Gypsy

  Sam shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I heard him laughing about me once with a customer. He said I was a good lad, even if my head was in the clouds. And you certainly hadn’t upset him; he was proud of you.’

  ‘But how are we going to live now?’ Beth asked. ‘You aren’t experienced enough to keep the shop going!’

  It was often remarked on how different Beth and Sam were. Not just their looks, one tall and blond, the other small and dark — their natures were quite different too.

  Sam’s head was always in the clouds, living in a dream world of fantastic adventures, riches and exotic places. One day he could be wasting time down by the docks gazing wistfully at the ocean-going ships; another he could be peering through gates of big houses, marvelling at the way the wealthy lived. Although he had never admitted it to Beth, she knew the real reason he didn’t want to be a cobbler or shoemaker was because no one became rich or had adventures that way.

  Beth was far more practical and logical than her brother, thorough and diligent when she was given a task to do. She had sharper wits, and read books to gain knowledge rather than to escape reality. Yet she could understand why Sam lived in a fantasy world, because she had her fantasy too, of playing her fiddle to a huge audience and hearing rapturous applause.

  It was of course an unattainable dream. Even if she had been taught to play classical violin, she’d never seen a female violinist in an orchestra. She played jigs and reels, tunes passed down from her grandfather, and most people considered that was gypsy music, suitable only for entertainment in rowdy ale houses.

  Yet for all the differences between Beth and Sam, they were very close. With only a year between them, and having never been allowed to play in the street like other children in the neighbourhood, they’d always relied on each other for companionship.

  Sam got up from his chair and knelt beside Beth, putting his arms around her. ‘I’ll take care of both of you, somehow,’ he said with a break in his voice.

  In the days that followed, Beth’s emotions see-sawed between overwhelming grief and rage. She had never known one day without her father; he had been as constant as the grandfather clock chiming away the hours. A wiry man of forty-five with thinning grey hair, a carefully trimmed moustache and a rather prominent nose, he was always cheery and, she thought, transparent.

  He might not have been overly demonstrative — a pat on the shoulder was his way of showing affection and approval — but he had never been a distant figure like so many fathers were. He liked her to come down to the shop and chat while he was working; he had always been interested in what she was reading, and her music.

  But now she felt she hadn’t really known him. How could he come up to the kitchen for his tea and sit with his wife and daughter while all the time he was intending to go back downstairs, finish his work and then hang himself?

  He had talked about a pair of buttoned boots a lady had ordered just that morning, laughing about her because she wanted pale blue ones to match a new dress. He said they wouldn’t stay looking good for long in Liverpool’s dirty streets. Why would he say that if he knew he was never going to make them?

  If he had died of a heart attack, or been run over by a carriage while crossing the street, it would have been terrible, and the pain they all felt now would have been just as agonizing, but at least none of them would have felt betrayed.

  Their mother wouldn’t stop crying. She just lay in her bed, refusing to eat or even to allow them to open the curtains, and Sam was like a bewildered lost soul, convinced it was his fault because he’d been less than enthusiastic about being a shoemaker.

  Only a few neighbours had called to offer condolences, and Beth felt their real motive was not real sympathy but to gather more information to bandy around. Father Reilly had called, but although he’d been kindly, he’d been quick enough to say Frank Bolton couldn’t be buried on hallowed ground as it was a grievous sin for a man to take his own life.

  The result of the inquest would be in the newspapers, and all their friends and neighbours would read it and shun them afterwards. She thought it was cruel and cowardly for her father to have done this to them all. And she didn’t think her mother would ever want to go out of the house again.

  Five days after her father’s death, Beth was in the parlour making black dresses for herself and her mother. Outside the sun was shining, but she had to keep the blinds closed as was the custom, and the light was so dim she was finding it hard even to thread the needle.

  Beth had always enjoyed sewing, but as her mother wouldn’t rouse herself to help, she’d had no choice but to dig out the patterns, cut the material on the parlour table and sew the dresses alone, for they would be disgraced further without proper mourning clothes.

