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Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com

Copyright © Emma Hornby 2017
Extract from The Orphans of Ardwick © Emma Hornby 2018
Cover photography © Colin Thomas, background © Getty Images
Design by Richard Ogle/TW

Emma Hornby has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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For my own family who once lived cheek by jowl with the fearsome Manchester scuttlers. Thank you for your strength and for the inspiration – this book is for you. And my ABC, always x

Many a good tussle have I had with other classes of criminals, but I would rather face the worst of these than a scuttler …

Jerome Caminada, Manchester detective

Chapter 1

DRAGGING HER SCRAP of the itchy blanket from beneath her sister Sissy’s skinny frame, Moll Chambers frowned curiously. She had that feeling again, low in her tummy. Why, she wasn’t sure; she could never put her finger on it.

She wasn’t afraid, no, no. Of her mam? Well, sometimes. A little. But she never showed it, and Mam knew if she lifted her fist to her, Moll wouldn’t stand for it like the others.

No, it wasn’t exactly fear. The only sensation she could liken it to was when, as a child, she, Sissy and their brother, Bo, got drunk on their mother’s gin and stole Mr Crocket’s horse from his yard. They had ridden it, much to the amusement of following urchins, through the cobbled streets, singing and shouting greetings to passers-by. Turning into Jersey Street’s broad thoroughfare, the horse shied suddenly when a dog ran across its path, and Moll, sat nearest its rump, had fallen backwards. Those moments, suspended mid-air, seemed to last minutes rather than seconds and she’d never forgotten that tumbling feeling in the pit of her stomach before she hit the hard flagstones.

That’s what she felt now – always felt when the first, bawdy notes drifted down the street. Like her insides had dropped to meet her toes.

A noise like iron striking iron punctured the stuffy room – her father’s cough. With a quiet growl of irritation, Moll kicked back the blanket and, standing in her cotton shift, shook the creases from her navy-blue skirts, dressed quickly and stomped to the window. She could just make out a dark figure weaving its way down Blossom Street and was in no doubt who it was when, again, their singing rang out to pierce every corner of her world.

She shook her head. Davy Preston’s handiwork, no doubt. Bastard. Surely he must know how Father was?

‘Good lass,’ her father murmured as she slipped past, and her anger mounted.

Snatching a shawl from a nail in the wall, she threw it over her shoulders and hurried for the front door. Sickly light from street lamps spewed across the tumbledown road, illuminating the filth, and in her barefoot state she chose her step carefully. The balmy night still carried the stink that the night soil men had left in their wake but the noise, louder now she was but feet away, poisoned the air more.

‘And young Willy West did whisper to me, “Meet me at noon ’neath the old apple tree.”’

‘And meet him, did I, just like I’d been told. But five minutes in, he grew ever so bold.’

‘Quiet, Mam.’ Taking her arm, Moll made to steer her to their door but her mother, hat askew over one eye, hooted with laughter, grabbed Moll’s wrists and dragged her in a stumbling dance across the pavement.

‘“Willy, you bugger, release me!” I brayed, yet secretly liking where his hand had strayed …’

‘’Ere, shut tha rotten trap and let honest folk catch some kip! Knocker bleedin’ upper will be doing his rounds shortly.’

Moll whipped around and squinted at the bedroom window of number ten, where a woman in her middle years was leaning out. ‘All right, Mrs Coombes. I’m getting her in.’

‘Hurry up about it. Disgraceful doxy; she wants carting to the asylum, she does!’

Despite her embarrassment, love and loyalty lifted Moll’s chin. ‘Say that again to my face, if you dare,’ she growled up. ‘So help me, I’ll tear the hair from your scalp.’

Having reached their door, Moll shoved her mother through and turned back to glare at the woman opposite. She was about to yell that Mrs Coombes had room to talk about doxies, and her with a daughter whose back barely saw the light of day, when two youths turning the corner caught her attention. One stood head and shoulders above the other, though the latter was by no means short. ‘That you, Bo?’ she called.

Tut-tutting her annoyance, Mrs Coombes withdrew from her window, shutting it with a resounding slam, and Moll sighed inwardly. Bloody neighbours. Bloody Mam. Bloody life.

Moll shot Bo a lopsided smile. ‘Nay, I know.’ She jerked her head to where their mother lay sprawled on the stairs, snoring. ‘Came home not a minute since, singing her head off.’

‘Aye, more likely than not.’ She stepped aside to let the lads in. ‘Help me get her into bed, Bo.’

‘It’s all right, Moll, I’ve got her.’ As though lifting an infant, he picked up their mother in his thick arms and carried her through.

She peered at her brother’s friend across the gloomy passage. He had his hands in his trouser pockets, flat cap pulled low, obscuring his face. The difference in him when Bo wasn’t around never failed to surprise her. When had this change towards her started? She couldn’t recall. A month ago; maybe two? She hadn’t mentioned it and neither had he. But it was there. Her heartbeat quickened.

