The Narrowboat Girl by Annie Murray

It was Tuesday evening.
    Sal’s demeanour was anything but relaxed. She sat chewing hard on the end of her thumb. Every so often she got up and tiptoed over towards the staircase leading down to the double cellar which ran under the building, and stood, head cocked, listening. After waiting at the top of the staircase for a long time on one occasion, she crept halfway down and stopped. She could hear Norman Griffin’s voice, talking to Fred, the lad who worked down there building coffins. The last boy had left not long back and Norman was training Fred up. On Tuesdays he sent Fred home early.
    ‘Shall I put all these away now?’ Sal heard Fred say.
    Then Norman’s voice. ‘No – leave that to me. I keep that cupboard locked, with the chemicals and that about. You can get off now.’ She heard the clink of a key. Fred was about to leave. Her heart beat even faster. She opened her mouth to speak but her throat had dried out and she had to swallow before she could get any words out.
    ‘Mr Griffin?’ she called downstairs. She knew it was futile, but she had to try it. She felt she was going to explode inside. ‘I’ll be off ’ome now – our Mom’ll be needing some help.’
    Norman Griffin’s face appeared round the cellar door, pale and moonlike in the gloom as he looked up at her.
    ‘No, Sal – yer not to go yet. There’s a few things want finishing.’ He spoke in the low, respectful tone Sal and Maryann called his ‘Undertaker’ voice.
    ‘But—’ She tried to protest.
    He closed the cellar door behind him, and then came another of his voices. ‘No, Sal.’ Now the voice was soft, wheedling. ‘Yer to stay a bit longer. Don’t want yer going home yet – or you know what’ll happen, don’t yer?’
    Sal returned to her chair upstairs, trembling from head to foot. She was in such as a state she felt as if her throat had closed up, that she couldn’t swallow. Oh God! She could run out and down the road now. But she daren’t. Couldn’t. Sooner or later she’d have to go home. And when she got home he’d be there. And she couldn’t tell anyone and she’d have to come back to work with him and then he’d . . . he’d . . . She dug her nails into the palms of her hands.
    They were coming up the stairs, Fred clumping along in his boots. He was none too with it, Fred wasn’t. Gangly, greasy brown hair, big feet, yes, Mr Griffin, no, Mr Griffin, everything Norman wanted.
    ‘G’night then—’ He nodded at Sal, and Norman Griffin stood at the door as he went out.
    Norman pulled his watch up from his weskit and squinted at it.
    ‘Ah yes – time to close up.’ He locked the door, pulled the blind down over the door and windows and turned to look at her.
    ‘Don’t do that again, will you?’ He spoke casually, but she could hear the threat underneath.
    ‘What?’ She could only manage a whisper. The tension in her was like a crushing sensation in her chest.
    ‘Don’t talk back to me in front of my employees like that,’ he said, as if he had a whole empire of workers, not just herself and Fred.
    ‘I’m sorry.’ She kept her gaze on the desk in front of her, hands clasped tightly together in her lap. Her heart was beating so hard it hurt.
    Then the wheedling voice was back. ‘Come on then, Sal. You know what will please me, don’t yer?’
    She didn’t answer, just kept her head lowered, and she heard him moving towards her. Sal squeezed her eyes tight shut. When he reached down and took hold of her hands she cried out, startled.
    ‘Oh, don’t get in such a state,’ he said impatiently. His voice became clipped and cold. ‘You know what yer ’ave to do – and then it’s over and yer can go home. Simple. It ain’t asking much.’
    Much, she thought, as he pulled her towards the stairs. Ever since that first time, the start of it, when he had come up behind her and pressed his hands over her breasts, hurting her, it had been much. Far too much.
    The cellar was a double one, extending