next door had said she’d got more time for the dockside dollies because at least they had the decency to keep their bairns out of it.
Slowly Pearl turned and went into the front room. The old three-quarter size iron bed the lodgers had used stood against one wall, the covers in a heap, and the horsehair sofa took up most of the remaining space. The floor was littered with empty gin and beer bottles and cigarette stubs, and it was stifling, the stale smell which was a composite of many things making her swallow hard. She hated this room.
She stripped the worn sheets from the bed, wrinkling her nose in distaste as her hand brushed against one of the patches of dried matter staining the bottom sheet in several places, and then gathered up the bottles and other large items of debris. That done, and the soiled sheets in soak, she began to clear the cigarette stubs and other bits and pieces with a dustpan and brush.
Quite when she became aware that she wasn’t alone she didn’t know, but a sixth sense had her flesh creeping even before she turned and saw the fat, greasy-looking figure of Mr F standing in the doorway. Quickly she straightened, her voice a stammer as she said, ‘I – I’m clear – clearing up.’
He nodded, his small dark eyes never leaving her face, and then for the first time in the twelve months or so since he had been visiting the house, Pearl heard him speak. ‘There’s a good little lassie,’ he said softly.
Pearl glanced at the unmade bed. The clean sheets she had fetched from the cupboard in her mother’s room were neatly folded on top of the mattress. Her mother would expect her to see to it before she left, but the thought of making the bed while this man watched her was mortifying. ‘I – I’ll see to the rest of it in – in a minute.’
He nodded again but continued to stand in the doorway. Pearl wondered where her mother was and why she hadn’t come to join him. Every sense in her body heightened and her face scarlet, she put the dustpan and brush to one side and approached the bed. This man was Kitty’s best payer, her mother had told her so before when she’d voiced her unease about him, clipping her across the ear for good measure. She had to be polite to him. Clearing her throat, she said, ‘My mother’s in the kitchen.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
Not knowing what to do, Pearl unfolded the bottom sheet. It had been dried outdoors and for a moment the elusive scent of fresh air reached her nostrils.
‘Let me help you with that.’ He shut the door as he spoke.
‘No, no – it’s all right.’ Panic uppermost, Pearl wondered if her mother knew he was here. Should she call her, or would she get into trouble? He was so near now she could smell the acrid odour of his sweat, but she didn’t dare look at him. Her hands trembling, she shook the sheet over the bed.
‘You’re a bonny little lassie but then you know that, don’t you?’ His voice had changed. It had become thick, excited. ‘Oh aye, you know it all right.’
Her terror increasing, Pearl mumbled, ‘My mam – she – she wants me to get the room sorted.’
‘Your mam wants you to please me. That’s what your mam wants.’
She opened her mouth to scream but his hand came hard over her lips. He was a big man, in stature as well as girth, and Pearl was slender for her years, her child’s body as yet showing no signs of puberty. When his free hand came out and grabbed her dress, heaving her onto the bed, she fell into the middle of it like a rag doll, her limbs sprawling. She tried to roll away but he slapped her so hard across the side of her head she saw stars, and then he was on top of her, tearing at her clothes as he stripped her, one hand again over her mouth.
She fought him but her wild flailing had no effect as he crouched on top of her, muttering obscenities. When he released the hand over her mouth in order to unbutton his trousers she wriggled backwards, falling off the bed and hitting the
Slowly Pearl turned and went into the front room. The old three-quarter size iron bed the lodgers had used stood against one wall, the covers in a heap, and the horsehair sofa took up most of the remaining space. The floor was littered with empty gin and beer bottles and cigarette stubs, and it was stifling, the stale smell which was a composite of many things making her swallow hard. She hated this room.
She stripped the worn sheets from the bed, wrinkling her nose in distaste as her hand brushed against one of the patches of dried matter staining the bottom sheet in several places, and then gathered up the bottles and other large items of debris. That done, and the soiled sheets in soak, she began to clear the cigarette stubs and other bits and pieces with a dustpan and brush.
Quite when she became aware that she wasn’t alone she didn’t know, but a sixth sense had her flesh creeping even before she turned and saw the fat, greasy-looking figure of Mr F standing in the doorway. Quickly she straightened, her voice a stammer as she said, ‘I – I’m clear – clearing up.’
He nodded, his small dark eyes never leaving her face, and then for the first time in the twelve months or so since he had been visiting the house, Pearl heard him speak. ‘There’s a good little lassie,’ he said softly.
Pearl glanced at the unmade bed. The clean sheets she had fetched from the cupboard in her mother’s room were neatly folded on top of the mattress. Her mother would expect her to see to it before she left, but the thought of making the bed while this man watched her was mortifying. ‘I – I’ll see to the rest of it in – in a minute.’
He nodded again but continued to stand in the doorway. Pearl wondered where her mother was and why she hadn’t come to join him. Every sense in her body heightened and her face scarlet, she put the dustpan and brush to one side and approached the bed. This man was Kitty’s best payer, her mother had told her so before when she’d voiced her unease about him, clipping her across the ear for good measure. She had to be polite to him. Clearing her throat, she said, ‘My mother’s in the kitchen.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
Not knowing what to do, Pearl unfolded the bottom sheet. It had been dried outdoors and for a moment the elusive scent of fresh air reached her nostrils.
‘Let me help you with that.’ He shut the door as he spoke.
‘No, no – it’s all right.’ Panic uppermost, Pearl wondered if her mother knew he was here. Should she call her, or would she get into trouble? He was so near now she could smell the acrid odour of his sweat, but she didn’t dare look at him. Her hands trembling, she shook the sheet over the bed.
‘You’re a bonny little lassie but then you know that, don’t you?’ His voice had changed. It had become thick, excited. ‘Oh aye, you know it all right.’
Her terror increasing, Pearl mumbled, ‘My mam – she – she wants me to get the room sorted.’
‘Your mam wants you to please me. That’s what your mam wants.’
She opened her mouth to scream but his hand came hard over her lips. He was a big man, in stature as well as girth, and Pearl was slender for her years, her child’s body as yet showing no signs of puberty. When his free hand came out and grabbed her dress, heaving her onto the bed, she fell into the middle of it like a rag doll, her limbs sprawling. She tried to roll away but he slapped her so hard across the side of her head she saw stars, and then he was on top of her, tearing at her clothes as he stripped her, one hand again over her mouth.
She fought him but her wild flailing had no effect as he crouched on top of her, muttering obscenities. When he released the hand over her mouth in order to unbutton his trousers she wriggled backwards, falling off the bed and hitting the