The Pawnbroker's Niece Page 5

  ‘Any luck?’

  He did not answer immediately, concentrating as he scooped around in the rubbish below. Then, holding his breath, he cautiously withdrew the bent spoon through the grating. Swiftly he pocketed the silver thruppenny bit in the bowl of the spoon before dropping it through the grating again. Only then did he look up at her from grey eyes that appeared too large for his thin face. There was a purplish bruise on his jaw and his bare wrists were bony. ‘You done this, have yer?’ he said.

  She nodded. ‘When I could get a place where there were no lads hanging around, but I wasn’t very good at it.’

  ‘Yer have to keep trying.’ He looked through the grating and she watched as he jiggled the cane again but this time he had only caught a farthing.

  ‘Can’t yer get work?’ asked Rita.

  ‘A bit here and there, fetching and carrying for people. Yer know the kind of thing, but on Saturdays I work at Fitzgerald’s the chandler’s.’

  ‘Better than nothing.’

  He snorted. ‘Yeah, yeah! Thanks for your interest but I’m losing me concentration. Could you go away now, luv?’

  ‘Me name’s Rita.’

  ‘Sam!’ Without looking he held up his free hand.

  She shook it. ‘Good luck, Sam! See yer around!’

  He nodded.

  Rita walked along the pavement until she came to Hilton’s confectionery shop and there she paused to gaze longingly at the jars of sweets in the window. After that, it was on past the Temperance Hotel, the post office and Grosvenor’s Motors. Next to which was the chandler’s shop mentioned by Sam. On past a hairdressing salon and more sweet shops until she came to Lomax’s. She hesitated outside and a sigh escaped her. Why hadn’t Eve got rid of the nits properly? On Christmas Eve she had hunted them out, catching and cracking them between her fingernails, but you didn’t get shot of fleas properly like that. Their eggs had to be exterminated completely and the only way to do that was with nit lotion and a fine toothcomb, as well she knew — but the shame of having to go in the chemist for those things! They would look at the note and look at her shorn head and know that she had fleas. They’d think she was dirty.

  Rita steeled herself and pushed open the door, wishing that she could spend the money on face powder or perfume because the smell of them would have made her feel better than any old Derbac soap and nit lotion would. Still, it had to be done, and she handed over the note and the money and within five minutes was back outside the shop with her purchases, and the change burning a hole in her pocket. As she walked slowly between housewives with toddlers hanging onto their skirts, and men old before their time shuffling along the uneven paving stones, she fingered the coins. She thought of her mother and the indignity of having nit lotion combed through her hair by the aunt who was a stranger to her and she felt really fed up.

  She stopped outside Hilton’s confectionery shop again and gazed in the window at the glass jars filled with a variety of sweets: pear drops and Pontefract cakes, chocolate dragées and fruit pastilles, sugared almonds and toffee whirls, and lots more. Her greedy eyes lingered on each jar, imagining the taste of their contents. She debated what punishment her aunt might dole out if she gave in to temptation and spent tuppence on sweets or chocolate — and decided to chance it. So she might get a whack with that cane her aunt had mentioned, but it wouldn’t be the first time she had been whacked. So with a determined step she went inside and bought a bar of chocolate.

  She could only think of how good it tasted as she allowed the first creamy square to melt on her tongue, but by the time she had eaten four squares she could not get Margaret’s furious face out of her mind and those words: ‘You stole my chocolates!’

  Sam was still hovering over the grating and so she placed the remains of the chocolate a few inches from his hand resting on the pavement. He glanced up with a startled expression. ‘I’m muggin’ yer!’ she said jauntily and hurried across the road, not wanting him to thank her for something she had stolen.

  Back at the pawnshop she noticed activity inside the shop. Its entrance was situated discreetly up a side street so, bracing herself, she opened the door and eased herself through into the dark and musty interior. It was only when she saw how crowded it was that she remembered it was Monday and people were ‘popping’ their Sunday best.

  She skirted the queue and managed to reach the counter, which was piled high with clothing at one end. Her aunt spotted her immediately. She was working the pen machine, a useful little gadget, which linked three pens together. By writing with one the other two were put into operation so that a pawn ticket and two copies could be written at the same time.

