The Doorstep Girls Read online

  ‘Ah, very well. Off you go, then.’ He looked her up and down. ‘But no rush, he’s still in the office.’ He nodded to her and she continued on to the front entrance where the chaise, which she and Ruby often saw the Newmarch brothers driving, was waiting by the steps.

  If we ride in that, she mused, then that will be the second time I have ridden in a carriage.

  ‘Are you admiring the cab?’ Martin Newmarch came up behind her.

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s very handsome.’ It had a shining black leather hood, which was closed because of the weather, and red painted wheels.

  ‘My brother and I share it.’ He opened the door of the cabriolet and invited her to step inside.

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen you driving it,’ she said.

  He climbed up at the front and took the reins. ‘Do you know how to get to the Groves?’ he called to her. ‘Most of the people who died seem to live there – did live there,’ he corrected himself.

  ‘I know where it is, sir,’ she called back and kept the window down so that he could hear her. ‘We need to be across ’North Bridge. I’ll direct you from there, though we shan’t be able to drive down some of ’streets.’

  ‘Oh! Why is that?’ He shook the reins and they moved off.

  ‘There’ll be no room for ’carriage, sir. Streets will be too narrow. You’ll have to find a lad – a boy, to hold ’horse’s head.’

  She ran her hands across the seat as she was speaking, for she knew he couldn’t see her. The seats were covered in a pale blue leather and by the window a brass lantern swung. She sighed. It would be nothing to the Newmarch brothers to drive in such a carriage as this, they did it every day. No walking in the rain and cold for them. She thought of the young lady who had given her and her father a ride in her carriage. She had wanted to let her gaze wander around that too, but was afraid that she would be considered curious.

  It wasn’t as elegant as this carriage, she decided, but the lady was lovely and wearing such rich-looking clothes. A navy blue dress with a bustle and over it a grey travelling coat trimmed with navy velvet. Grace had noticed her neat leather boots and had self-consciously tucked her own worn boots beneath her skirt.

  She sighed again just as Martin Newmarch called to her. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think. Are you feeling uneasy about visiting these people? Would you rather not have come?’

  ‘No, I’m all right, sir. Just sad, especially about the little girl.’

  ‘Yes. She was too young to be at work.’

  Grace glanced through the small window which faced the front. She saw the back of his dark hair beneath his top hat and the velvet collar of his coat, and wondered if he really meant it or was only saying it.

  They clattered over the old bridge and turned left along the other side of the river Hull, down Cleveland Street which was lined with factories and mills and into Lime Street and towards the Groves.

  ‘I hadn’t realized they had to come so far if they walked,’ Martin Newmarch muttered. ‘So that’s why they use the old ferry.’ He slowed the horse to a walk. ‘Are we nearly there?’ he called to her.

  ‘Just a little further, sir. Turn right here.’ They turned into a narrow unmade road and he drew to a halt. Ahead of them was a mass of houses, cramped courts and alleys.

  ‘I can’t drive any further,’ he said sharply. ‘The wheels will get bogged down. Are you sure this is the place?’

  ‘Quite sure, sir.’ She opened the door and stepped out. ‘Shall I go into this inn and ask if somebody can mind ’horse and carriage?’

  He put his hand to his nose. ‘Yes, if you will. No, wait. It might not be safe for you to go in alone.’

  She looked up at him. ‘It’s perfectly safe, sir. Are you feeling all right?’

  He nodded, keeping his hand to his nose. ‘What’s that awful smell? It’s not whale blubber, I’m used to that now.’

  ‘It’ll be ’drain, I expect. Sutton drain runs alongside here. ’Muckgarths run into it.’ She gave a laugh. ‘If you think it’s bad now, sir, you should be here in ’summer. Even ’residents get sick with the smell.’

  He stared down at her as she stood below him. His eyes were wide and watery as he strove not to take a breath. ‘Be quick then,’ he muttered. ‘See if you can find someone willing to earn a shilling.’

  She was about to say that sixpence would be enough just for holding a horse’s head for half an hour, but then decided that if Mr Newmarch had a shilling to spare, someone would count it as their lucky day.