She couldn’t contain a bitter laugh. ‘I’m tired, all right. Sick and tired, of it all.’

He reached her in one stride and rested an arm on the wall above her head. He wore no jacket, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow against the summer night, and heat from his bare arm flushed her cheeks further. He smelt faintly of rough soap and tobacco and when she lifted her head to look at him, she caught a hint of ale on his breath. Combined with his own lad’s scent, it was enough to set her pulse racing.

‘Aye, I know. Ta for going with the lad the night to search for Mam. I fret about him out on his own, what with them sods breathing down his neck every chance they get. Why won’t they leave him be?’ she asked, voice hardening. ‘They’ll not half think so if I ever catch them at it.’

‘And I’ll not see you hurt. Bo’s big enough to see to hisself. They’ll grow bored soon enough.’

She arched an eyebrow. ‘Aye? Well, they’re taking their time about it. It’s every bloody day, Uriah. On his way to work, on his way home – any chance they get, they’re on at him. Almost every lad from these streets hereabouts are in the Bengal Tigers. Not Bo. They’ll not drag him into it while I’m around.’

‘It’s his size the gang want him for. He’s bigger than any lad the Prussia Street lot can boast.’ He drew a hand across the fine stubble on his chin. ‘Let’s just see, eh? They grew bored with pestering me, eventually, didn’t they?’

Moll heaved a sigh. Uriah and lads like him, who refused to join the gangs terrorising their streets, stuck to the shadows when venturing out for fear of confrontation. At best, they would be subjected to an interrogation, with members wanting to know who they were, with the usual cry: ‘Who’s this lad?’, where they were from, what they were doing on their stomping ground and above all to what gang, if any, they belonged. At worst, they’d be coerced into joining their ranks, often by force. Otherwise they would be set upon and beaten terribly before being chased off their patch.

‘I’ll be with him when I can,’ Uriah continued. ‘These scuttlers are beyond vicious when the mood strikes, and the Bengal Tigers are the most feared in Manchester. I’ve heard even Salford’s scuttlers are wary of venturing across here. Don’t involve yourself, Moll.’

‘Mam’s snoring loud enough to stir the dead. Father won’t settle with that racket.’

Moll rolled her eyes. ‘I’d best go in, case he needs me. You’ll be all right getting home, won’t you?’ she added to Uriah – realising too late her error when he grinned and raised his eyebrows at Bo. ‘What I mean is—’

Just as Uriah had quickly reverted to his usual manner with her in front of Bo, Moll followed suit, as though by some unspoken agreement.

She tossed her head. ‘I couldn’t give two hoots either way. I were only asking, what with your injured leg, an’ all …’

He exchanged a bemused look with Bo. ‘My leg’s not— Jesus, Moll!’ he yelped when she landed a swift kick to his shin. Grinning again, he bent to rub it. ‘Very ladylike, I’m sure.’

‘Serves you right,’ she shot back over Bo’s chuckles. ‘Go on, get gone, we want our beds.’ To her brother, she added, ‘You, in.’

Uriah turned at the door and Moll caught the briefest of winks, meant just for her. The corners of her mouth twitched in response.

A determined sun, casting diamond-shaped shafts of light through the numerous holes in the curtain, coupled with the smell of burnt toast, pulled Moll from sleep the following morning. Soft humming wrapped around her like a cloak and she smiled wryly. How Mam managed it after a gin-soaked night, she didn’t know.

An empty mug on the floor by her parents’ bed told her that her father had had breakfast – if you could call it that, Moll thought bleakly; he barely ate enough to keep a sparrow nourished nowadays – and he was sleeping peacefully. Otherwise, the room was empty.

‘Toast, lass?’ Wiping her hands on her apron, Ruth Chambers glanced across the sparse kitchen with a sorry smile when Moll entered, then lowered her gaze. ‘Sit and have yourself a bite afore our laddo there has it away.’

Bo laughed, and Moll cast him an accusing look. ‘You’ve soon forgot about last night.’

Moll waited until their mother crossed to the fire for the kettle before saying out of the side of her mouth, ‘And what’s she trying, like? To ruin us? If Father discovers that sod’s sniffing about—’

‘He’ll not. Besides, I asked her. She weren’t with Preston. Not seen him in days, she said. Happen he’s gone for good?’ Bo suggested hopefully, then sighed when Moll shook her head. ‘Aye, well. I’d best be away.’ He tossed the last piece of charred bread into his mouth, crossed the room and kissed their mother’s cheek.

‘Aye.’ He put on his cap and as he shrugged on his rough jacket, added quietly, ‘See you later, Mam.’

It was more a question than a general farewell, and sadness fluttered in Moll’s chest. Their Bo, big as any man, looking down on their mother with the expression of an infant fearful of being abandoned – not a sixteen-year-old ready to enter the world, marry, have children and live independently in a few short years. He was as needy of her as a child. He wanted what he’d never really had.