  ‘I would have been here sooner only —’ Rita was stopped in mid flow.

  ‘Never mind that now! Take these suits and hang them on the racks in the back.’ Margaret’s tone was brusque.

  Rita burrowed her hands beneath the pile on the counter and managed to lift them. As she balanced the suits against her body a strong smell of tobacco made her sneeze, not once but three times. She was glad to drop the clothing on top of a chest of drawers in the storeroom. Taking a hanger from the first rack, she hung up the first suit.

  By the time Rita had finished, her arms were aching and she had counted thirty-five suits as well as several women’s coats, skirts and dresses. She felt quite buoyant, thinking about the money that would be her aunt’s at the end of the week when most of the wives and children would reappear and redeem the family’s Sunday best. These people weren’t the poorest of the poor. They might be struggling to make ends meet but someone in the family must be in work to be able to get the clothes out of hock to attend church.

  At one o’clock prompt Margaret turned the sign on the shop door to CLOSED and shot the bolts top and bottom. ‘Time for lunch,’ she said.

  ‘Who’s cooking it?’ asked Rita, easing her shoulders as she stood behind the counter, watching her aunt.

  ‘Why, are you volunteering?’

  Rita shrugged. ‘I can fry egg and bacon and make porridge and a pan of scouse but that’s pretty much my limit.’

  ‘Just as well, then, that Mrs McGinty is a capable plain cook who sees to lunch.’ Margaret locked the till. ‘Inside, then, and let’s have a cuppa and the stew she’s left us. Wash your hands first.’

  Again, Rita thought, but decided that she might just as well seeing as there was hot water, a decent block of soap and a dry towel available. Besides, she’d handled all those suits and felt grimy.

  As they entered the kitchen a strong smell of Mansion furniture polish mingled with the appetising one of rabbit stew. Rita closed her eyes in ecstasy as her tummy rumbled and then opened them again remembering that she had spent tuppence of her aunt’s money on chocolate. Hell! She just hoped that she could get the stew down her before her aunt asked for her change.

  Hands washed and sitting at the table, spoon in her hand, Rita waited nervously as Margaret came into the kitchen with two bowls of stew on a tray. Big chucks of meat, thought Rita, almost drooling as she dipped her spoon into the bowl. As she lowered her head to take a first luscious bite, her aunt said, ‘Your hair! You did get the things on the note I gave you?’

  ‘Y-y-yes!’ Rita did not look at her.

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘In my coat pocket.’

  ‘With the change?’

  Rita nodded.

  ‘Then go and fetch them.’

  ‘Can’t I get them after I’ve finished me dinner? I’m starving!’

  ‘Lunch, Rita.’ Margaret picked up her own spoon. ‘Yes, of course. What was I thinking of? The food’ll get cold. Eat up!’

  Rita gulped with relief and gobbled down the food in case her aunt suddenly changed her mind.

  Margaret’s blue eyes rested on the girl with a frown. ‘It isn’t good for the digestion to eat that quickly but it’s obvious to me you need building up. You’re far too small for your age. You don’t seem to have developed in the places you should.’

  Rita t
hought if her aunt thought that then it was worth asking if there were second helpings.

  ‘Yes,’ said Margaret with a faint smile. ‘But don’t gulp your food. It’s not nice to watch.’

  Rita hurried into the scullery with her bowl before her aunt could change her mind. This time she ate more leisurely but she was beginning to tense with the anticipation of what was to come.

  When her aunt asked her, ‘How many pennies are there in a shilling?’ Rita jumped out of her skin and for a moment she could not think. Margaret frowned. ‘Come, Rita! You must know.’

  Suddenly it came to her and was such a relief. ‘Twelve, of course.’

  ‘Then recite your twelve times table to me.’

  Blow! Rita’s smile faded. It would have to be the hardest one. Nervously she nibbled a finger. ‘One twelve is twelve,’ she muttered.

  ‘Take your finger out of your mouth!’

  Rita kept her eyes on the tablecloth as she recited, ‘Two twelves are twenty-four. Three twelves are thirty-six. Four twelves are forty-eight. Five twelves are sixty. Six twelves are…’ she cogitated, adding twelve onto sixty and said in a relieved voice, ‘seventy-two. Seven twelves are…eighty-six.’