  She would give anything to be able to get out her fiddle and play as she knew she could lose herself in music and perhaps find some solace. But playing a musical instrument so soon after a bereavement wasn’t seemly.

  In irritation Beth threw down her sewing and went over to the window where she drew back the blind just an inch or two to peep out and watch the activity on Church Street.

  As always, it was crowded with people. The omnibuses, cabs, carts and carriages created piles of horse droppings, and the smell was more pungent than usual today because of the warm sunshine. Ladies of quality in elegant frocks and pretty hats strolled arm-in-arm with gentlemen in high wing collars and top hats. There were matronly housekeepers in severe dark clothes carrying baskets of fruit and vegetables, and here and there young girls, perhaps maids on their afternoon off, dreamily looking in shop windows.

  But there were plenty of poor people too. A one-legged man on crutches was begging outside Bunney’s, the shop on the crossroads which was generally known as Holy Corner because Lord Street, Paradise, Chapel and Church Streets all met there. Worn-looking women held babies in their arms, smaller children tagging along behind; tousle-haired street urchins with dirty faces and bare feet loitered, perhaps on the lookout for anything they could steal.

  There was a queue at the butcher’s opposite, and because of the warm sunshine the women looked relaxed and unhurried, chatting to one another as they waited to be served. But as Beth watched them, she saw two women turn and look straight up at the windows above the shop, and she realized they’d just been told that the shoemaker had hanged himself.

  Tears welled up in her eyes, for she knew that the gossip would gain even more momentum after the funeral. People could be so cruel, always delighting in others’ misfortunes. She could imagine them saying that the Boltons had always thought themselves a cut above everyone else, and no doubt Frank had killed himself because he was in debt. Beth almost wished that was the reason; at least it would be understandable.

  Turning away from the window, she looked around the parlour. It was her mother’s pride and joy; everything, from the patterned square of carpet and the china dogs sitting either side of the fireplace to the stiff, uncomfortable button-backed armchairs and the heavy tapestry curtains, were copies of things Alice had seen in the big house when she was a scullery maid.

  Wanting a piano was part of it, and it had to be hauled up through the window by six men. Neither of her parents could play the instrument, but to her mother it was a sign of refinement, so Beth had to learn. She had no doubt her mother hoped it would wean her off the fiddle, an instrument she saw as ‘common’.

  Although Beth often felt hurt by her mother’s attitude to her beloved fiddle, she was very glad when she found Miss Clarkson to give her lessons on the piano. She might have been a thirty-year-old spinster, with grey hair and a cast in one eye, but she was an inspiring woman. She not only taught Beth to read music and play the piano but she introduced her to a whole new world of books, music and ideas.

  For five years Miss Clarkson was her ally, friend, confidante and teacher. She loved to hear Beth play her fiddle as well as the piano, she would bring books with her she thought Beth should read, she taught her about all kinds of music
and sometimes took her to concerts too. Yet what Beth liked best about her was that she didn’t have the same narrow outlook as her mother. Miss Clarkson felt strongly that women should have equal rights to men, be that to vote, to have a good education or to work at anything they pleased.

  Beth wished Miss Clarkson was still in Liverpool now because she was the one person who might have been able to help her and Sam understand why their father had done such a terrible thing. But she had emigrated to America because she said she felt stifled by the hypocrisy, class system and lack of opportunities for women in England.

  ‘I shall miss you, Beth,’ she told her with a resigned smile when they said their last goodbyes. ‘Not just because you are my most accomplished pupil, but because you have a lively mind, a stout heart and boundless enthusiasm. Promise me you won’t marry the first suitable man who asks you, just so you can have a home of your own. Marriage may be considered by most to be a holy state, but not if you pick the wrong man. And keep up your music, for it lifts the spirit and allows you the freedom of expression a girl like you needs.’