And would they see her later? Would she be here upon their return from work, like other mams, busy at the fire with the evening meal, her only concern feeding her children after a day’s toil, and her husband lying ill in his bed? Moll very much doubted it. They would see her, all right, but not until the gin shops were shut and the inns and taverns kicking out.

Moll nodded to the pouting child beside her and smiled at her loud giggles when Bo kissed Sissy soundly on the brow.

‘If you and Uriah see other foundry lads on t’ way, catch up with ’em, eh? Them scuttler swines are less likely to—’

‘They’re less likely to accost you if you’re with company,’ she continued, albeit quieter. ‘Anyroad, Mam should know about this.’

Moll pushed her worries to the back of her mind and lifted the teapot. After filling her mother’s mug then her own, she plucked down the tattered towel used for everything from drying pots to their own bodies and passed it to Sissy. ‘We’ve to be off ourselfs in a minute. Wipe your hands and face, there’s a good lass.’

Sipping her tea, she watched her mother flit around the room, clearly looking for jobs to do as an excuse not to sit and face Moll’s questions about last night. After wiping a surface that was already clean, Ruth began rearranging the cheap ornaments on the mantel, and Moll rolled her eyes. ‘Sup your tea, Mam, afore we leave.’

Her mother blew at dust Moll knew wasn’t there from the tin clock then, with obvious reluctance, slipped into a chair.

Mam was a beauty, plain and simple. How, the way she was, was anyone’s guess, but there was no denying it – though Mam herself did, always had. Her neat figure belied the fact that she’d borne seven children and her smooth brow showed none of the hardship she suffered from burying all but three, and from life in general. Now, her hair was parted down the middle and bound in a tight bun but when loose, it swayed about her shoulders like liquid. Every night, as a child, Moll would brush it until it crackled, swish-swishing the wood handle in soft flicks, and the candlelight picked out shades of copper and orange-gold and melted butter, which she likened to the autumn leaves shed each year in neighbouring Salford’s Peel Park, which pranced dizzyingly on the wind.

Moll reached up to finger her own hair. It was all right, she supposed: shiny black with a slight wave to it, but nothing like Mam’s. Nature had blessed Sissy with their mother’s delicate appearance, whereas Moll and Bo had their father’s striking dark looks and strong features. She was taller than her mother, fuller of breast and hip, larger, louder, in every way. It made her feel like a clomping great dray horse in the company of a graceful deer.

Then there was the other mam with the gin bottle in her hand. The one who sang lewd songs, cackled like a crone at their concerns, held them in crushing embraces and swore how much she loved them until it felt you were drowning on spirit-fumed fog. Who yelled and struck out with small bunched fists for reasons only she knew. Who stroked their cheeks, glassy eyes deep with real tenderness. The one who shamed them in front of their neighbours, or wailed like a beast in pain with self-loathing. The ugly mam. The mam they loved every bit as the sober one. Bloody Preston …

Moll stared at Ruth for a long moment then reached across the table and covered her hand with hers. ‘Aye, I know.’

‘You did. Go and fetch your shawl, now, eh? Owd Evans will have kittens if we’re late.’

Their mother watched her youngest child as she went. ‘You’re like a mam to that poor lass,’ she murmured, her tone tinged with guilt, ‘and it’s not on. I should …’ She sighed. ‘I will, I’ll stop, Moll.’ She glanced at the clock and rose. ‘I’d best give Jilly a knock. She should’ve been here by now.’

The two-up, two-down terrace, which they shared with two other families, was identical to every other flanking the street in both layout and condition: rotten with age and damp and choking with people.

Cockroaches and rats paraded through every home as though part of the family, and Moll didn’t know of one household that didn’t house a hedgehog to keep the bug numbers down. Sissy had named theirs Bertie and it was a nightly trial coaxing her to leave the prickly beast in its box beneath the kitchen table each night rather than take it through to bed.

Most kept a cat for the same purpose, though their blue-grey tom had met his end the previous week under the wheels of a passing coal cart and, as though sensing it, the rats were growing bolder.

They always kept food from vermin’s reach in a cupboard on the wall by the window, but only yesterday Moll had entered their kitchen to find a huge black rat, as big as their feline had been, hanging mid-air by its long teeth from the cupboard handle, after the heel of stale loaf inside, bold as you like. The sight turned her stomach.

Mrs Coombes across the road had promised them a pick of the litter her cat was carrying but, after last night’s performance, Moll doubted the offer still stood.

The Luchettis, Italian ice-cream sellers in their twenties, and their three lads, inhabited the upstairs rooms. Moll and her family occupied the downstairs two, and Jilly Sax and her husband were holed in the cellar, where they had dwelled longer than all of them. Lack of peace and privacy went hand-in-hand, but so too did help and companionship. There was always someone to call on for a chat or in times of need, and Moll wouldn’t have wished it any other way.

The stick-thin woman who followed her mother into the kitchen, now, hobbled across the flagged floor leaving sighs and apologies in her wake.

