees up, she had let out a high squeal when the side of Sister Mary's hard hand came across her knees in a whacking thump. For a moment she had lain stunned, then had vowed to herself she would be out and away by the next morning. It didn't matter about that evil man with the smiling face; she would go to the police herself and tell them what he meant to do. She knew she wouldn't sleep; moreover, she was hungry. That had been an awful tea they'd had at five o'clock; two slices of bread and fat, a slab of hard cake and a bowl of milk; then nothing else, only a drink of water, if they wanted one, before they came to bed, and it only half-past seven. And then there was that chapel and the kneeling. No, she couldn't stand it; and she wouldn't sleep. No, she wouldn't sleep... She was startled out of her wits by the clanging of a loud bell being rung over her head, and then somebody shouting in the dormitory: 'Up! Up! Up!' She was sitting in a daze on the edge of the bed when a head came round the partition, saying, 'You had better put a move on else you'll get scalped.' 'What?' 'Hurry up! Get into your clothes, all except your dress. Put on the cloak.' The hand came round now and thumbed to a hook on the wall. 'You've got to wash.' She didn't hurry getting into her clothes, although she felt cold, and so she was last in the line of children to scramble down the stone stairs and into a room with a linoleum-covered floor. Along the length of one side there were also cubicles; along the opposite side were narrow benches, on each of which was a basin of cold water, also a piece of blue-mottled soap, with a rough towel hanging from a nail in the wall above the basin. Very intimate sounds were coming from the cubicles, but it wasn't until the girl who had beckoned her earlier on came out of one of them and pointed to another where the door was open, and whispered harshly, 'Don't you want to go?' that she realised, Yes; yes, she did want to go. But dear! dear! In front of all these girls? Yet each cubicle had a door, although she noticed there was no bolt on the inside. When she came out to the sound of splashing and spluttering, she made her way to the "end bowl, and there she washed her. face and hands; but again she was last in the line to run up the stairs and finish her dressing. When there came, in the distance, the sound of another bell ringing, the girl from the next cubicle actually came in and tugged her out into the room, whispering, 'You've got to line up!' Having got her into the line the girl glanced at her and whispered, 'What's your name?' 'Millie.' 'Mine's Annabel, Annabel Kirkley. Stick with me; but watch out for Mabel Nostil, that's her at the end with the black hair. She sucks up. How old are you?' This question came out of the side of her mouth and Millie, quick to catch on, muttered, 'Ten.' 'I'm nearly eleven.' 'Quiet!' The command was bellowed. 'Get moving!' The voice was thick Irish. Millie remembered it from the previous evening. This nun had read passages of some sort to them but Millie had been unable to make out half of what she had said. The children marched down the stairs, the nun coming behind, and in the hall they met up with the older girls and, now forming two files, they walked, hands joined as if in prayer, slowly along a corridor, and into the chapel. The chapel was a large household room. At one end was an altar; and to the side a group of statuary of the Holy Family, on the other stood a plaster saint arrayed in a brown habit. He could have been anybody, one of the hundreds of saints; but, later, Annabel informed her that he was known among the girls as Mr Billy Brown. Millie thought that they would never cease praying. She didn't know what they were praying about. She was tired of kneeling, listening to their voices droning on: 'Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name', and 'Hail Mary, full of grace', which was all she could make out of the second bit, because what followed was just a mumble. She was ready to be lulled asleep by the monotonous chant when they all stood up and repeated, 'God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost.' She'd often wondered about the Holy Ghost, and now wondered further if Mr Dickens's stories had any connections with Him. She liked Mr Dickens's stories. She was surprised still further when more prayers had to be said before they could start their breakfast: 'Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.' Ben knew a number of Grace before meals, and they were all funny. This one certainly wasn't. A large dollop of thick porridge was placed before her, and a nun came round and poured a minute amount of milk over it. There was no sugar on it, but it tasted of salt. Then followed a slice of bread with half a sausage lying across it. She rather enjoyed that. The hot drink was supposed to be tea but tasted awful. Then more prayers: 'Thank You, O Lord, for this Thy gift of precious food. May we be worthy of it this day. Amen.' Following breakfast, she stuck tight to Annabel. It was