  A young boy was sitting on the flagged floor inside the inn doorway. He was poorly and thinly clad for such a cold day, without even a muffler around his neck. His feet were bare and, as he got up so that Grace could pass, she saw that he was also very lame, with one leg much shorter than the other.

  ‘Do you want a job?’ she whispered. ‘Worth a shilling!’

  She saw the amazement on his face, which quickly turned to eagerness. ‘You’ve just to look after a horse and carriage for half an hour. Mek sure nobody messes about with it.’

  He nodded and followed her into the street. ‘And if ’gentleman asks,’ she said in a low voice, ‘tell him you’re used to hosses.’

  ‘I am,’ he whispered in return. ‘I go and help feed horses off ’coal waggons. Waggon master gives me a penny. I can’t do owt else on account of my leg.’

  ‘Here we are, Mr Newmarch,’ she called. ‘Here’s an experienced lad.’

  Martin Newmarch looked doubtfully at the ragged boy, but then jumped down from his seat and told him to fasten the reins to a nearby post and stay with the horse and vehicle. ‘If you’re not here when we get back,’ he said severely, ‘I shall search you out. Make no mistake about it.’

  The boy grinned. His face was dirty and his hair matted as if it had never been brushed. ‘I’ll be here, sir. No matter how long you tek.’

  ‘Very well.’ Martin looked towards the dark houses which seemed to crowd dejectedly into each other, then looked down at his shiny boots and the muddy road. He turned up his coat collar and glanced at Grace. ‘Let’s be off then.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  They walked in silence down the road, Martin Newmarch picking his way fastidiously to avoid the streams of thick dirty water which were running towards the drain. At the side of the road was an open stagnant ditch, overflowing with fetid liquid which filled the potholes and crevices.

  Grace pulled a face. She had heard it was very bad down here. Not only did the residents have to put up with the stench from the factories, the blubber yards and the soot from the mill chimneys, but there were no drains and nowhere to throw dirty water or rubbish. It was worse, she thought, much worse than Middle Court. She wriggled her feet. The cardboard in her boots had gone soggy and she could feel mud squelching between her toes.

  ‘God in heaven!’

  She looked up at Mr Newmarch’s muttered exclamation. ‘Sir?’

  He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe that people have to live like this!’

  ‘We’re not there yet, sir,’ she said. ‘It could be worse.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he replied briskly. ‘It can’t possibly be any worse.’

  But it was. As they turned into the first court where they had been told the little girl had lived, they were confronted by intolerable squalor. Few of the houses had doors as they had been chopped up and burnt for firewood, and the windows were covered over with cardboard or pieces of rag to keep out the cold. The privies had no doors either and were open, not only to the elements but to any passer-by.

  They approached one of the houses to make an enquiry, and were hailed by a voice from another open doorway. The sergeant and his constable were there already with the householder, a woman who was holding her apron up to her face.

  ‘This is ’little lass’s grandmother, sir.’ The sergeant addressed Martin Newmarch. ‘Seems that word has got here afore us.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Martin walked across to them. ‘So very sorry for your loss.’

 
The woman stared at him as if not comprehending who he was or why he was there. Grace stepped forward. ‘Mr Newmarch is a manager of ’mill where your Nancy worked,’ she said softly. ‘He’s come to offer condolences and ask if there’s owt he can do to help.’

  ‘Can’t bring her back, can he?’ the old woman said bitterly. ‘For all his wealth, that’s one thing he can’t do.’

  ‘No,’ Grace said. ‘No-one can do that.’ She hesitated, guessing from the woman’s Irish accent that she might be a Catholic. ‘Was Nancy a good child?’

  ‘That she was.’ The woman’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Had her First Communion. Went to church this morning before she went to work.’

  ‘Then she’s safe in the Lord’s hands,’ Grace whispered. ‘And you’ll see her again in heaven.’

  The woman nodded and wiped her eyes. ‘Come in. Come in.’ She beckoned Grace and Mr Newmarch into a small room filled with people who had come to grieve. All the women wore black with black shawls on their heads, and the men too wore dark clothing. On the wall above the hearth, where a low fire burned, was a crucifix.

