Читать книгу Street Child - Berlie Doherty - Страница 10

Mrs Jarvis used up a lot of her remaining strength that morning. She led the children away from the slums where they had lived for the past year and down street after street until they came to a much quieter part of town, where the houses were big and stately. She leaned against some railings to rest. Emily sat down next to her, anxious for her mother.

“Now you’ve got to be good,” Mrs Jarvis said to them. “I’m going to take you to the house where I used to work, only you must be good. Promise me now?”

“Ma! Course we’ll be good,” Emily said.

Mrs Jarvis nodded. “Yes. You’re always good,” she said. “That’s one thing I did right, anyway.”

In the window behind them a finch sang in a tiny cage. It only had room to hop from the floor of its cage to a little perch, and down again, hop, hop, hop, up and down.

“Listen to that bird,” said Jim.

“They only sing when they’re on their own,” Emily told him. “He’s singing for a friend.”

“Poor little thing,” said Lizzie. “Trapped in a cage.”

“We’d better go on,” their mother said. “I’m going to take you to see the only friend I’ve got in the world. Rosie, she’s called. You’ve heard me talk about Rosie at the big house?”

The children nodded. It was a long time since their mother had worked in his lordship’s kitchen, but she still had stories to tell them about it.

“And if Rosie can’t help us,” she sighed, “nobody can.” Emily helped her up again and they moved slowly on, pausing as the carriages swept past them.

When they reached the big house at last, Mrs Jarvis was exhausted and sat down on the steps to rest again. The children gazed up at the tall building.

“Is this where we’re going to live?” asked Lizzie.

“It’s too grand for us, Lizzie!” said Emily. Even though she was only ten, she knew that families like theirs didn’t end up in houses like these.

Jim’s eyes were fixed on something he could see on the top steps, just by the front door. It was an iron boot-scraper, and it was in the shape of a dog’s head. The huge snapping mouth of the dog was wide open, so people could scrape the mud off their boots in its teeth. “I’d never put my foot in there,” he said. “Not even with Lizzie’s boots on, I wouldn’t. It’d come snarling down at me and bite my toes right off.”

When their mother was rested she picked up her bundle again and led the children down some steps to the basement of the house. She sank against the door, all strength gone.

“Be good,” she murmured to them. She lifted the knocker.

They heard rapid footsteps coming. Mrs Jarvis quickly bent down and kissed both the girls on the tops of their heads.

“God bless you both,” she said.

Emily looked up at her, suddenly afraid. She was about to ask her mother what was happening when the door was opened by a large, floury woman in a white pinafore. She had the sleeves of her dress rolled up so her arms bulged out of them. Her hands and wrists were covered in dough and as she flung up her arms in greeting Jim could see that her elbows were red and powdery.

“Annie Jarvis!” the woman gasped. “I never thought to see you again!” She hugged her, covering her with bits of dough. “You ain’t come looking for work, have you, after all this time? Judd’s going spare, she is, looking for a new cook. She’s got me at it, and my dough’s like a boulder – you could build cathedrals out of it, and they wouldn’t ever fall down! She’ll soon put me back on serving upstairs!”

While she was talking she hauled Mrs Jarvis and the children into the kitchen and set stools for them round the stove, balancing herself on a high chair and scooping up more flour. She pushed aside the big mixing bowl and sat with her elbows on the table, beaming across at them, and then her smile changed. She reached over to Mrs Jarvis and put her hand on her forehead.

“Hot!” Her voice was soft with concern. “You’re so hot, Annie, and white as snow.” She looked at the children, and at the bundles of clothes and belongings that they were still clutching. “You’ve been turned out, haven’t you?”

Mrs Jarvis nodded.

“You got anywhere?”

“No.”

“And you’re not fit for work. You know that? There’s no work left in you, Annie Jarvis.”

A bell jangled over the door, and Rosie jumped up and ran to the stove.

“Lord, that’s for the coffees, and I ain’t done them. Anyone comes down, and you duck under the table quick, mind,” she said to the children. The bell rang again.

“All right, all right,” she shouted. “His lordship can wait five minutes, can’t he, while I talk to my friend here?”

She glanced at Mrs Jarvis again, her face puckered in frowns. “My sister, as good as. No, he can’t wait. His lordship waits for nothing.”

As she was talking she was ladling coffee and milk into jugs and setting them on a tray. She rubbed her floury hands on the pinafore, took it off and changed into a clean one, and as a quick afterthought she poured some of the coffee into a cup and edged it across the table towards Mrs Jarvis.

“Go on,” she urged. “Take it for all the good bread you’ve baked for him.” She ran to the door with her tray rattling in her hand and paused to pull a face at the bell as it jangled again. “There’s only one home left to you now, Annie. It’s the House, ain’t it, heaven help you. The workhouse!”

As soon as Rosie had left the kitchen and gone upstairs with her tray, Jim slid off his stool and ran to his mother. She sipped at her coffee, holding the cup with both hands.

“We ain’t going to the workhouse, Ma?” Emily asked her.

The children had heard terrifying stories about workhouses. Old people spoke of them with fear and hate as if they were worse than hell on earth. They’d heard that people who went there sometimes had to stay for the rest of their lives. People died in there. Some people slept out in the streets and the fields rather than go to the workhouse. The two girls sat in silent dread each side of their mother.

“Help Rosie out with her bread, Emily,” Mrs Jarvis suggested, her voice steady now, and stronger. “It’d be a good turn that she’d appreciate, and his lordship would too!”

Emily did as she was told. She washed her hands in the jug of water on the side and then poured some of the frothing yeast into the bowl of flour. A few minutes later Rosie came down. She put her finger to her lips and pointed up the stairs.

“I’ve asked Judd to come!” she mouthed.

There was the rustle of a long skirt on the stairs, and the housekeeper came in, stern and brisk. Jim tried to slide under the table, but she stopped him with her booted foot.

She came straight to Mrs Jarvis and stood with her hands on her hips, looking down at her. “Rosie tells me you’re in a bad way, Annie Jarvis,” she said. “And I must say, you look it.”

“I haven’t come to make trouble, Judd,” Mrs Jarvis said. “And I’m sorry if I’ve interrupted the work. I’ve only come to say goodbye to you and Rosie, because you’ve always been so kind to me.”

“If we’ve been kind to you it’s because you’ve always 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.