The Narrowboat Girl by Annie Murray Page A

under the premises behind. At the back end, through a white door, was the chapel of rest. The walls in there were plastered and distempered and it was kept very neat and clean. It contained a long trestle table and a small side table on which were a Bible, a candle and an arrangement of dusty silk flowers. There was access to it from the street behind, and any visiting bereaved were escorted in through there and all hammering silenced while they were there. Tonight, on the long table in the Chapel of Rest, a Mr Alfred Johnson lay in his coffin. His family hadn’t wanted him at home taking up the room. The front end, under the shop, was much more workmanlike: unplastered brick walls, cobwebs trailing under the grating through which only shreds of light filtered from the street so that it had to be lit by gas lamps all day long. At one end, abutting the wall of the Chapel of Rest, was Mr Griffin’s cupboard, but most of the space was taken up by a workbench and a long table. On the workbench tonight sat the almost completed coffin which Fred was due to finish the next day.
    Mr Griffin was breathing rather fast. He reached up and made some adjustment to the light so that it burned less brightly. ‘Now then, Sal, my dear.’
    ‘No,’ she begged, starting to cry. ‘No – please. Not today. I’ll do it tomorrow, but not today – I feel a bit bad today and I can’t . . .’
    ‘Sal—’ He was speaking in his soft, fluid voice. ‘You’re just not used to it, my dear. You’re young – you have to learn to enjoy it.’
    She was shaking her head, wretchedly, unable to stop the tears from pouring down her cheeks.
    His mouth was right close to her, his hot breath wafting the words into her ear. ‘And if you don’t, you know what’ll happen, don’t you?’ He pointed to the far end of the cellar. ‘There’s my cupboard.’ He patted his pocket. ‘And here is the key. And you know what’s in my cupboard, don’t you?’
    Sal nodded, gasping.
    ‘Right then.’ There was nothing wheedling about his speech now. It was icy, clipped. It made Sal wither inside. He pulled at the buckle of his belt with one hand, reaching out with his other to grasp her by her long hair, yanking her close to him.
    His other hand was under her skirt, tugging, tearing.
    ‘Let’s get on with it.’
    When Maryann got home from school that day she ran straight in shouting, ‘Mom – Mom! Is Tiger back? Has ’e come home?’
    Flo Nelson shook her head. She hadn’t given a thought to the flaming cat. ‘No – I ain’t seen ’im all day.’ She saw the hope drain out of Maryann’s face. Maryann had been so sure he’d gone wandering and would be back by now. Her lips quivered and her eyes filled with tears.
    ‘Tell yer what.’ Flo saw an opportunity for a few more minutes peace. ‘Yer could go and ask up and down the road if anyone’s seen ’im – the neighbours and that. Someone might of done. ’E might be asleep by the fire in someone’s ’ouse just along the street, yer never know. Or maybe ’e’s sloped back off to Garrett Street. And take our Tony with yer, eh?’
    A little cheered by being able to do something, Maryann called Tony. They went to Garrett Street and called at the Blacks’ house. Blackie came to the door and the usual stink of urine and soiled baby’s napkins assailed their nostrils as it opened. He stood blearily in the doorway, not seeming to know who they were. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway down and she could see black, springy hairs on his chest.
    ‘’Allo, Mr Black,’ Maryann said. ‘It’s me – Maryann Nelson.’
    ‘Oh ar,’ Blackie said. For a second Maryann felt sorry for him. He looked such a wreck. But she had more urgent things on her mind.
    ‘’Ave yer seen my cat? ’E’s a little tabby with a face like a tiger . . .’
    ‘Cat? No – I ain’t seen no cat . . .’ He stood looking at them, as if thinking what to say next.
    ‘Maryann, is that you?’ Nance came running downstairs.