  ‘No! Eighty-four and you are much too slow.’ Margaret’s frown had deepened. ‘You should have them off pat. Eight twelves?’

  Rita’s mind went blank again and her heart pounded. There was a long silence.

  ‘Think, girl, think! Seven twelves are eighty-four. Eight twelves are…ninet-ty…?’

  Rita moistened her lips, hating her aunt for doing this to her. ‘Ninety-six?’

  ‘Nine twelves are?’ There was another silence. ‘Come on! It’s like getting blood out of a stone. Nine twelves are?’ Margaret banged the table with her fist.

  ‘I don’t know!’ cried Rita, her thin cheeks aflame as she sprang to her feet. ‘I don’t know! I always have trouble when it gets to a hundred and something.’

  ‘Then how can you possibly handle money?’ said Margaret, exasperated. ‘You can’t be of any real help to me if you aren’t good at arithmetic.’

  Rita’s heart sank. She had to be of help to her aunt if she was to stay off the streets, as well as save money to go to Cardiff and look for her mother. ‘I’m sorry! But I can learn.’

  Margaret rested her elbows on the table and placed her chin on her hand and scrutinised Rita carefully. ‘I hope so. Now go and get those things I sent you for and the note and change.’

  Rita felt her knees start to quiver and was that nervous she almost stumbled on the carpet but managed to get out of the room to the lobby where she had hung her coat on a hook. She took the money and the note from her pocket and picked up the bulging paper bag with the weapons to wage war on fleas and returned to her aunt.

  Margaret looked at the note and compared the sum total of the purchases with the coins on the table. ‘There’s a discrepancy here.’

  ‘Is there? I wouldn’t know. I’m useless at arithmetic, as you’ve said,’ said Rita, trying to bluff it out.

  Her aunt stared at her and then suddenly sniffed the note. For a moment she held that pose before placing the paper on the table. ‘Chocolate!’ Rita could not help but start. ‘Own up! You spent some of my money on chocolate!’ Margaret’s expression was grim. ‘If there’s one thing I can’t stand that’s a liar! There’s a very good reason why ‘Thou shalt not bear false witness!’ is one of the Ten Commandments. Not telling the truth leads people into terrible trouble.’

  ‘I’m sorry!’ Rita’s expression was conciliatory. Her shoulders were hunched and she clenched and unclenched her hands.

  ‘I should hope you are, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to escape punishment. To stop you going wrong you have to learn that bad behaviour doesn’t pay. In fact it’s painful.’ She got up and left the room.

  Rita wondered if she should make a run for it but where would she go — and she needed money? She just had to take her punishment like a man. Margaret was back with a cane. ‘Hold out your hand!’

  For all her fine thoughts, Rita hesitated to do as she was told. What happened next she should have expected. There was a swishing noise as the cane came down and caught her on the leg. The black knitted stocking deflected the blow somewhat but she still felt the sting of the cane and attempted to dart out of the way of the next swipe. She was too slow and the cane came down twice on her other leg. ‘You must not lie and you must not steal. I cannot have you staying here if I can’t trust you,’ said Margaret firmly.

  ‘I’m sorry! I said I’m sorry! I won’t do it again!’ cried Rita, holding out her hands in supplication. ‘I don’t need to be hit again to know what I did was wrong.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. There’ll be no more chances for you to mend your ways. You must turn over a new leaf from this moment on.’ Margaret threw the cane into a corner. ‘Now show me you can be of some use. A fresh pot of tea to make amends.’

  Rita shot out of the kitchen and put on the kettle. When she took in the teapot her aunt said, ‘You’re going to have to practise your tables, right? I’ve an abacus that my brother brought home years ago when I was a little girl. You can use that.’

  Rita did not argue.

  Yet when she saw the abacus she felt a rush of shame, remembering having used one in her early days at school.

  ‘You’ll practise counting in twelves.’ Margaret moved the beads on the wires. ‘Afterwards you should have some idea how many twelve times twelve is. Then I want you —’

  ‘It’s a gross,’ murmured Rita.

  ‘So you remember some things. Good,’ said Margaret, and smiled. Then she left her alone and went to open the shop.