  Beth had found Miss Clarkson was right about the music. It transported her to a place where her mother’s repeated instructions on mundane domestic matters couldn’t reach her, a world where fun, freedom and excitement weren’t frowned upon.

  Sadly, she knew Mama had never understood that. She had always liked to boast to the neighbours of her daughter’s talent, but she didn’t actually listen to her playing the piano and she resented the fiddle. Papa had listened and liked nothing better than to sit and hear her play the piano on a Sunday evening — Chopin was his favourite — yet he also enjoyed it when she played and sang popular music-hall songs. Even for him, though, the fiddle had been a slight bone of contention, perhaps because it was a reminder of his childhood and he feared the wild Irish jigs his father had taught Beth to play would draw her into bad company.

  Hearing Sam coming up the stairs, Beth began sewing again. She heard him go in to see Mama in her room down beside the kitchen, and a few minutes later he came into the parlour.

  He looked pale and drawn, his brow knitted in a frown. ‘The Coroner is releasing Papa’s body tomorrow,’ he said wearily. ‘He didn’t find anything to explain why he did it, he wasn’t sick. But at least we can bury him now.’

  ‘Did you tell Mama?’ Beth asked.

  Sam nodded despondently. ‘She was crying still. I don’t think she’s ever going to stop.’

  ‘Maybe she will after the funeral,’ Beth said with more optimism than she felt. ‘I must fit this dress on her soon. I hope she won’t make another scene.’

  ‘I saw Mrs Craven outside. She said she’ll come round later and try to talk to her; maybe it will be best if you try the dress then. However bad Mama feels, she won’t want a neighbour knowing she’s leaving everything to us.’

  Beth heard the bitterness in his voice and got up to put her arms around him. He had been in the shop from first light till dusk most days, finishing up all the repairs, and she knew how frightened and worried he was. ‘You said we’d manage the night it happened, and we will,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve got a feeling Mama knows why he did it,’ Sam said in a low voice, leaning his chin on her head as she held him. ‘I’ve gone through the accounts and although there isn’t very much money, he wasn’t in trouble. He never went out, so he wasn’t drinking or gambling, and he certainly didn’t have another woman. It can only be something to do with her.’

  ‘Don’t think that, Sam,’ Beth begged him. ‘It won’t help putting the blame on Mama.’

  Sam caught hold of her arms tightly and looked right into her eyes. ‘Don’t you realize everything is going to be different from now on?’ he said fiercely. ‘We are going to be poor. I wish I could promise you that I could keep the shop going, but all I can do is repairs. I’m not skilled enough to make boots and shoes, and that was what Papa made the money on. I’m going to have to get another job, but that won’t pay enough to keep all three of us.’

  ‘I can get one too,’ Beth said eagerly. ‘We will manage, Sam.’

  He looked at her doubtfully. ‘It may come that we have to find a cheaper place to live, or take in a lodger. We won’t be able to live the way we’ve been used to.’

  Anger flared up inside Beth again. All her life she’d heard Papa telling her that he wanted her and Sam to have all the advantages he’d never had. He’d made her believe that they were gentlefolk, a cut above most of their neighbours. But he’d shamed and ruined them without even an explanation as to why.

  Chapter Three

  As Beth laid the table for the evening meal she watched her mother stirring a pot of stew on the stove. As usual she was in her own private world, barely aware even that her daughter was in the room with her.

  Three months had passed since she was widowed, but this was how she had remained. While she did the washing, cooking and cleaning in much the same way she always had, she only spoke when asked a direct question, and she took no interest in anyone or anything.

  Mrs Craven, their kindly neighbour who had been so supportive at the time of their father’s death, had said that Beth and Sam should be patient with her, for grief affected people in many different ways and their mother would come out of this silence when she was ready. But a month ago even Mrs Craven lost her patience when Mama told her to go away when she’d called round.

  ‘’ Er face was as cold as a marble headstone! Fair gave me goose pimples, cos it was like she didn’t know me,’ she reported indignantly to Beth.