  ‘This is Nancy’s daddy.’ The grandmother indicated a young dark-haired man. ‘She had no mammy, she died when Nancy was only a weanling. These two are her uncles and these her aunties and cousins.’

  Grace heard Martin Newmarch give a slight cough behind her. ‘You are very fortunate to have so many relatives to comfort you,’ he said diffidently. ‘So good of them to come to support you in your grief.’

  The woman gave a ghost of a smile and was about to say something, when Nancy’s father got to his feet. His eyes were red, the lids swollen as if with weeping. ‘They always support us, sir. We support each other. We have to, for no-one else will.’ He looked around at the gathering, ‘Isn’t that right, brothers and sisters? We live together, starve together and comfort each other when our children die. This is our home, such as it is, and you’re very welcome to join us in our prayers for Nancy. The priest is on his way and, God bless her, we’ll give her a good send-off.’

  Martin gazed at the man, who was probably the same age as he was. He had handsome features with long unruly hair but was shabbily dressed, and Martin wondered why he was here, so far from his native land. The railways, he decided, perhaps he or his father came to work on the railways as so many Irish did.

  ‘I regret we cannot stay,’ he said. ‘There are other families to visit who have also lost loved ones. Are you in work?’ he asked abruptly. ‘Do you have a trade?’

  ‘Ah! Just at the minute now, I don’t. Work for the Irish seems to have dried up. That’s why young Nancy was working at the mill, along with her cousins.’ He pointed to two young girls of about ten or eleven, who sat with wide frightened eyes close to their mothers. ‘They are blessed by the Lord,’ he said softly, and crossed himself, as did the women of the group. ‘The ferry was full when they came to get on it and were turned away. They’d set off to walk to the mill when they saw the tragedy and returned home.’

  Martin nodded. So no wages for them, he thought. What then will they do? How will they pay for the funeral, and the wake? The Irish always have a wake. At least they do for an adult, I don’t know about a child. ‘Would you come outside for a moment?’ he asked, determined to offer the young man money, if he would take it. ‘I’d like to have a word.’

  Grace shook hands with all the members of the family before following Mr Newmarch and Nancy’s father outside, with the grandmother close behind her.

  ‘Bless you for coming, child.’ She pressed Grace’s hand. ‘You’ve brought us comfort by your presence.’ She put her head on one side. ‘But how would I place you now? Beggin’ your pardon, but you’re not of Mr Newmarch’s ilk?’

  ‘No,’ Grace agreed. ‘I’m not. I’m nobody really. Just one of ’workers from the mill, but Mr Newmarch asked me if I’d come with him.’

  ‘You’re nobody, are you? Just like us!’ The old woman nodded knowingly. ‘Listen to me, child. One day you’ll be somebody, but you’ll not forget your roots. That I know. God bless you.’

  Grace turned away. She was not given to religious beliefs, yet strangely, having come to offer comfort to those bereaved, she felt that somehow, by the woman’s blessing, she had received comfort herself.

  They visited several other bereaved families in the company of the sergeant and then walked back to the carriage. The boy was still standing by the horse’s head and surrounded by a crowd of onlookers, mostly young people, who melted away when they saw the owner approaching.

  ‘They wanted to look inside ’carriage,’ the boy said. ‘Onny I wouldn’t let ’em. Said it was more’n my life was worth!’

  ‘You did well,’ Martin said in a subdued tone, and handed Grace a shilling to give him.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ The boy looked down at the coin as if he never really expected to see so much, even though it had been promised. ‘Any time you’re this way again, just ask for Luke. Everybody knows me.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Martin replied. ‘But I don’t expect to be this way again.’

  He looked at Grace. ‘Come up to the front beside me,’ he said. ‘It’s not cold, there’s a blanket on the seat.’

  Grace hid a smile. Mr Newmarch didn’t know what the cold was. It wasn’t feeling the sharp wind on your face as you rode atop a carriage. It was cold when you had no boots for your feet. It was cold when you had no fire, and water ran down the walls of the room where you lived, and when your mattress and blankets were damp and rain seeped through onto the floor.