upstairs again, and now twenty-past eight, and she was informed by her apparent new. friend that they had to join a small team to clean the toilets, which meant bringing the buckets downstairs, emptying them in the larger-buckets arrayed along the wall by a side door; then wash out each utensil under a pump and return it to its particular cubicle. Following this ritual, she was separated from Annabel while waiting for it to be decided which class she would attend first. So it was a short time later she found herself under the hard eyes of Sister Mary, the large nun she remembered from last night, and her very hard hand. She it was who took the reading, writing, and arithmetic, but, of course, not until after more prayers. Millie was two hours under Sister Mary, and during this time she learned that the nun did not always bother to use her hand, she also used a ruler that seemed as flexible as rubber, for when it hit knuckles it bounced back from them. When the ruler first came in contact with Millie's knuckles she actually cried back at the startled sister, 'Don't do that! I have done nothing wrong. My sums are correct.' The nun's eyes seemed to be popping out of her head as she again wielded the ruler. This time it caught Millie across the wrist, and when she reacted by rising from her seat in an effort to leave the room, she found herself thrust back with such force that her head bobbed on her shoulders. Then the big face was brought down to hers and the words came between small misshapen teeth: 'Do we understand each other now? Eh, miss?' she demanded. 'No, your sum wasn't wrong, but you are writing instead of printing. Do you understand me? I want your work printed. There's plenty of time to show off your handwriting when you've doubled your age. You understand?' She didn't quite, but what she did understand was that she hated this woman, and the thought momentarily came to her that that man wouldn't surely have been as bad as this mean-faced nun. At ten-thirty, Sister Mary left the class and Sister Monica took her place. And now there was a new form of prayer. It was called Scripture and Bible stories. Millie did not care much for Sister Monica either. She was sarcastic: when she herself was first asked a question, and she answered it, the woman made game of how she spoke. But she did not retaliate: she was too upset, almost confused at her previous treatment to even pay attention. Sister Monica stayed with them for half an hour. Sister Aloysius followed. She was small. She, too, was Irish, but she had a soft voice and a kind face: her job was to teach sewing and singing. This was to be a singing lesson, and she wrote the words of a hymn, in print of course, on a blackboard. Then, taking a funny little instrument, she struck her desk with it. It went 'Ping!' and then the children began to sing. Millie found this half hour soothing. When a bell rang the singing immediately stopped; and there were more prayers. At twelve o'clock the class was dismissed, and there followed a rush for the toilets and ablutions. Ten minutes were allowed for this. Dinner consisted of pea soup, which Millie found quite nice - she could taste there had been some kind of pork boiled in liquid - followed a meat pudding. There was quite a good helping of pudding but only a tiny piece of meat. However, with the two medium-sized potatoes and a spoonful of carrots, she found this also quite to her liking. After dinner, they were all marched out to the back garden, which was similar to the front, where they could walk about or play catch ball, but were not allowed to stand and talk to each other. School restarted at one o'clock, with more prayers. These went on for fifteen minutes, again under the hard gaze of Sister Mary. But at a quarter past one Sister Benedicta took over. She taught geography, but it seemed that there was only one country in the world and that was Ireland. Nevertheless, she had a quiet voice, and Millie could put up with her. She was later informed by Annabel that she was known as Body Smell because she had to empty the slops into the cesspit. They did that for their sins, she said, a kind of penance. But it seemed that Sister Benedicta must sin a lot because she always seemed to get the dirty jobs. It should transpire that twice a week those who cared could learn to cook; but apparently Millie herself was to be given no choice; she was sent, with another five girls, to the kitchen at three o'clock and, there, came under the influence of Sister Cecilia, to whom God had given a nice nature and a light pair of hands with pastry. It was the time spent with this

from making her escape from this prayer-ridden, ignorant set of women, from which Mother Francis must be excluded. As Sister Cecilia was to say to her, one could live without reading, writing, or arithmetic, sewing, singing or geography; and yes - there would be a twinkle in her eye - with some, even without the good God; but one couldn't live without food and without those who knew how to make it appetising to the tongue.

