Our Lizzie Read online

  “What about selling some of the other stuff as well?” he asked, looking round at the furniture and ornaments.

  Emma shook her head. “This all belongs to the creditors now.”

  “Only if they get their hands on it.”

  The two women stared at him, then at each other. It was Emma who nodded. “I suppose we could sort out a few things.”

  “Smaller stuff would be best. I’ll come back with my handcart after dark.”

  Only when he’d left did Blanche ask, “Should we?”

  “We need to. And,” Emma added thoughtfully, “we’ll keep Mother’s jewellery for ourselves.”

  “I don’t like to think of leaving debts unpaid.”

  “Well, I don’t like to think of us not having something to fall back on.”

  “My annuity—”

  “Is not enough, dear. You know it isn’t.”

  That night, Sam and a friend brought a handbarrow round to the back door and took away three loads of stuff. Some of it would be sold, the rest kept to give the sisters a start in their new home.

  Emma worked herself to exhaustion sorting it all out. Blanche wept almost continuously and was of little use.

  * * *

  Lizzie was in the children’s playground when their neighbour found her. She was letting the swing move gently to and fro as she dreamed about a story she’d read at school. She was an orphan, the lost child of a duchess, kidnapped when she was very young by gypsies. She had long, curly golden hair, and—

  “There you are, Lizzie Kershaw! I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  She jerked out of her daydream and scowled at Mrs. Preston from across the street. “Well, now you’ve found me, haven’t you?”

  That should have earned her a scolding, or at the least a muttered, “Cheeky young madam!” but all Mrs. Preston did was mop her eyes and pat Lizzie’s shoulder. “Eeh, you poor thing!”

  Lizzie jerked to her feet, leaving the swing rocking to and fro behind her. “What do you mean?” she demanded, arms akimbo. “We’re not poor.” Poor people only had bread and dripping for tea. They wore clogs and their clothes smelled sour. How dare anyone call her that?

  Mrs. Preston’s hand dropped from her shoulder. “You’ll be cheeking the angels as folk lower your coffin into the grave, you will!” Then her mouth trembled and she flourished a handkerchief. “Look, lass, there’s been an accident. At the brewery. You’re wanted at home. Your father’s—”

  “Dad!”

  Before the explanation was complete, Lizzie set off running, twisting between the iron posts at the entrance to the playground with barely a pause and haring off down the road as if she were being chased by a mad dog. When she arrived home, she found a knot of people gathered near the front door, as always happened when there was trouble. She pushed her way past them and they started saying, “Poor lass!” as well.

  The fear became stark terror and she stopped for a minute at the door, suddenly afraid to go inside. Why were the blinds pulled down in the front room? It wasn’t dark yet. She went into the long narrow hall and pushed the front door to behind her with her foot, then stopped again, not daring to take another step.

  Percy appeared in the doorway of the front room. “Oh, Lizzie,” his voice broke, “our Dad’s—he’s been killed.”

  She stood there for a moment with the words echoing inside her head, then started bawling, sobbing as loudly as any five-year-old child.

  Her mother’s voice was sharp. “Lizzie Kershaw, you can just stop that!”

  With a gulp, she forced back the tears and the panic. She’d never seen her mother look so white and sad, not even when their Timmy, who had been older than her, died. “M-mam? Dad isn’t—he can’t be dead!”

  Her mother’s voice was dull. “He is.”

  As Percy’s grasp slackened, the girl moved forward. “Where is he?”

  “In the front room.”

  Lizzie took a deep breath. “I want to see him.”

  Meg Kershaw closed her eyes for a minute and prayed for strength, finding it briefly in Percy’s quick hug, then she gestured her daughter past her into the front room.

  Her son stayed in the hall.

  Lizzie found Gran Thoxby in the front room. She always helped out when someone died, though Lizzie wasn’t sure what she did. “I want to see my dad.”

  The old woman looked questioningly at Meg, received a nod of assent and lifted up a corner of the blanket.