‘Eeh, so late … My Alf … Bloody knees playing him up again. Aye, lass, aye,’ she added, flapping her hand to the door when she caught Moll glancing at the clock, ‘youse go. I’ll tend to your father, see he has a bite of summat, God willing. I’ve half a jar of beef tea warming by my fire that Alf couldn’t finish. I’ll fetch it in a minute. Go on, afore you’re late.’

‘No thanks needed amongst friends, my lass. ’Ere, Sissy love,’ she told the girl, who had dragged her shawl over her face and was feeling her way to the door, ‘what you like, eh? Pull your ruddy shawl up, else you’ll have a mishap. Eeh, I don’t know, silly girl.’

This was a running joke each day, and Moll and her mother exchanged smiles for this big-hearted woman they were fortunate to call a friend. Many folk were either afraid of this twelve-year-old with the mind of a toddler, or openly scathing. Not Jilly. The moment she’d helped deliver her in this very room, she developed a bond that was almost as strong as the Chambers’ own with the girl who now stood head and shoulders above her. Woe betide anyone with a mind to wag a vicious tongue towards Sissy in Jilly’s earshot.

With Sissy skipping between, Moll and her mother left the house and turned right, for Sid Evans’ butcher’s on Union Street, where Ruth had scrubbed floors some twenty years; Moll had followed suit as soon as she could hold a brush.

The barbed-tempered widower, well aware he wouldn’t find another pair of hands to clean his premises as well as they did on the pittance he paid, tolerated them fetching Sissy along with a tangible air of irritation. They strove to ensure he had as little reason to snap at the weak-minded girl as possible, but keeping her occupied whilst they worked was a constant battle. She grew restless easily and soon abandoned what little tasks they set her to keep her busy, and would wander off if they turned their backs for a second.

However, they had little choice in the circumstances. Sissy fretted when not in their presence even for short lengths of time and, if she was honest, Moll fretted over her, too. The girl could be difficult and no one could handle her as she could – a fact that, Moll knew, both saddened and filled her mother with guilt in equal measures. Ruth wasn’t around enough, they all knew it, and so Sissy clung to the one person who was a constant in her life.

Besides occasional knots of women gossiping by front doors, the streets were mostly empty. The multitude of canal wharves, works, cotton mills and factories, some as tall as six or seven storeys, which loomed over the town like giants surveying their busy ant workforce, had swallowed Ancoats’ residents for the day and already the air was thick with sulphurous smoke spewing from tall chimneys invading the morning sky. Even in the height of summer, the sun’s rays struggled to penetrate the pall, to which domestic hearths added, and every street, lane and court lay in relentless gloom.

Situated on Manchester’s eastern fringe, the densely populated area of Ancoats was its industrial heart and one of its poorest. Crime, disease and death rates were amongst the highest in the country. Large portions of the city housed Irish who had come over during the famine; now, living cheek by jowl with their English counterparts, a new generation of Manchester-born Irish struggled every bit as much as their parents had to eke out a life in this hell on earth.

Given the colossal population, open spaces and recreation grounds were few and far between, depriving residents of much-needed respite on their one day off a week from the relentless toil that was their lives. It was little wonder most escaped their miserable reality at the bottom of a bottle.

With as many alehouses as homes packed into each street, retreating from cold dwellings and griping children with hungry bellies was too strong a pull, which, for most, ensured that their lot would always remain their lot. You did what you must to get by, to survive in whatever way you knew how and if you happened to wake of a morning, you thanked the Lord for another day and got through it the best you could. Such was life.

Moll had never questioned the way of things. This was how folk existed. God’s hand alone determined your station in life. Questioning His will, the Church taught them, was a sin. His design wasn’t theirs to wonder at, and she didn’t bother. Things were as they were. Was it fair? Of course not. Could and would things ever change? She highly doubted it, so what was the point in over-thinking, over-dreaming?

Now, as they turned out of German Street and the butcher’s came into sight, they involuntarily quickened their pace. Pressing Sissy closer, Moll kept a watchful gaze on a hungry-eyed pack of dogs rummaging in the stinking refuse that filled the streets. Desperation would see them break into savage fights if a scrap of food was found, and they viewed passers-by who ventured too close as competition.

‘And I you, lass.’ She could feel their mother’s eyes on them and knew, if she’d turned, she’d have seen the pain that would have shone in the hazel depths. Part of Moll was sorry but another wanted to ask Ruth what did she expect? Was Davy bloody Preston worth it? Lord, how she loathed him …

‘Get through there and begin your work, you’re late,’ snapped the butcher before they were through the door.

‘And you’re a sod,’ muttered Moll, leading the way to the tiny back room beyond the counter to fetch the pails and brushes. Her mother touched her arm, frowning, and she suppressed a sigh. Without a word, they hung up their shawls, rolled up their sleeves and got to work.