After her first visit to Millie, Aggie returned home somewhat perplexed, and she said to Ben, 'I don't know quite what to make of her. She hates the place. As far as I can understand she's made only one friend; but that would be enough if it's a good 'un. But there's a sister there called Mary she would like to strangle. She said so. And you know something? She showed me the marks on the back of her knuckles and her wrist where that bitch had walloped her with a rod of some sort, right from the first day.' 'Well, why don't you bring her home? You'll find some place different from that. That was your friend's recommendation, wasn't it?' 'Don't forget it was yours an' all. Now don't forget that.' 'Aye. Yes, you're right. But it shouldn't be allowed, the hammerin'.' 'Oh, but I had to laugh, or nearly so, for you daren't laugh in there. There was a sister watching us all the time, and when we went to walk out into the garden she said it wasn't allowed. "Well, whoever told you it isn't allowed, tell them to come and tell me," I said, and I took the child outside. It was there she told me about this sister and showed me her hand. "Don't worry, Mrs Aggie," she said; "I'll get me own back on her before I leave this place, you'll see, if it's only kicking her shins." And she will an' all, she'll do it.' Ben started to laugh now. 'You know, you can't believe she's the same child that was so polite a couple of years ago. She got on your nerves then, didn't she? Remember when she used to stand there and madden you with her politeness and that voice of hers. She's still got the voice but the politeness has slipped away a bit.'... ... Almost at that very moment Millie was standing before the Mother Superior, who was voicing that very word, politeness. 'You have been impolite to Sister Mary because she chastised you for taking your visitor out into the garden. She also tells me that you are unruly. What you must learn, child, is obedience. We must all learn obedience, obedience to God's will. And it should happen that it's God's will that you have been sent to us for protection and education. So, don't let me, ever again, hear that you have been impolite to any of the sisters. And, don't, don't' - she held up her hand, her voice holding a note of authority now - 'give me your opinion of the matter. And that's another thing you must learn: you should speak only when you're spoken to, unless you wish to make a serious request. You may go.'

Millie's visit to the sanctum was the first of many during the weeks and months that were to follow, and all resulting from Sister Mary's reports. There was an open war going on between the child and the nun, and the class was aware of it and daily seemed to await events. In the main, it was a time of misery which unknowingly strengthened her character and at the same time introduced her to a friendship which resulted in her opening her eyes to another way of life, a life that she recognised and knew she could fit into; for it was during the first summer holiday that she was invited to spend a day with Annabel at her home. Annabel had talked so much to her parents about the beautiful girl with the long golden hair, and how she had openly stood up to Sister Mary, that it was decided to invite this child to have tea with the family. Annabel's father was the manager of Crane Boulder's Cotton Mill. It was considered one of the advanced mills, advanced in that their employees worked only the ten-hour day and finished work at one o'clock on a Saturday. So it should happen that Mr Kirkley was at home when the guests arrived and was able to add to his surprise and not a little amazement when his daughter's friend was delivered at his door by Raggie Aggie, for Aggie had long been a known character, she and her handcart, and now the pony-driven flat-cart; and of course the fact that she was almost as broad as it was. He recalled tales about her, that she had at one time belonged to a respectable family of farmers; unbelievable now, for she could certainly no longer be placed in that category. Something would have to be done about this. He had imagined the nuns to be very particular whom they took into their house as pupils. However, before the visit ended the husband and wife both admitted to being charmed with Annabel's friend, and that they could understand their daughter's feelings towards her, for the girl was not only as beautiful as Annabel had described her, but also she had the most pleasing and cultured voice. They had understood from their