  Hesitantly Lizzie stretched out one hand to touch her father’s cheek. She’d always been his favourite, always known he loved her whatever she did. As she let her hand drop, she half-expected him to wink at her, but he didn’t. He lay so still she wanted to shake him, force him to move again. “He feels cold.”

  “Aye.” Gran drew the blanket back across the face. “They allus do. An’ he’ll get colder yet.”

  “What happened, Mam?” It was a whisper.

  It was Gran who answered, for Meg was weeping into her handkerchief again. “An accident at the brewery.”

  “It’s not fair! We need our Dad!”

  Gran looked sympathetically at the child, who was as taut as a bow-string, her eyes seeming huge in the whiteness of her thin face. “Think on, lass. I never even met my father. At least you had yours with you for twelve year. At least you’ll never forget him.”

  Lizzie was distracted for a moment. “You never met your own father?”

  “No. Not once. An’ our Sam’s never met his, neither.” Well, how could he have? Even her daughter hadn’t known who the father was. “Nor he hasn’t seen his mother since he were three.” Trust her Janey to run out on them. One daughter, she’d had, just the one, and a right heartless little bitch she’d turned out to be. But Sam was a good lad.

  Meg gave Lizzie a push and gestured towards the door. “Go and look after the others. I want to spend a few moments alone with my Stanley.”

  Lizzie walked outside into the hall where her brother was waiting for her. Only then did it occur to her that she didn’t know what had happened to her father. “What sort of accident was it?”

  “It were that new dray horse. Dad said it were a bugger, but Mr. Beckins insisted on buyin’ it because it looked good. Somethin’ frit the damned thing and it trampled our Dad down in a corner of the stable yard before anyone could get to it.” Percy had seen the bloody mess below his father’s waist and knew with shuddering certainty that no man would want to live on like that. He could only be thankful that the horse had finished off what it had started and that his dad had died quickly of a massive blow to the back of his head.

  Lizzie looked round blindly. She hated to think of a horse trampling on her father. “It must have hurt him.”

  “They said it were over very quick.” Percy suddenly leaned against the wall, feeling sick.

  She saw how close to tears he was, so put her arm round his waist. “I’ll brew us all some tea, shall I? I expect Mam’ll be glad of a cup, too.”

  In the kitchen, Eva was sitting at the table, with Polly cuddled up beside her and Johnny on her other side. For once, even clever Eva didn’t seem to know what to do. They all three looked at Percy, but when he just stood there, they turned a questioning gaze upon their eldest sister instead.

  Lizzie stepped forward and took charge. “You put the kettle on, our Eva. Polly, get out the cups an’ teaspoons. Johnny, you fetch the milk jug. We’ll all have a nice cup of tea. That’ll make us feel a—a bit better.” Her voice choked on the last word.

  After that, it was comings and goings, strangers knocking on their door, neighbours coming to see if they could help, some men carrying a coffin into the front room. Lizzie hated the idea of her dad being shut up inside a big box.

  For once, she was glad to go to bed. She hesitated in the hall, then whispered, “Good night, Dad!” not liking to leave him on his own.

  Years afterwards, Lizzie realised she’d suddenly and very painfully left her carefree childhood behind her that night. Afterwards,
things were never the same. And she was never the same, either.

  * * *

  Gertrude Reed turned up for Bonamy Harper’s funeral in a brand-new motor car. As an affluent widow, she could afford to indulge herself in such luxuries—and the gardener was only too happy to drive her around.

  Afterwards she came back to the house and took a quick cup of tea with her nieces, questioning them about why her brother’s funeral had been such a shabby affair, with no one invited back for refreshments afterwards.

  Emma explained about the debts and the sale.

  There was a long silence, followed by, “You’ll have to come and live with me, then, I suppose. I can let the parlourmaid go and you two can take over her duties. She’s always been a flighty piece. Mind, I’ll expect the cleaning to be done thoroughly.”

  Emma tried not to let her indignation show. “We’re grateful for your offer, Aunt Gertrude, but we’d rather find somewhere of our own to live, thank you.”

  “You can’t afford it on Blanche’s fifty pounds a year, and I’m not giving you any money. You’re used to living in some style and comfort, not dwelling in the slums.”