An hour and a half later, Moll had finished scrubbing, cleaning and dusting Mr Evans’ living quarters and with Sissy trailing behind, singing quietly, she descended the stairs to empty her pail. After tipping its contents into the back lane, she leaned against the door frame, closed her eyes and pressed her fingers into the small of her back.

The morning had warmed and distant birdsong soothed her tired mind. If not for the stink from the privy, she could have almost imagined she was in the gardens of her dreams instead of here. She smiled, as she always did, at the thought.

Some Saturdays, after work, she took Sissy to the public library on King Street, the site of the old town hall near the city centre.

Her literary abilities left a lot to be desired. The 1870 Education Act, passed in the year of Moll’s birth, saw numerous board schools erected in Manchester throughout the following years. She, and later Bo, attended sporadically and the smattering of the three Rs – Reading, Writing and Arithmetic – they were taught had left little impression. A second Act in 1880 made school attendance compulsory but by then Moll had reached the maximum age required to attend, thus rendering her education over before it had really begun.

Nevertheless, the peace, the feel and smell of the books was the main pull and many an enjoyable hour was had poring over exciting tales, from pirates on the high seas and cavalry in bloody war battles, to her favourite: the lives of the genteel ladies of country estates, who had nothing better to do to while away the hours than sit in breathtaking drawing rooms, crocheting or pressing flowers into pretty scrapbooks.

Their milky-skinned hands were forever hovering by the bell pull to summon their maids, who would fetch them dainty sandwiches on sparkling silver trays and pour them delicious drinking chocolate into bone china cups decorated with sprigs of blue flowers, or pink, or green – always flowers, though, for flowers were beautiful, weren’t they, and sweet-smelling, like the fine ladies themselves?

Moll smiled again, this time wryly. A chipped mug with stinging nettles painted on would likely befit herself!

She yawned, stretched, and with Sissy following, went in search of their mother. She found her on her knees in the Red Room, as her sister called it, a wide-benched area to the back of the shop used for preparing the meat. The metallic smell of death hit the back of her throat and she grimaced.

‘Nay, lass, I’m nearly done,’ Ruth replied through puffs, giving the torn oilcloth an extra robust scrub and smiling when the stubborn black bloodstain faded. ‘There. Now, just let me wash myself at the pump and—’

At the butcher’s bellow, Moll glanced down and around, then exchanged a horrified look with her mother. Sissy … As one, they rushed towards the shop.

Fear and dread that allowing her to wander might cost them their jobs gave way to fury at the sight that met Moll. Mr Evans stood in the middle of the shop floor with his arm raised whilst at his feet, bleating like an injured lamb, lay Sissy, one side of her face livid red.

‘Come in here thinking you can touch my produce, do you, you hard-faced article? God alone knows where you’ve had them hands of yourn with the way you are – picking around in your own shit, no doubt—’ The last word wobbled in his throat when Moll, having rushed forward, grabbed his thick wrist.

‘Don’t you even dare! Lass or no, I’ll fight you right here and now if you lay another finger on her.’ Fists bunched, eyes blazing, she stood her ground as he took a step towards her. ‘I’m warning you, Evans. I’ll do for you and gladly dance the hangman’s tune if I must. You leave her be.’

Shock slackened his mouth. Then he struck out suddenly, catching Moll off guard.

The slap, its sound rebounding off the whitewashed walls like the crack of a whip and mingling with her mother’s cry, sent Moll sprawling across the sawdust floor. She rose to her knees, gasping, and glared up at him but before she could speak, Ruth silenced her with a flap of her hand.

‘She’s short of a darn good thrashing, that’s her trouble – and that along with her,’ the butcher added, jerking a thumb at a snivelling, terrified Sissy. ‘I’ve warned you till I’m blue in the face to keep that thing you call a daughter from under my feet. And what do I find today? Stroking the ruddy pig carcasses in t’ window, she were, asking ’em what their names were! Many a long year I’ve kept you in employment and that raggedy arse of yourn from the workhouse doors. Aye, what thanks do I get? Bloody none, that’s what.’

He blew out air slowly and tugged on his drooping moustache in contemplation. ‘I’ll have no more carryings on like today, d’you hear, missis?’ he asked finally, and Ruth visibly sagged in relief. ‘One more instance like this ’un, and youse are out on your ear.’

‘But …! How can you bow and scrape to the brute after he’s just struck your children? Listen ’ere, Mam, I’ll not—’

‘Nay, you listen, my lass, and listen good. I’ve had just about enough of your tongue. Apologise to Mr Evans.’

Her mother crossed the floor and hauled her to her feet. She stared at Moll with empty eyes and a weary but desperate quaver sounded behind the word: ‘Apologise.’

Pain of betrayal scorched through Moll like liquid fire and tears stung at the butcher’s smug sniff. ‘Mam …’

Clinging to what little pride she could muster up, Moll brushed the wood shavings from her skirts. Then she lifted her chin and, going against every screaming fibre of her being, said, ‘I’m sorry.’