daughter that her parents were dead. But why, they asked of each other, should a child like that be under the care of the rag woman? Kirkley thought it was something worth looking into. He did, and when he eventually learned that the child's mother had committed suicide and that out of compassion the rag woman had taken her into her house to save her being put in the workhouse or farmed out, again they both agreed that the rag woman had worthy motives. And so, during the holiday, Millie was again invited to tea, and on this visit she amused them, together with their other children, a twelve-year old son, and a five-year old daughter, when she gave them an imitation of the nuns, excelling herself when she touched on Sister Mary. It was Annabel's friendship and her acceptance by the Kirkley family that really kept her in the House of Christ the Saviour, where there was no laughter except in the kitchen with Sister Cecilia and sometimes a covert smile from Sister Aloysius. Her stay, however, ended dramatically on the last Friday of January, 1858. It was a biting cold morning. The water in the basins had a layer of ice on them, which had to be broken before the children could wash; then, in the dining room they sat shivering, for the fire at the end of the room did not take even the chill away. In the classroom, Sister Mary's indiscriminate wielding of the ruler caused a great deal of wincing and tears. The children had been told to write answers to what happened to Jesus in the temple: What did He do there? and what did His parents say to Him when they found Him? For Millie, the lesson needed no thinking, for the sister had practically told them what to say, but she wove a story round it as if the incident were happening in Benton Fields at the present time. Unfortunately she made a mistake of naming the church where Jesus was found as St George's, which happened to be a Church of England edifice. After the monitor had gathered up the papers and placed them on the small, square, wooden table that acted as the sister's desk, the class sat quiet, waiting anxiously for the verdict, a tick or a large cross, the while automatically mumbling Hail Marys. At no time in the day must there be an idle moment or a silent one; any spare time must be filled with prayer. The sharp sound of Sister Mary's hand banging down on the square of writing paper stopped the chanting. She was yelling now, 'Stupid! Stupid! A waste of good paper. Come out here, you!' If the finger had not been pointed, all the class would have known who was being called to face the fearsome sister, and when Millie stood by the side of the nun's desk, the sheet of paper was immediately thrust into her face with the demand, 'What do you mean by that? A waste of paper! A waste of good paper. Rubbish! Rubbish! Trying to be clever. Rubbish! And that hair.' The woman flicked her hand and knocked one of the long plaits from Millie's shoulder as she continued her tirade: 'I've told you, haven't I? I told you yesterday, one plait and at the back, and tight. Stand still, girl! Turn round!' And without giving Millie time to obey, she yelled again, 'Turn round! Turn round! girl,' and swung her round by the shoulders, and while holding her with one hand she ripped the pieces of tape from the end of each plait, before she tore at the hair until it hung in uneven strands; then she almost lifted Millie from the floor as, using both hands now, she drew the strands together and began forming them into a tight rope-like plait. This done, she whipped up a piece of tape, which she tied some inches from the bottom; then, while still holding on to the hair with one hand, her other hand shot out and pulled open a drawer from which she grabbed a pair of large scissors. There was a gasp from the children and a high scream from Millie as the scissors went snip, snip, snip. Flinging herself round and seeing at least three inches of her hair lying on the wooden floor, she yelled, 'How dare you! How dare you!' And now she did what she had promised herself she would do, and lifted her foot and aimed it at the nun's shin. That . it had made contact was evident, for Sister Mary let out a cry, a weird sound that was rather a yell not a scream. Then again she was grabbing the plait, screeching now, 'I'll cut it off. Right to the scalp. Right to the scalp. You're wicked! Bad." Some of the children were screaming as they watched the tussle going on between the nun and the girl whom they. secretly admired and envied because she wasn't afraid of the dreaded Sister Mary. 