  “We’re not used to that much comfort, actually.” Emma held her aunt’s gaze. “Father was very stingy with us towards the end.”

  “Nonetheless, you’ll come to me.” Gertrude heaved herself to her feet and glared at them. “It wouldn’t be fitting for a Harper to live somewhere like Southlea.” She added sharply, “And I’d have expected a bit of gratitude from you, I would indeed. Beggars can’t afford to be choosers.”

  It was Blanche who stepped forward then, surprising herself as much as the others, for she was usually the quiet one. “As Emma has told you, Aunt, we both prefer to live on our own. And—and we don’t appreciate being bullied.”

  “Bullied! Bullied! How dare you speak to me like that? Apologise at once.”

  Blanche shook her head.

  “Then you can get yourselves out of this mess.” Gertrude stormed from the room, pausing in the hallway, expecting one of them to run after her, but neither moved. So she muttered something and left. They’d soon realise which side their bread was buttered on.

  * * *

  Both the Harper sisters were delighted with the results of the sales. And Sam was equally delighted with his share, but that didn’t stop him accepting the gift of Bonamy Harper’s second pocket watch, a battered silver piece, in return for his help.

  “Silly buggers!” he said as he walked home. Then, as his fingers stroked the watch case, he grew thoughtful. “I wonder if they have owt else tucked away? Old Mrs. Harper used to have quite a few pieces of jewellery. I reckon I’d better keep an eye on them two. They may need my help again.” He threw back his head and laughed, chuckling all the way home at his own cleverness.

  Chapter Two

  After Stanley Kershaw’s funeral was over, the invited guests walked back from the cemetery behind the widow and her family, their faces solemn and their conversation subdued.

  When they reached Bobbin Lane, they relaxed a little, however, and everyone came into number thirty to offer their advice to the bereaved family and enjoy the feast to which all the neighbours had contributed a plate of something. The family had provided great platters of sandwiches containing wafer thin slices of ham, because it was unthinkable to Meg that her Stanley should not have the dignity of being “buried with ham,” as folk called it. When Percy had remonstrated about this extravagance, given their reduced income, she had burst into tears and insisted on it, getting so hysterical he had given in.

  Lizzie had survived the funeral by feeling angry. She stayed angry, hating the crowd of people sitting or standing in the front room, clustering in the kitchen and spilling out on to the doorstep.

  Percy hovered near their mother, who was looking white and ill in her black skirt and blouse, bought second-hand from Pettit’s pawnbroker’s, for Meg had also been adamant about being properly attired in her grief. She kept an eye on what was happening around her while she tried to listen politely to Mrs. Preston from across the street, who didn’t seem to have stopped talking since they got back from the cemetery.

  When Eva came over to join them, Meg slipped her arm round her daughter’s shoulders. She felt Eva tense up, because she wasn’t one for cuddling, but then her arm went round her mother’s waist and Meg sighed in gratitude for this unspoken support. Folk said you shouldn’t have favourites, but how could you help it? This child had been easy to bear and easy to rear, unlike Lizzie. She and Stanley had had such hopes for their clever second daughter.

  “They’ll be a comfort to you.” Mrs. Preston stuffed another sandwich into her mouth, wishing the ham were cut a bit thicker. Meg watched her wagging her head up and down as she chewed it, like a fat old hen pecking at scattered grain, and nodded weary agreement. “Yes.”

  “And your Percy’s old enough to bring in a man’s wage, at least. He’s a good son, that one is. He’ll look after you.”

  Meg nodded again. People had been saying that to her ever since Stanley was killed. As if it helped. As if anything could help now. She had lain sleepless in her bed last night, absolutely terrified of the responsibilities she’d now have to shoulder.

  “Good thing you was in the Funeral Club, eh? They put on a nice penny funeral, don’t they?”

  Meg breathed deeply. Of course everyone knew how much their neighbours spent on this and that, but only Fanny Preston would have said it aloud.

  At last the neighbours began to leave, one after the other murmuring ritual phrases of encouragement to the widow and taking with them their plates, cups and chairs, lent for the occasion.