He nodded, satisfied. ‘Collect your shawls from out back and be gone, the pair of you; and get that dim-witted animal out of my sight.’

Swallowing humiliation and injustice, and a burning rage that shook her very bones, Moll took Sissy’s hand, turned on her heel and strode from the shop.

‘You had every choice, Mam!’ she cried over her shoulder. ‘How could you allow him to treat us like that, your own flesh and blood? Lord, I allus knew you were weak-spined, but this—’ As soon as the words were out, she wished she could bite them back. She halted with a sigh.

‘Aye, you’re right. I’m weak, allus were. We can’t all be like you, Moll.’

‘It’s that which gets me through life, that stops sods like him back there taking advantage.’ All anger had left her and it was in a voice thick with tears that she added, ‘He called the lass an animal, Mam.’

Her mother reached for her hand and squeezed it. Then she stooped and pressed a lingering kiss to Sissy’s head.

Chapter 2

JILLY GESTURED TO the jar of rich, red-brown liquid on the table and raised her shoulders helplessly. ‘I tried but he’d not touch a drop, poor love.’

‘I’ll see to him,’ said Ruth as Moll made for the room next door. ‘You get your barrow ready, lass.’

Her tired body cried out at the thought of hawking the streets with the heavy load of potatoes warming in the fire’s embers. Then at the prospect of a chat with Polly and the opportunity to vent her anger at the morning’s occurrence, she brightened a little. She could always count on her friend to cheer her up, whatever life threw her way. What she’d do without her, lately more than ever, Moll didn’t know.

After thanking their neighbour and seeing her out, Moll crossed to the makeshift handcart that sagged in the corner like a sleeping drunk in a doorway, which Bo had knocked together from scavenged wood and rust-riddled perambulator wheels. It was hell itself to manoeuvre but she tolerated it; he’d been proud as punch with his efforts and she hadn’t the heart to replace it. Not that they could afford to. It did its job well enough, depending on its mood.

‘Drank it all, Moll. Drank it.’ Sissy tipped her empty mug upside down to prove her point, sending drops of weak tea to form small puddles on the scrubbed table.

‘Good lass. Go and try at the privy while I get the tatties out the fire.’ Moll was placing the last hot jacket potatoes on to the scattering of embers in the large tin bowls on the barrow when her mother entered. She turned and lifted her eyebrows expectantly. ‘How’s Father?’

‘Sleeping. Listen, Moll, can you take Sissy with you? I’ve some errands to see to.’

‘Errands?’ Silence greeted her. Her mother was staring at the rag rug, plucking at her bottom lip, and Moll’s stomach dropped. ‘Mam …’

‘You’d like that, eh, Sissy? Go with our Moll? I’ll nip downstairs, ask Jilly to sit back in with your father an hour more. See you later,’ Ruth finished before Moll could protest, and slipped from the room.

But for Sissy, she’d have followed and tackled her; the poor lass had had enough upset for one day. The front door signalled her mother’s departure and Moll took a deep breath, almost not daring to check.

When she glanced to the mantel, her worst fears were confirmed: the jam jar behind the clock, where they kept their money, was empty.

Jersey Street’s mills and factories were spewing out their workforce as they turned the corner. Cursing the wonky barrow to all hell’s horrors, Moll hurried across the cobbles, Sissy meandering behind with one foot in the gutter.

Across the road, a voice called her name over the thunder of clogged footsteps and hum of chatter and, catching a flash of Polly Wainwright’s wide grin and flame-coloured hair, which stood out starkly against her red shawl, she raised a hand in greeting.

Murray Street Mill, Rodney Street Mill and the smaller Jersey Street Mills’ hungry workers descended on Moll like an army of beetles and within ten minutes, the barrow was all but empty. However, each day was different. Some, she’d sell up in the blink of an eye; others, she’d barely sell a one. Everything depended on what the poor had to spare and there was nothing Moll, Polly and others of a similar trade could do but cross their fingers that they would have a successful afternoon. Smiling at the happy sound of coins jingling in the pouch tied to her waist beneath her long skirts, she motioned to Sissy to follow and pushed the barrow across the street.

Polly nodded to the tray suspended on rope around her neck and the half-dozen pies remaining. ‘Nearly finished up, lass. You?’

‘Aye.’ There was nothing else to say; no further words were needed and none would change the way of things.

‘But what’ll you do about brass for the market? You’ll need your supply of tatties for next week. Look, I can help you out with a few coppers if you’d only ask.’

‘I know. Ta ever so, Polly. I’m hoping Scotch Tess will allow me my next batch on t’ slate till I get straight. She’s done it often enough in t’ past, God knows. Ay, we’ll manage somehow. We allus do.’

‘That rotten mam of yourn should be ashamed,’ Polly blurted, green eyes flashing, then shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, it’s not my place to pass judgement. It just pains me, lass, seeing you working every hour God sends for her to line the gin-sellers’ pockets.’ She paused to serve a customer then asked, ‘That fella still sniffing around her?’

