Street Child. Berlie Doherty
done your work well, and that’s what matters,” Judd sniffed. She looked over Emily’s shoulder as the girl dolloped her dough on to the table and pushed her hands into it to knead it. Rosie dodged behind her, her hands clasped together, her face anxious. It was as if Emily was performing some kind of magic, and they were afraid to break the spell, the way the three women watched her in silence.
“Can cook, can you?” Judd asked Emily at last.
“She can cook as well as me,” said Jim’s mother. “And she can scrub the floor for you, and run errands. She can sleep on the kitchen floor and take up no room.”
“She wouldn’t need paying,” Rosie said. “She’d be a saving, Judd.”
Emily flattened and rolled the dough with the heel of her hand, stretching it out and folding it over time and time again, listening with every nerve in her body to what the women behind her were saying.
“But I couldn’t do anything for the other girl,” Judd said.
“Judd, I’ve a sister who’s cook at Sunbury. She might give her a chance,” Rosie said. She stood on the tips of her toes like a little girl, her hands clasped behind her back and her eyes pleading. “If you just let little Lizzie sleep down here with Emily till Sunday, and I can walk her over to Moll’s then.”
“I don’t want to know they’re here, Rosie. If his lordship finds out, it’s every one of us for the workhouse. You know that, don’t you? I don’t know they’re here, these girls.”
Judd swept out, her straight back and her firm stride telling them that she had never seen these girls in the kitchen. They listened to the swing of the door and for the clicking of her boots on the stairs to die away.
“It’s the best I can do to help you, Annie,” Rosie said. “I can’t do no more.”
“It’s more than I expected,” Mrs Jarvis said. “At least you’ve saved my girls from that place.”
She stood up unsteadily. “We’d better go,” she said to Jim. “It’s not fair to Rosie if we stay here any longer.”
“I’ll leave you alone to say your goodbyes, then,” said Rosie. She touched her friend quickly on the shoulder and went into the scullery, her face set in hurt, hard lines. They could hear her in there, banging pots around as if she was setting up an orchestra.
Emily said nothing at all, and that was because she couldn’t. Her throat was tight with a band of pain. She couldn’t even look at her mother or at Jim, but hugged them quickly and went to sit down at the table, her head in her hands. Lizzie tried to follow her example, but as soon as Mrs Jarvis had put her hand on the door that led up to the street she burst out, “Take us with you, Ma. Don’t leave us here!”
“I can’t,” her mother said. She didn’t turn round to her. “Bless you. I can’t. This is best for you. God bless you, both of you.”
She took Jim’s hand and bundled him quickly out of the door. Jim daren’t look at her. He daren’t listen to the sounds that she was making now that they were out into the day. He held his face up to the sky and let the snowflakes flutter against his cheeks to cool him. He had no idea what was going to happen to him or his mother, or whether he would ever see Emily and Lizzie again. He was more frightened than he had ever been in his life.
Jim and his mother walked for most of that day, but they made very slow progress. They rested a bit near a statue of a man on a horse and after a very short distance they had to stop again for Mrs Jarvis to scoop water from a fountain. And on they went, trudging and stopping, trudging and stopping, until Jim’s mother could go no further. She put her arms round Jim and pressed her head down on to his shoulder.
“God help you, Jim,” she said.
It seemed to Jim that she was simply tired then of walking and that she decided to go to sleep, there on the pavement. He squatted down beside her, glad of a chance to rest, feeling dizzy and tired himself, and was aware of a worry of voices round him, like flies buzzing. Someone shook him and he opened his eyes.
“Where d’you live?” a voice said.
Jim sat up. Already it was growing dark. There were people round him and some were kneeling by his mother, trying to lift her. “We used to live in a cottage,” said Jim. “We had a cow and some hens.”
“Where d’you live now?” It was a different voice, a bit sharper than the last one. Jim tried to remember the name of the street where they had rented a room in Mr Spink’s big house, and couldn’t. He couldn’t understand why his mother didn’t wake up. He looked round for his bundle and saw that his wooden horse had gone. He clutched Lizzie’s old boots.
“You haven’t got nowhere?” the same voice asked.
Jim shook his head. Someone was doing something to his mother, rubbing her hands, it looked like, dabbing her face with her shawl. “Get them to the workhouse,” someone said. “There’s nothing we can do for her.”
“I’m not taking them there,” another voice said. “Prison would be better than there. Tell them we caught the boy stealing, and let them put them both in prison.”
“Someone stole my horse,” Jim heard himself saying. He couldn’t keep his voice steady. “I didn’t steal anything.”
“Give him his horse back,” someone else said. “It’s all he’s got, ain’t it? A pair of boots what’s too big for him, and a wooden horse. Give it back.” There was a burst of laughter and some children broke away from the group and ran off.
The next minute there was a shouting from the far end of the street, and the people who had been crouching round Jim and his mother stood up and moved away. He heard other voices and looked up to see two policemen. “Get up!” one of the policemen ordered. Jim struggled to his feet. “And you! Get up!” the other one said to Jim’s mother. She lay quite still.
The first policeman waved his hand and a boy with a cart ran up. Between them they lifted Jim’s mother on to it. Jim watched, afraid.
“Take ’em to the workhouse,” the policeman said. “Let them die in there, if they have to.” The boy began to run then, head down, skidding on the snowy road, weaving the cart in and out of the carriages, and Jim ran anxiously behind. They came at last to a massive stone building with iron railings round it. Weary people slouched there, begging for food. The boy stopped the cart outside the huge iron gates and pulled the bell. Jim could hear it clanging in the distance. At last the gates were pulled open by a porter who glared out at them, his lantern held up high.
“Two more for you,” said the boy. “One for the infirmary, one for school.” The porter led them into a yard. There on the steps on each side of the main door stood a man and woman, as straight and thin and waxy-faced as a pair of church candles, staring down at them. The boy held out his hand and was given a small coin, and the master and matron bent down and lifted Jim’s mother off the cart and carried her into the house. The boy pushed his cart out and the porter clanged the gates shut.
The matron poked her head sharply round the door.
“Get in!” she told Jim, and pulled him through. “You come and get scrubbed and cropped.”
The doors groaned to. They were in a long corridor, gloomy with candle shadow. In front of them a man trudged with Jim’s mother across his shoulder.
“Where’s Ma going?” Jim asked, his voice echoing against the tiles like the whimpering of a tiny, scared animal.
“Where’s she going? Infirmary, that’s where she’s going. Wants feeding and medicine, no doubt, and nothing to buy