'You're evil. Evil. You want shriving.' The nun had hold of the plait again, while endeavouring amid her screaming to bring her other hand, holding the scissors, down to finish its work. But Millie, her body twisted, her two arms extended, was gripping the woman's wrists while being tossed to and fro in the struggle, and she, too, was screaming, 'You won't! You won't!' Whether it was Millie's infuriated strength that caused the woman's grasp on the scissors to slacken, or that she changed her tactics and meant to direct the scissors towards the child's face, couldn't be known, but Millie grabbed at the open blades and, managing to twist them round, consciously or by accident drove one of the blades into the nun's arm. As the scream rent the room the door was thrust open and Sister Monica and Sister Aloysius rushed in, just in time to stop the nun's hands going round Millie's throat. The room was in an uproar, the children huddled together and all screaming. The big nun's arms were flailing while the other two attempted to hold her. It was Sister Aloysius who turned her head and cried to one of the bigger girls, 'Go and fetch Reverend Mother! Take the children. Take them with you. Out! Out!' All the children, except Millie, scrambled from the room: she had staggered over to a side wall and was leaning against it, her hands hanging by her side, her mouth wide open to let her gasping breath free. 'I'll kill her! I will. I will. She should be dead. She's wicked! Wicked.' The nun was screaming now at the top of her voice; then for a moment she became still and silent as she looked at a trickle of blood flowing down over her fingers; and she now screeched again. 'Look! Blood! Blood! She's evil.' 'Quiet. Quiet, dear.' Sister Aloysius was wiping the hand now with a piece of rough linen she had taken from a pocket in her habit. 'It's all right. Mother will soon be here. Be quiet now. Be quiet.' 'Never! Never! She must be locked up. She's bad, wicked. And her hair shorn. I'm going to shear her hair. I am; I am. She was born evil. Father Dolan told Reverend Mother all about her, all about her. She's from the dregs. Her mother was on the streets. I heard him. She took her life ... evil. I spoke to God. Two inches at a time, He said, until she is cropped; the vanity is in her hair. Pride, all in her hair. It's got to come off.' And as her voice ended on another high scream the door opened and the Mother Superior came in. Her voice was calm as she said to Sisters Monica and Aloysius. 'Leave go of her.' 'But, Mother.' She turned her cold stare on Sister Monica, saying, 'Do as I bid.' They did as they were ordered, and when the arms began to flail again Mother Francis brought her hand in a resounding blow across Sister Mary's face, sending her backwards against the wall, where she stood, quiet now, her mouth agape and froth around her lips. Stepping back and looking at the other two nuns, the Mother Superior said, 'Take her to her cell.' Almost as if leading a child, they took the woman from the room, and the Mother Superior, herself on the point of leaving, turned and looked towards where Millie was still standing riveted to the spot. It was as if she hadn't been aware of the girl's presence, but she said, 'Stay where you are, child. Don't move,' and then went out. How long Millie stood alone, she didn't know. There was a continuous whirling of thoughts in her head: Was she evil? Had her mother been evil? What did she mean, her mother had been on the streets? She had heard that term before. It was in some way connected with bad things. But had her mother been evil? And so, was she evil? She wanted Mrs Aggie. Oh, Mrs Aggie, Mrs Aggie. When the door opened and Sister Cecilia came in, still wearing her kitchen apron, the whirling thoughts ceased and she said, 'Oh, Sister.' Sister Cecilia held out a hand towards her, saying, 'Come child, come,' then led her out of the room, through the corridor, upstairs, and into her cubicle. She did not immediately help her to get her things together, but sat on the side of the bed and drew Millie towards her, saying, 'It's a sorry day, child. It's a sorry day;' then leaning towards her, she said very quietly now, 'I'm not blaming you, my dear. I'm not blaming you. It is a strange thing, and you will find it more so in our way of life, that some people cannot stand the sight of beauty. It is a joy they're missing, but it is never revealed to them. Poor dear Sister Mary has never known joy. You must forgive her.' The