‘Course he bloody is. I don’t know what this Preston’s game is; I just pray he soon slithers back beneath whatever stone he’s crawled from in yon Bolton. I mean aye, Mam’s allus had a weakness for the drink, as you know, but since he turned up, she’s worse than ever. And what with Father … I’m at the end of my tether, I am really.’

‘Bad, Polly. I can’t remember the last time he ate, says it makes him sick. He’s just sleeping, or coughing, day and night. He’ll not allow us to send for the doctor no more – not that we’ve the brass for it, mind. It’s like … It’s like he’s given up.’

But Moll caught the note of uncertainty in her friend’s tone and though she too had already begun preparing herself for the worst, hearing it from another’s tongue caused her chest to tighten in panic. Tears blinded her for a moment and she blinked furiously.

Despite her troubles, Moll couldn’t help smiling at the wicked twinkle in Polly’s eye. ‘Give over, will you. There’s nowt between me and Uriah and never shall be.’

‘I do,’ she said mildly, then pulled a face at Uriah across the street when he stuck his tongue out at her.

His face spread in a slow grin and, feeling Polly’s amused gaze, Moll turned her attention to her brother before her blush surfaced.

She passed him one then held out another to his friend, who hesitated. ‘D’you want it or not?’

‘I, er …’ His smile had vanished and a pink hue crept up his neck. He patted his pockets and shook his head, and her heart contracted at his embarrassment.

She thrust the potato into his hand and at Bo’s surprised expression, hastened to say, ‘Don’t make a habit of it, Uriah Croft.’

‘I don’t know what you’re thanking me for. You’re paying double the morrow.’

A smile hovered about his generous mouth and something behind his slate-grey eyes made her heart bang.

Bo shot him a wry ‘Aye, that’s the real Moll!’ look, and she forced herself not to speak out. Nay, it’s not, she wanted to tell her brother. It’s the game we’ve begun playing, for God alone knows what reason, around folk. I think he’s sweet on me and, to be honest, I like him too, but it’s as though we’re infants pretending to dislike each other to mask the truth of it.

Was Uriah ashamed to have folk know he’d taken a liking to her? she mused as she watched him eat. She wasn’t the prettiest lass hereabouts, true, but surely what she saw in the cracked mirror propped on the window ledge back home wasn’t wishful thinking?

One or two lads had been known to set their cap at her but what with Mam … and Sissy to look after, she’d not had the time nor inclination to encourage their attentions. Or perhaps her being older than Uriah was the problem? It was only by a year but still, some lads could be funny about things like that. Or was he unwilling to chain himself to a family such as hers? Did he look at Mam and see a vision of what his future wife might become?

Wife …! Lord, me and my daft imaginings – all this could very well be just fanciful thinking, she reminded herself, yet knew full well it wasn’t. She shook her head and turned her attention to Sissy.

‘Come on, lass, let’s get home to Father, eh? I’ve my baking to do afore preparing the evening meal.’

‘I don’t know how you manage, love,’ murmured Polly and to Moll’s embarrassment, fresh tears sprang to her eyes. Because I must, Polly. Because if I don’t, who will?

‘We’d best get back.’ Bo inclined his head to Uriah, who nodded. Their place of work was some distance from Jersey Street but for Bo, the trek was necessary for the free midday meal. ‘Tell Mam I’ll not be late home, Moll,’ he added brightly, and her guts lurched. Oh, Bo … Damn it, Mam …

He gave her a dazzling smile then stooped to tickle Sissy. ‘Be good for our Moll. I’ll see you tonight.’

‘Aye, lass …’ His words died and a deep frown slowly creased his brow. He settled on his haunches, lifted Sissy’s chin with his forefinger and tilted her head. ‘Moll?’ He glanced up questioningly. ‘She’s bruised.’

All eyes were on her. Her own tender cheek and eye gave a twinge in response and she pulled her tattered shawl closer. ‘She took a tumble, Bo. We’ll speak later,’ she continued when he looked to say more. Now wasn’t the time. He’d only spend the day fretting. ‘Go on, you’ll be late.’

Bo’s wasn’t the only lingering look as they made their way back towards Mill Street and the Wire Works; Uriah’s curious stare strayed over Moll, too. When they disappeared, she sent up a silent thank-you that Sissy hadn’t mentioned, in her innocent way, the truth of the morning’s events.

‘What really happened? Come on,’ Polly ordered, tucking her arm through the crook of hers, ‘out with it.’

By now, the streets were all but empty and as they passed up Poland Street, Moll gave her friend an account of Mr Evans’ behaviour. With gentle sighs and supportive arm squeezes, she did what Moll could rely upon her to: listened without interruption. And when she’d finished, Polly, as always, was ready with sage advice.

‘Lass, you need to sit your mam down and have it out with her, proper, like. Keep your calm, no shouting, and have a reet good talk, unburden them poor shoulders of yourn. You can’t carry on like this and, more to the point, neither can Ruth. You need each other, now more than ever. Do it, love. Tell her how you feel. Summat’s got to give.’