  That evening Margaret took Rita upstairs after closing up for the day. ‘This can be your bedroom if you wish.’ She flung open the door of Donald’s room and hurried across the floor to open the curtains. Dust billowed from the material catching her throat and making her cough.

  ‘Whose was it?’ said Rita, taking a hesitant step forward.

  Margaret did not answer but took a box of matches from the pocket of her waistcoat and lit the two gas lamps on the wall above the bed. It took her several attempts before the mantles caught and two pools of light reflected off the blue painted walls and lit up the room. She glanced down at the bed, remembering being unable to wake up her mother who she had found lying here. It had been a terrible shock. She blew out the match and turned and faced her niece, thinking how Eve had escaped such moments. ‘This is my brother’s room.’

  ‘Brother?’ It was one surprise on top of another, thought Rita. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Dead! I should have said it was his. He was killed at sea.’ There was a tremor in her voice. ‘It turned my mother’s mind and that’s why nothing has changed in here in all that time.’

  ‘How sad!’ said Rita in heartfelt tones. A ship in full sail in a bottle caught her eye. ‘Did he do that?’ she asked, going over to the chest of drawers on which it stood.

  ‘No. It was brought into the shop and immediately Mother laid claim to it for him.’ Margaret followed her over and picked up the bottle. ‘He was only a boy when he made up his mind to go to sea,’ she said with assumed briskness. ‘At the time there were two other boys in the family so he wasn’t discouraged, but they both died before I was born. Donald was thirteen years older than I and never married.’

  Rita’s gaze swept the room. There was a huge very masculine-looking wardrobe of dark wood and next to it in a corner were a cricket bat and several small balls, as well as a leather football. Against another wall stood a crowded bookcase. She went over to it and peered at some of the titles. Two Years Before the Mast, Robinson Crusoe, Ivan the Terrible and his Reign of Terror. She stopped reading and looked at her aunt, who was unlocking one of the wardrobe doors. ‘Nothing there I’d like to read,’ she said.

  ‘No. I suppose I’ll have to empty this out, and the chest of drawers.’

  ‘You mean all his clothes are still here?’ Rita could not conceal h
er amazement.

  ‘Yes,’ said Margaret ruefully. ‘I told you Mother wouldn’t have anything changed, although there’s not that many clothes. He spent most of his time in uniform. Sometimes I can still see him here.’ Thinking of her brother reminded her of the Brodie twins again, but William in particular this time. He and Donald had both done their naval training on the old Indefatigable which had been fitted out with sails as well as steam and been anchored out in the Mersey. Although William had been nine years younger than Donald, they had got on well. Will, unlike her brother, had not joined the Royal Navy but had become a merchant seaman, taking ship to the Far East more often than not. She felt a flutter beneath her ribs remembering his reaction to her refusal to his proposal, and her fingers tightened on the edge of the wardrobe door.

  Rita startled her when she spoke. ‘It’s spooky in here! Isn’t there another room I could have?’

  Margaret realised her niece’s words echoed her own feelings. She closed the wardrobe door and turned off the gaslights, hurrying Rita out. She took her to the back bedroom, simply furnished with a single iron bedstead, wardrobe and chest of drawers. Her father’s life had been the shop after his son and wife died and he had left no impression behind in here at all. ‘Will this do?’

  Rita nodded. She had never slept alone in her life but she supposed she would get used to it and, although this room was much smaller and not as brightly decorated as the other, there were no ghosts.

  Chapter Four

  ‘How now, brown cow!’ recited Rita beneath her breath as she walked along Berry Street to the chandler’s shop. The December sun glinted off her shiny hair, lice-free these days. She had put on weight and had curves where it was good for fifteen-year-olds to have them and had even started her periods. She had been living with her aunt for nine months and although she still felt as if part of her was missing at times, due to her mother’s absence — she had not written or sent a postal order, which hurt and annoyed Rita immensely — she had adjusted to her circumstances.

  Having her tables drummed into her and remembering that there were two hundred and forty pence in a pound, that one per cent was one part of a hundred whole ones, had not been too difficult once she set her mind to it. As Miss Turner said — to whom Margaret sent Rita for an hour’s elocution lesson on a Saturday morning — it was all down to practice, practice, practice.