nun looked away from Millie now and towards the partition as she said in a voice little above a mutter, 'He bids us come, and if at first we don't obey Him, His voice is insistent. "Come. Come, my child. You owe me your life," He says. "Let Me show you how to live it," but then once you have given Him your life He becomes distant; you have to struggle to touch Him. Yet He said to me, "Cecilia, you have two blessings, you love beauty and cooking. What more could you desire?"' Turning to look at Millie again, she ended, 'But one always wants more: just to see His face in the night, not in plaster, in the flesh. But I tell myself it will come. God's will be done.' She put out a hand and touched Millie's cheek now, saying softly, 'I ramble on, child. You don't understand what I'm saying, yet some of my words might remain with you, for I think you are old enough to understand what I am about to say to you now. Resist evil, my dear, the evil that men do. Do you understand me? Resist the evil that men do.' Millie didn't really understand. Her mind still wanted to whirl, but she would remember the words, 'Resist the evil that men do.' And on the thought there came into her mind the picture of the thin-faced man. 'Well now, child; let us pack up your things and let us be ready when your guardian comes. She is being sent for.' 'I... I to go home?' She slipped off the edge of the bed as if she had been injected with new life. 'Yes. Yes, my dear, you have to go. And I am very sorry, because you have the makings of a splendid cook. You won't forget what I have taught you, will you?'

forget, ever. Nor you.' As she went to put her arms around the nun a gentle hand pressed her back, and the voice, so gentle, said, 'I ... I understand your feelings, child; and I, too, feel ... but ... but,' and the voice became rather thick as she ended, 'we will not demonstrate them.' After the bass hamper that had held her belongings was refilled and strapped, Sister Cecilia said, 'Sit there quiet, my child, until they send for you.' She paused, and her fingers lightly touched Millie's cheek, as she said, 'My prayers will go with you and I shall remember you always.' 'Oh, Sister, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I... I mean... well, I mean, I'm not sorry to leave the school, leave here, but I'm sorry to leave you, and I wish I could see you again. I... I won't be able to, will I?' 'No, my child, you won't; but you will always remain in my memory. And you will remember my words, won't you? Beware of the evil that men do.' 'Yes. Yes, Sister.' 'Goodbye, my child; and God be with you always.' Millie sat again on the edge of the bed, her head bowed deep on her chest, the tears running unheeded down her face. Beware of the evil that men do. Beware of the evil that men do. Yes, she would remember those words, and always remember Sister Cecilia. FOUR

Millie had been home for nearly three months when she received a letter from Annabel. It was the first communication she'd had with her since the day she left the convent ignominiously and in dire disgrace. And during that time the house had become brighter in all ways, not only through her cleaning and her presence but also through her cooking. She had become expert in at least three dishes while under the tuition of Sister Cecilia: the meat pudding, a lamb stew thickened with lentils, barley, and vegetables and topped with dumplings, and, a real piece of expertise: the making of light pastry with either pig's fat or beef dripping. From the time she returned to the house, both Aggie and Ben ate better, lived more comfortably and were happier. Yet, their frame of mind was always streaked with anxiety that caused them both to be forever on the watch. They made it a rule that she was never to be alone. If she went out of the yard, which was rarely, one or other would go with her, and they never both left the yard together. Although their protection wasn't evident Millie was conscious of it, and there were times when she felt as hemmed in as she had done during that tortured year or more when guarded by the sisters. Then came the letter; and she read it aloud to them:

'Dear Millie, My mama asks if you would care to come to tea on Saturday afternoon at four o'clock. Also Mama would like to speak with your guardian about something that may be of benefit to you. I miss you very much. I am no longer with the nuns but am to attend a day school. I have such a lot to tell you, and I'm looking forward to our meeting. Your friend, Annabel.'