  She had smelt and felt the damp in that small room where the Irish were gathered, and knew that the neighbours had collected together and generously provided fuel for the fire so that the family could grieve in a little comfort. She had seen the pile of old blankets in a corner of the room and knew that the fifteen or so people, men, women and children, were not visiting their relatives in a time of grief, but that that was where they lived. Every single one of them.

  ‘Tell me,’ Martin Newmarch said as they drove away. ‘Why did the foreman ask you to stay and help? Did he know of your ability to cope in such circumstances?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’ She had wondered about it herself. ‘I’ve never done anything like that before. Never had to deal with such tragedy.’ She pondered. ‘I did ask if we could cover up ’bodies, it didn’t seem respectful to leave them just lying there. Then he asked me to stop and make a list of everybody.’

  ‘Well, thank you anyway.’ He glanced at her. ‘You’re a very capable young woman.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she smiled. At least he didn’t call her a child as so many others did.

  ‘I saw you at Dock Green last Sunday,’ he said suddenly. ‘Why were you there?’

  She felt a fleeting sense of dismay, then decided to be quite frank. She could do as she wished on her day off. ‘I asked my father to take me to hear the speakers. He was telling me about one of ’speakers who used to come to Hull. Somebody called Vincent who spoke of helping ’poor folks.’

  ‘Vincent! Ah!’ He turned again and appraised her. ‘And did he, do you think?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, Mr Newmarch. Nobody can. There’s too many of us.’

  ‘So are you poor?’ he asked. ‘Does your father not work?’

  ‘He works as a labourer on ’docks, but he’s been put onto short time, ’same as me. And my ma has hurt her back which is no good when you’re a washerwoman and have to lug pails of water and wet washing about.’ She stopped. He hadn’t asked for a family report and she hadn’t answered his question. ‘But we’re not as poor as them Irish back at ’Groves. We have a bowl of broth every night, and bread for breakfast, and we manage to pay ’rent every week.’

  ‘I see.’ They turned to drive across the bridge. ‘And you’re on – what? Three days a week?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said meekly, and pondered that she had probably said too much. ‘Monday, Friday and Saturday.’

  He drove on for a while, the
n said, ‘Well, I’ll see what I can do about increasing your hours – but I can’t promise,’ he added hastily. ‘It wouldn’t be fair to the other workers. But I’ll make sure that you get your full wages for today.’ He remained silent until they drew up at the mill entrance, when he thanked her for her help. He assisted her down from the high seat and said quietly, ‘You could do something better than being a mill girl, you know.’

  ‘I never learned a trade, sir. If I’d known, I could have been a weaver or a spinner.’ She gave a deep sigh. ‘And it’s too late now.’

  The whole mill was buzzing over the ferry tragedy. Many of the workpeople knew someone who knew someone who had been on the boat, or who had just missed being on the boat or would have been on the boat if something or other hadn’t happened. The management wisely let them talk for half an hour, and then called them to order.

  Ruby couldn’t concentrate on any of her jobs and was twice rebuked by the foreman. She had left a pail of water in the middle of a walkway where someone had almost fallen over it, and had not finished wiping down one of the frames as she had been requested to do. Then she was seen talking to one of the managers and the foreman thought that she was in trouble over something.

  ‘I’m not!’ she claimed. ‘Mr Newmarch asked me if I knew anyone on ’ferry boat that sank this morning. I don’t know why he stopped to ask me, but he did!’

  He had sought her out, she was sure of it. She had looked up and seen him on one of the upper walkways looking down. The next thing, he was by her side. He had a folder under his arm as if he was going about his business, but he stopped to speak and she felt quite embarrassed because, as he questioned her, he stared at her bare feet and ankles.

  Grace is such a long time, she thought as she wielded her mop. I wonder if she’s gone home? I couldn’t have stayed there, not when they were pulling bodies out of the water. She shuddered. Grace has stronger backbone than me.

  She saw her later in the morning as Grace came back into the mill, and saw her speak briefly to the foreman. He nodded his head and then pointed her in the direction he wanted her to work. She gave a little wave to Ruby and mouthed that she would see her later, but it was six o’clock before they were able to catch up with each other.