Mikey muttered. 'Died this morning. I was too late.'
'Oh, Mikey!' She put her arm round his shoulder. 'I'm really sorry. What'll you do now? What about Rosie and 'boys?'
'They're all stopping at 'workhouse, but Rosie's working at 'cotton mill.'
'Rosie working?' Bridget pulled a face. 'Still, I suppose she'll have to do summat to earn a crust.'
'How come you don't have a reg'lar job?'
Mikey asked. He felt rather peeved with her; she seemed smug about Rosie's working at the mill. 'You're older than me. How does your ma manage wi'out wages from you?'
'Oh, I do a bit o' this 'n' that,' Bridget said airily. 'I can bring in a bob or two.'
'Doing what?' he said.
She shrugged. 'Just said. This 'n' that. Errands and suchlike.'
'Wish I could,' he said gloomily. 'Don't know how I'm going to live. It was bad enough finding work before I went to prison. I haven't even anywhere to stay tonight.'
'Come to our place,' she said eagerly. 'Da will be out, he allus is, and Ma won't mind. There won't be any supper, though. There's never owt left over.'
'Don't mind about that,' Mikey said, though ideally he wouldn't have chosen to stay at Bridget's place. She made him feel uncomfortable, always coming up close to him, touching his arm or taking hold of his hand, as she was doing now. 'I just want somewhere to sleep. Ma's funeral's tomorrow,' he added.
'Shall I come wi' you?' she offered.
'No. Thanks. I've to look after Rosie and Tom and Ben. We'll be all right on our own.'
He went home with her, and Mrs Turner made him welcome and said how sorry she was about his mother. She'd just heard the news, she told him. 'You'll have to get a job, Mikey; something settled, like a butcher or baker's boy. Pity you can't be apprenticed to a trade, but who's got the money for that? Not poor folk like us, that's for sure.'
'I might go to sea, Mrs Turner,' he said. 'Ma didn't want me to, she said she'd allus worry about me, but now that she's gone . . .' He left the sentence unfinished. There was no one to worry about him now, except his brothers and sister, of course, but they'd have to choose what to do with their own lives when the time came.
'Sure and your mammy will be looking out for you, Mikey,' Mrs Turner said softly. 'Sure she will. Have no worries on that score if that's what you want to do.'
'I don't want to, Mrs Turner,' he explained. 'It just seems 'only option open to me.'
She managed to find him a slice of bread for his supper and a cup of weak tea, and as darkness drew on she gave him a blanket to sleep on. 'There's only the floor I can offer you, Mikey. If Mr Turner comes in, then curl up small and he'll not even notice you. Ten to one he'll be drunk anyway and think you one of his own.'
'You're very kind, thank you,' he managed to say, for he was overcome with the emotion that had been gathering ever since he'd left the workhouse. 'I'll not be a bother.'
He wrapped the blanket round him and lay down on the floor at the side of the fire, near where Bridget had made up her bed.
'G'night, Mikey,' she said softly. 'Sleep well.'
He didn't answer, but pulled the blanket over his head. He thought he would never sleep well again, never in his life. His thoughts were in turmoil: the loss of his mother, what to do, where to try for work; but in minutes, through sheer exhaustion, he fell fast asleep.
A few glowing embers of the fire stopped the room from being totally dark when he awoke and felt the warmth of one of his brothers curled up next to him. 'Move up, Tom,' he muttered. 'You're pushing me out.'
He felt an arm creeping over him and then a hand touching his face. He shifted away. 'What 'you doing?' he grumbled. 'Tom! Stop it.' Then he took in a sharp breath. It wasn't Tom, or Ben either; he was suddenly aware that whoever it was was wearing very few clothes, for he could feel naked flesh, bare legs and thighs wrapping round him.
He opened his mouth to speak but a hand was put over his lips. 'Shh,' Bridget whispered. 'Don't
'Oh, Mikey!' She put her arm round his shoulder. 'I'm really sorry. What'll you do now? What about Rosie and 'boys?'
'They're all stopping at 'workhouse, but Rosie's working at 'cotton mill.'
'Rosie working?' Bridget pulled a face. 'Still, I suppose she'll have to do summat to earn a crust.'
'How come you don't have a reg'lar job?'
Mikey asked. He felt rather peeved with her; she seemed smug about Rosie's working at the mill. 'You're older than me. How does your ma manage wi'out wages from you?'
'Oh, I do a bit o' this 'n' that,' Bridget said airily. 'I can bring in a bob or two.'
'Doing what?' he said.
She shrugged. 'Just said. This 'n' that. Errands and suchlike.'
'Wish I could,' he said gloomily. 'Don't know how I'm going to live. It was bad enough finding work before I went to prison. I haven't even anywhere to stay tonight.'
'Come to our place,' she said eagerly. 'Da will be out, he allus is, and Ma won't mind. There won't be any supper, though. There's never owt left over.'
'Don't mind about that,' Mikey said, though ideally he wouldn't have chosen to stay at Bridget's place. She made him feel uncomfortable, always coming up close to him, touching his arm or taking hold of his hand, as she was doing now. 'I just want somewhere to sleep. Ma's funeral's tomorrow,' he added.
'Shall I come wi' you?' she offered.
'No. Thanks. I've to look after Rosie and Tom and Ben. We'll be all right on our own.'
He went home with her, and Mrs Turner made him welcome and said how sorry she was about his mother. She'd just heard the news, she told him. 'You'll have to get a job, Mikey; something settled, like a butcher or baker's boy. Pity you can't be apprenticed to a trade, but who's got the money for that? Not poor folk like us, that's for sure.'
'I might go to sea, Mrs Turner,' he said. 'Ma didn't want me to, she said she'd allus worry about me, but now that she's gone . . .' He left the sentence unfinished. There was no one to worry about him now, except his brothers and sister, of course, but they'd have to choose what to do with their own lives when the time came.
'Sure and your mammy will be looking out for you, Mikey,' Mrs Turner said softly. 'Sure she will. Have no worries on that score if that's what you want to do.'
'I don't want to, Mrs Turner,' he explained. 'It just seems 'only option open to me.'
She managed to find him a slice of bread for his supper and a cup of weak tea, and as darkness drew on she gave him a blanket to sleep on. 'There's only the floor I can offer you, Mikey. If Mr Turner comes in, then curl up small and he'll not even notice you. Ten to one he'll be drunk anyway and think you one of his own.'
'You're very kind, thank you,' he managed to say, for he was overcome with the emotion that had been gathering ever since he'd left the workhouse. 'I'll not be a bother.'
He wrapped the blanket round him and lay down on the floor at the side of the fire, near where Bridget had made up her bed.
'G'night, Mikey,' she said softly. 'Sleep well.'
He didn't answer, but pulled the blanket over his head. He thought he would never sleep well again, never in his life. His thoughts were in turmoil: the loss of his mother, what to do, where to try for work; but in minutes, through sheer exhaustion, he fell fast asleep.
A few glowing embers of the fire stopped the room from being totally dark when he awoke and felt the warmth of one of his brothers curled up next to him. 'Move up, Tom,' he muttered. 'You're pushing me out.'
He felt an arm creeping over him and then a hand touching his face. He shifted away. 'What 'you doing?' he grumbled. 'Tom! Stop it.' Then he took in a sharp breath. It wasn't Tom, or Ben either; he was suddenly aware that whoever it was was wearing very few clothes, for he could feel naked flesh, bare legs and thighs wrapping round him.
He opened his mouth to speak but a hand was put over his lips. 'Shh,' Bridget whispered. 'Don't
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