She looked from Aggie to Ben, and it was Aggie who said, 'Something that may be of benefit to you. What does she mean by that?' Ben was grinning now as he looked at Millie, saying, 'Perhaps they're goin' to adopt you.' 'I don't want to be adopted, Ben; I've been adopted.' She smiled at Aggie; although Aggie gave her no answering smile, but just said, 'Well, the day's Thursday. We'll have to wait an' see what the benefit's goin' to be ... Would you like to go to school again?' Millie did not answer straightaway; then, thoughtfully, she said, 'I thought I might like to go to the day school. I mean, like I did before. Yes' - she nodded now- 'yes, I think I'd like more schooling.' 'Why?' She turned towards Ben as she answered him, 'Well, because I know there's a lot to learn.' 'Can't see that. You can read a newspaper from beginning to end and you can write better than those fellas who keep the thing goin'. As for talkin', I would say there are few who could talk better. That's when' - he poked his head forward, a mischievous grin on his face now - 'you don't let drop one of those naughty words; you know, like you did yesterday.' 'I didn't. I didn't swear. Well ... I mean--' She shook her head, then looked at Aggie, saying now, 'If you didn't say it so often, I wouldn't either.' 'What's this I say so often?' 'Damn and blast your eyes.' 'I don't say that very often' Both Ben and Millie now began to laugh, and, getting to his feet, Ben said, 'Know thyself, woman. Know thyself. Anyway, if you're goin' to tea with the toffs you'd better get scrubbed down and pick out some decent clothes.' 'There was nothing mentioned in that letter about me havin' tea.' 'Well, if you're not invited I won't stay either. But as Ben says, put on some nice things. There's ... there's the print frock I let out that fits you. It's nice. And there's that nice cape you got last week.' 'Shut up! both of you.' Aggie pulled herself up from the chair. 'Why don't you strip me down and go over me with a scrubbin' brush?' 'That's an idea.' Ben's expression was serious as he nodded towards Millie, and she answered him, 'Yes; yes, it is. But we'll have to do it with cold water and the yard broom.' That's enough. D'you hear? That's enough.' When Aggie swung round with a lightness that always denied her heavy bulk and made hastily for the door, Millie flew after her and, jumping in front of her, threw her arms around her waist as far as they would go, crying, 'I'm sorry. It wasn't nice. I was just trying to be funny, like Ben. You're ... you're so clean underneath, and nobody knows except me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. And I love you. Oh, I do love you.' 'Shut up and be quiet. Stop your jabber. And leave go of me.' As Aggie pulled the arms from around her waist she glanced to the side, for Ben was no longer in the room. 'Come here,' she said as she walked back to the fireplace. And when again Millie stood close by her side she looked down on her and said, 'Never try to be funny at other people's expense. Ben can do it because ... well, he's a man, and one expects it from a man. But with a woman or girl, no, unless it's against yourself. You can be funny against yourself.., you know what I mean, belittlin' yourself like, but don't be funny belittlin' anybody else. You understand?' Millie's voice was breaking as she said, 'Oh, yes, yes, Mrs Aggie, I understand. Oh, yes, I understand, and I'll never do it again.' 'Oh" - Aggie now wagged her head - 'be as funny as you like, but don't level it against anybody to hurt them. That's unless they've deserved it, or done something bad. Oh, what am I yammerin' on about? Go on, get on with your work. You were goin' to make a tart, weren't you? I'll tell you what else you can do; you can make half a dozen or so of those currant buns of yours and take them with you on Saturday as a kind of present for the lady.' It was as much as Millie could do to check herself from saying, 'Oh, I don't think I should do that. I mean, they've got a cook.' She had already hurt this dear, kind, woman. And to point out to her now that she didn't know the right thing to do when visiting people like the Kirkleys would be, in a way, against the advice she had just given her, although it wasn't to do with talking; more like behaviour and deportment or some such. Well, whatever it was, she knew she'd have to bake her little cakes and present them to Mrs Kirkley on Saturday.