services. He knew his mother had worshipped there as he had followed her one Sunday some years ago, shortly after they had been given the news that his father's ship had gone down.
But Mikey wasn't going to pray. He was going to look for shelter beneath the archway which abutted the road. But there was someone there already and as he walked into its shadow he heard a woman's voice in the darkness asking, 'Hello, darling. Lookin' for company?'
'N-no.' His voice broke as sometimes it did when he was startled. 'I'm looking for shelter. I've got nowhere to stop.'
'He's just a kid, Peg,' the voice said, and another one butted in, 'Well, you're on our patch, laddie. You can't stop here.'
To Mikey's horror he started to cry. Great gulps of tears and sobs which poured out of him and wouldn't stop.
'Hey! Hey! Come on,' the first woman said. 'What's up?'
'My ma's dead,' he wept, 'and I've just come out of prison and 'rest of our bairns are in 'workhouse.'
'Phew!' one of the women whistled. 'You've got a skinful o' trouble, haven't you? What you been in prison for? Beating up some old lady?'
'No,' he sobbed. 'I stole a rabbit from 'butcher.'
'For your dinner, was it?'
As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he saw that one of the women was young, the other probably the same age as his mother. 'Yeh.' He wiped his eyes and nose on his sleeve, feeling ashamed and humiliated that he had broken down in front of them.
'And you've nowhere to live? No pals who'd give you a bed for 'night?'
He sniffled. 'I did have, onny— onny I was chucked out. They said I couldn't stop cos of summat that happened. Onny it wasn't my fault.'
He heard the women muttering together. 'All right,' the older one said. 'You get bedded down here and we'll move along a bit, but if anybody comes lookin' for us, tell 'em we'll be in a shop doorway further on. Just for tonight, mind. Tomorrow we'll want our place back. Understood?'
'Yes. Thanks.' He knew that he should have said that he would take the doorway, but it would be draughty and less sheltered than here, and he also knew that they wouldn't stay long in the doorway. As soon as they had a customer, they would move along.
Prostitutes, that's what they are, he thought, without prejudice. The sort of women his mother had warned him against when she realized he was growing up. Full of disease they are, she had told him, so keep away. Not that they would want a poverty-stricken lad like you, she had added, and at first he hadn't understood what she meant. Now he did. Ma didn't say that they would be thoughtful, did she, he pondered, huddling against the wall. She didn't say they would be kind. Perhaps she didn't really know any.
There were not many hours left until dawn and he slept only fitfully until then; he was disturbed once by an old tramp who bent over to look at him and then moved on, and then by a mangy dog who sniffed him and lay down beside him. The dog stank and scratched and scratched and Mikey eventually shooed him away.
Horses and trundling carriers' wagons, carts with cages of clucking hens and squawking ducks on their way to the market, woke him and he remembered that today was his mother's funeral. He got to his feet and set off to look for a water pump where he could swill his hands and face. The two women had gone and he wondered where they slept during the day.
He arrived at the workhouse door at seven o'clock and the matron said he was far too early. 'You'll have to sit outside,' she grumbled. 'I'm busy with breakfast. I'll send your kin to you when they've had theirs.'
Mikey licked his lips. I wonder what they're having. 'Will there be owt left?' he said plaintively.
'No,' she said. 'There won't. I have to ration out my supplies. There isn't enough for waifs and strays as well as for 'residents.' Her benevolent manner of yesterday seemed to have disappeared and she was abrupt and offhand. 'Go and sit on 'steps in 'yard till we're ready.'
He sat on the steps to a hayloft
But Mikey wasn't going to pray. He was going to look for shelter beneath the archway which abutted the road. But there was someone there already and as he walked into its shadow he heard a woman's voice in the darkness asking, 'Hello, darling. Lookin' for company?'
'N-no.' His voice broke as sometimes it did when he was startled. 'I'm looking for shelter. I've got nowhere to stop.'
'He's just a kid, Peg,' the voice said, and another one butted in, 'Well, you're on our patch, laddie. You can't stop here.'
To Mikey's horror he started to cry. Great gulps of tears and sobs which poured out of him and wouldn't stop.
'Hey! Hey! Come on,' the first woman said. 'What's up?'
'My ma's dead,' he wept, 'and I've just come out of prison and 'rest of our bairns are in 'workhouse.'
'Phew!' one of the women whistled. 'You've got a skinful o' trouble, haven't you? What you been in prison for? Beating up some old lady?'
'No,' he sobbed. 'I stole a rabbit from 'butcher.'
'For your dinner, was it?'
As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he saw that one of the women was young, the other probably the same age as his mother. 'Yeh.' He wiped his eyes and nose on his sleeve, feeling ashamed and humiliated that he had broken down in front of them.
'And you've nowhere to live? No pals who'd give you a bed for 'night?'
He sniffled. 'I did have, onny— onny I was chucked out. They said I couldn't stop cos of summat that happened. Onny it wasn't my fault.'
He heard the women muttering together. 'All right,' the older one said. 'You get bedded down here and we'll move along a bit, but if anybody comes lookin' for us, tell 'em we'll be in a shop doorway further on. Just for tonight, mind. Tomorrow we'll want our place back. Understood?'
'Yes. Thanks.' He knew that he should have said that he would take the doorway, but it would be draughty and less sheltered than here, and he also knew that they wouldn't stay long in the doorway. As soon as they had a customer, they would move along.
Prostitutes, that's what they are, he thought, without prejudice. The sort of women his mother had warned him against when she realized he was growing up. Full of disease they are, she had told him, so keep away. Not that they would want a poverty-stricken lad like you, she had added, and at first he hadn't understood what she meant. Now he did. Ma didn't say that they would be thoughtful, did she, he pondered, huddling against the wall. She didn't say they would be kind. Perhaps she didn't really know any.
There were not many hours left until dawn and he slept only fitfully until then; he was disturbed once by an old tramp who bent over to look at him and then moved on, and then by a mangy dog who sniffed him and lay down beside him. The dog stank and scratched and scratched and Mikey eventually shooed him away.
Horses and trundling carriers' wagons, carts with cages of clucking hens and squawking ducks on their way to the market, woke him and he remembered that today was his mother's funeral. He got to his feet and set off to look for a water pump where he could swill his hands and face. The two women had gone and he wondered where they slept during the day.
He arrived at the workhouse door at seven o'clock and the matron said he was far too early. 'You'll have to sit outside,' she grumbled. 'I'm busy with breakfast. I'll send your kin to you when they've had theirs.'
Mikey licked his lips. I wonder what they're having. 'Will there be owt left?' he said plaintively.
'No,' she said. 'There won't. I have to ration out my supplies. There isn't enough for waifs and strays as well as for 'residents.' Her benevolent manner of yesterday seemed to have disappeared and she was abrupt and offhand. 'Go and sit on 'steps in 'yard till we're ready.'
He sat on the steps to a hayloft
Similar Books