Moll didn’t see what slightest bit of difference it would make. Mam would likely get defensive or upset – either would lead to the same outcome: running from her troubles to find solace at the bottom of a bottle. But Moll knew she must try, and told Polly so. Her friend was right. Her tolerance was all but burned out; on top of everything else, she couldn’t take much more of this.

‘I’ll do it, Polly, I promise. I just wish I knew at times how her mind works. Her disloyalty – taking that sod’s side over ours, earlier – hurt more than the blow he delivered, it did really. I could understand her reasoning, that she were frickened we’d lose our places and the much-needed brass it fetches, were she not how she is. But she weren’t, I’m certain, thinking of the good of the family. For what brass we scrape together, she throws down her neck without a thought for rent, coal or grub.

‘It’s left to me and Bo to fret and find the shillings needed for when the rent man comes knocking, to scratch together enough for a meal of sorts of an evening. It pains me to say it … she’s my mam and I love her … She’s selfish, Polly, through and through. And our Bo will come rushing in, later, expecting her welcome and …’ She heaved a long sigh. ‘It cuts me to the bone that we’re not enough.’

She forced a smile as her sister studied her face then reached for one hand then the other, turning them this way and that in search of injury. ‘Nay, lass, I’m fine.’

She put a reassuring arm across Sissy’s thin shoulders. ‘Nay. I’m all right.’

Her sister’s fine eyebrows knotted in confusion. She turned her attention to her own hands. ‘Bleeding, Sissy?’

Polly watched, expression soft with pity, and when Sissy’s searching grew frantic and her voice rose in confusion, she plucked a pie from her tray and waved it under her nose. ‘’Ere, Sissy love. Go on, take it, good lass.’

Moll smiled, grateful for her friend’s thoughtfulness in averting the girl’s attention. The last thing she needed today was Sissy having one of her moments here in the street. Ignorance bred fear, resulting in lack of empathy and understanding. Some folk could be cruel beyond belief in the face of mental infirmity. ‘At times, I wonder what I’d do without you, Polly Wainwright.’

A smile warmer than a summer sun lit the older woman’s freckled face. ‘Soft ha’porth. Well, this is me.’ She motioned to a few doors down then took the last penny pies from her tray. ‘One for yourself and be sure to give t’ other to your father, with my love. Go on with you and your ruddy pride,’ she added on a laugh, rolling her eyes, when Moll hesitated. ‘I’ll see you the morrow, love.’

The golden pastry winked in the sunlight and the aroma of spiced meats made her mouth water. Sissy grinned up at her before taking a bite of her own. The rich juices ran down her chin and she scooped them up with her finger and popped it into her mouth. Moll glanced down, tempted by the feast sitting warm in her hand but shook her head. She hadn’t had anything since waking bar a cup of tea and a few morsels of Mam’s burnt offering, but her own wants could wait until evening. She’d give her pie to Jilly, she decided, as thank-you for sitting with Father. And she’d do her damnedest to see he at least took a few nibbles from his own.

As they walked the short distance home, her thoughts switched to Mam, and that odd churning sensation gripped her stomach. Bo would be trawling the streets again later – why he bothered, Moll didn’t know. He rarely managed to locate her at her usual haunts these days; clearly, Davy was taking her further afield. And what mood would she be in upon her return?

Moll shook her head with a range of emotions: anger, sadness and frustration; but mostly helplessness. Father didn’t need the stress of this. Lord, they didn’t need it. She might have promised Polly she’d talk to her but what was the point? Mam vowed almost daily to change her ways and never did. It would be, as always, an utter waste of breath.

Lost in thought, she failed at first to notice Mr Luchetti from upstairs waiting by her door, until he stepped towards her through the passage. Seeing his expression, her smile died before it had chance to surface.

The tall, kindly-faced man ran a hand through his lank hair. He cleared his throat twice then wetted his lips. ‘Moll, I … do not … Povera bambina – you poor child.’

The strangest sensation overcame her. All sound melted and silence, like a living thing, seemed to clasp her in a firm embrace. A heat rose from her toes, up, up, towards her chest, neck, face, then as though an invisible force sucked it back, it left her at a dizzying speed and an icy blanket engulfed her, inside and out. She staggered and the Italian caught her arm.

‘Jilly sent for me. I said I would watch for your return to … prepare you …’

‘Ta … Mr Luchetti. I … the barrow, could you fetch it inside … please, and, and … Sissy …’ Moll heard the calm words but not in a dozen lifetimes would she have believed they came from her. At any rate, her mouth wasn’t moving, or at least she couldn’t feel it moving, and all thought had deserted her. ‘I must see to matters … A coffin, fresh candles, too, and …’

Also by Emma Hornby

MANCHESTER
MOLL

Emma Hornby

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Also by Emma Hornby

MANCHESTERMOLL

Emma Hornby

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

MANCHESTER
MOLL