  It seemed incredible to Beth that her mother could dismiss the one person who had been a true friend. But then she didn’t show any appreciation for all Sam had done for her either.

  He had tried so hard to keep the shop going, but the people who used to bring in their boots and shoes to be repaired stopped coming. Whether this was because of the suicide, or because they didn’t think Sam could do the job, wasn’t clear. So Sam rented the shop out to someone else. Mama merely shrugged when he told her.

  For a dreamy and previously very lazy lad, Beth thought her brother had proved himself to be a real man by dealing so masterfully with all the family problems. With someone downstairs paying almost the entire rent for the building, they only had to find a small balance so they could continue to stay in the flat. Sam had got himself a position as a junior clerk with a shipping company and he brought home every penny he earned to keep them all. Mama should be praising him to the skies, not just ignoring him.

  But then she hadn’t praised Beth either when she found a position as an assistant in a hosiery shop. She never asked what the hours would be or how much she would be paid.

  A while ago Sam had remarked that it was as if their mother had been replaced by a sullen servant. He said it jokingly, but that was exactly what it was like, for she made and served their meals without a word. She had never been a great conversationalist, a little gossip about the neighbours had been her limit, but she’d always been a good listener and was aware of any little changes in either of them, showing concern if they felt poorly or seemed sad. She didn’t notice now whether they were tired or had a cold; she didn’t even make a remark about the weather. If they asked her what she’d done during the day she would reply with one bald sentence: ‘I did the washing’ or ‘I changed the beds’. Beth would seethe inwardly, wanting to scream out that she still had them and the home she loved, while her children’s world had been turned upside down. Sam was tied to a desk for ten hours a day, at the beck and call of men who treated him like dirt on their boots. He couldn’t wander off to the docks for an hour or two the way he used to; every penny he earned was needed.

  Maybe Beth had wanted to work in a shop, but she soon found that working in Hooley’s Hosiery wasn’t anything like she had imagined. She and the other shop assistants had to line up each morning for a check that their nails were clean and their boots polished, and just a couple of strands of hair coming loose was a serious misdemeanour. Customers were ofte
n rude, but she had to smile sweetly as if they were royalty. She couldn’t even go to the privy without asking permission, and just talking to another assistant was to risk being fired. She was spied on all the time, there were countless petty rules, and she found being on her feet all day exhausting. Their mother rarely went out, so she didn’t see the sneers on people’s faces or overhear their cruel remarks. Sam and Beth lived with that every day.

  But all the feelings of anxiety, resentment and irritation that Beth had felt in the past couple of months were eclipsed today by something far more serious.

  It was early closing day, and Beth got home soon after one. She intended to have something to eat, then try to persuade her mother to come out with her for a walk in the sunshine.

  The people taking over the shop were going to sell shoes, and during the last week a carpenter had been building shelves and a counter. As Beth came in through the back door, a painter was working in the shop with the door wide open. He apologized for the paint fumes and said he hoped that wasn’t what had upset her mother, for he’d heard her being sick in the privy.

  Beth was naturally alarmed and ran upstairs to see Mama. But she denied there was anything wrong and said the painter was mistaken.

  The paint fumes were very strong in their flat, but even so her mother refused to go out with Beth. So Beth had some bread and cheese and went out alone.

  They only used the back door now, but as she came up Church Street the shop door was wide open, so she slipped in that way to save going round the back. It was about half past three, and she paused in the small lobby by the stairs up to their flat, because through the open back door she could see her mother in the yard taking the washing off the clothes-line.

  She was stretching up to reach one of Sam’s shirts, and Beth was shocked to see that her belly had grown very big.

  Her mother was short and she’d always been very slender, in fact her waist had been so small that her father used to encircle it with his two hands. Three months ago, when Beth had fitted her mourning dress on her, it had still been the same. But it wasn’t like that any more. She was wearing a linen apron over her black dress, but the waistband of the apron was well above where it should have been, and her swollen belly was clearly defined.