  When the last person—Fanny Preston, of course!—had closed the front door behind her, Meg sighed and said in a tight, hard voice, “Let’s go and sit in the kitchen, shall we, Eva?”

  There they found the door to the back scullery open, and Polly and Lizzie washing up, with little Johnny putting the cups and plates away.

  Meg straightened her shoulders and tried to look calm. “We have to t-talk about how we’re going to manage. When you’ve finished the washing up, c-come and sit down at the table with me, all of you.”

  * * *

  Lizzie, who was still standing near the sink, looked up quickly. Mam only stuttered when she was nervous. She watched her mother hesitate, then move to take Dad’s place at the head of the table. She saw how Mam’s hand lingered for a moment on the chair back before she pulled it out, and how her face twisted as she sat down and dragged the chair back up to the table.

  When they’d all sat down, that left one empty chair and somehow they couldn’t help staring at it. Percy muttered something and got up to shove it into the corner. When he sat down again, Lizzie saw that his eyes were bright with unshed tears and felt her own fill up yet again.

  It was Percy who broke the silence. “I’ve got some savings, Mam. We’ll be all right for a bit.”

  “That money’s for your schooling, Percy.”

  He looked at his mother, his expression bleak. “We both know there’ll be no more schooling for me, not now.”

  It was then that Lizzie suddenly realised why everyone kept calling her “poor child.” It hadn’t occurred to her before that they’d have to manage without her dad’s weekly wage packet. Some of the children at school came from really poor families. They didn’t have any sandwiches to eat at lunchtime and weren’t allowed to go home, either, so they just hung around the playground, grateful for any scraps they could scrounge and willing to do the silliest tricks if rewarded by a mouthful of food. Horror flooded through her. Would the Kershaws go short of food now?

  “I’ve been thinking hard, trying to work it out,” Meg said at last, and if her voice wobbled a bit, no one let on they’d noticed. “We’re going to miss your dad’s money coming in, so I think the best thing will be to take in lodgers. If you boys go up into the attic, I can have your room and we can fit a couple in.”

  Lizzie frowned. With three bedrooms on the f
irst floor they’d never needed the old weavers’ attic, so had used the big space upstairs only to dry clothes on wet days and the smaller attic next to it to store a few bits and pieces. It’d be cold up there.

  “We could move to a smaller house, then we could manage on my money,” Percy offered.

  Meg sucked in her breath sharply. “No. I’d do anything rather than move from here. Anything. It’d be like l-losing the last memories of my Stanley. And anyhow, there’ll be no need to m-move if we can get some lodgers.”

  Percy patted her hand. “All right, Mam. All right. An’ I’ve got a steady job, so we don’t need to panic.”

  Lizzie suddenly realised how she could help. “I could get a job, too. I turn thirteen this year, so they’d let me go half-time at school.”

  “No!” This time two voices spoke as one, her mother’s and Percy’s.

  “Why not?” She hated school, always had, hated being trapped behind a desk, having to waste time chanting silly rhymes and tables.

  Her mother’s voice was quiet and tired. “Because—as you very well know, young lady—your dad wanted both you girls to get a good schooling, go on to do a secretarial course, perhaps, or,” she looked at Eva, “learn to be a teacher, even.”

  Lizzie hung her head and confessed, “I can’t do that, Mam. I’m not a good enough scholar. An’ anyway, I don’t like school. I’d rather start work.”

  There was silence, then Percy said, “But perhaps if you tried harder—”

  She scowled across at him. “I can’t try harder! I’m no good at lessons, an’ I’m not interested in them stuffy old books! It’s our Eva what likes that sort of thing, not me. She’s the teacher’s pet, she is. Miss Blake hates me.”

  Percy sighed. “Dad would be so disappointed, Lizzie. He had his heart set on his girls bettering themselves.”

  Lizzie could feel tears spill from the corners of her eyes and blinked rapidly to prevent more forming, sagging in relief as someone knocked on the front door and attention shifted from her.

  Meg sighed. “You’d think they’d leave us alone now the funeral’s over.”