A Child's Voice Calling Read online

  But when Jack came home he was preoccupied and unsettled. Sales had not been so good, it seemed, and when she asked him about the photography he snapped at her impatiently, ‘What’s the use o’ takin’ pictures when I got to pay another damned photographer to develop ’em? Yet need a studio to make it a payin’ game.’

  ‘But as soon as we’ve got our own home, Jack, you can have a room to yourself in it.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake stop goin’ on about a house, Annie! A man gets tired after workin’ the hours I put in every day. ’S’all right for you, layin’ around on a sofa.’

  Tears sprung to her eyes at such unkindness – and it was so unfair, too. She turned from him, biting her lip and putting his crossness down to tiredness, though she was deeply hurt.

  On Christmas morning he refused to go to church, so she went with Miss Lawton who dressed all in black and carried a worn prayer book. After Mimi’s enormous dinner of roast goose and plum pudding Jack spent the afternoon smoking cigars and drinking port wine with Bill, the friend with whom he’d lodged before the wedding. With their heads together over a newspaper, they studied form, whatever that was, and talked of Kempton Park where something important was due to take place on Boxing Day. When the two young men left the house together Anna-Maria got out her embroidery and sat with Miss Lawton, a nervous, fidgety woman who flushed and stammered when spoken to; she was the sort of boring spinster that Anna-Maria would previously have shunned.

  At the end of the evening, weary and dispirited, and needing to empty her bladder again, she heaved herself up out of her chair and lit her candle to go to bed, there being no gaslight above the ground floor.

  She was fast asleep when Mimi woke her to help get Jack up the stairs to his room, where his mother expertly pulled off his boots, coat, jacket and trousers, and put him to bed. ‘There y’are,’ she panted, ‘he’ll lay like a log till mornin’. Get in an’ turn yer back to ’im, ’e won’t be no trouble to yer, ’e’s too far gone.’ She spoke with a certain spiteful relish at Anna-Maria’s horrified expression. ‘Ain’t yer never seen a chap bottled before?’

  Lying awake and staring into the darkness while the bed vibrated to his tumultuous snores, Anna-Maria felt utterly alone; this was her husband, mindless and shameless in her presence. She was trapped and there was no way out.

  The baby kicked inside her as if to remind her that it was there and she was comforted by it. Placing her hands on her abdomen, she told herself that everything would be different when she held her child in her arms.

  In February there had been that strange encounter on the train.

  From time to time Mimi would send her daughter-in-law out shopping for her in Tooting or Balham when she wanted her out of the way. On this particular day Anna-Maria decided to take a bus to Battersea and go from Clapham Junction on the train to Waterloo. It was fine and clear, with a hint of spring in the air, and Anna-Maria enjoyed looking again at the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey where she spent a few minutes sitting and remembering her first sight of it with Jack. Arriving back at Waterloo, she got on the train and found an empty compartment where she sat in a corner seat and covered her bulge with the evening newspaper she had bought.

  The door opened and a man looked in. He was wearing clerical black and carried his hat in his hand. ‘Er, I beg your pardon, madam, is there room for—?’ he began and then stared blankly. She looked up and froze at the sight of Mr Eric Drummond. What would he say? Surely he’d retreat at the sight of the girl who had thrown him aside so heartlessly: but he came into the compartment, his eyes fixed on her face. ‘Anna-Maria! Is it really you? May I sit down?’

  She nodded and he sat on the edge of the seat opposite her. ‘Forgive me, I’ve heard nothing about you since—’

  She did not want this conversation. ‘I’m married, Mr Drummond. I am Mrs Court. There’s nothing to say now.’

  His pale features flushed. ‘No, of course.’ There was a long pause and then, not knowing what else to say, Anna-Maria turned to face the window. As she did so the newspaper fell from her lap.

  He saw. ‘A child,’ he whispered. Still she neither spoke nor looked at him as he sat crushing his black hat between his hands.

  What he said next took her breath away. ‘I’d have married you, Anna-Maria. I’d have married you and called it mine.’

  She flinched and closed her eyes, such was the impact of the words. A conflict of emotions raged within her, regret for all that she had so heedlessly thrown away, the harm that had been done. But now there were her marriage vows, the promises she had made to the man she had chosen. And he was not this man. There could be no going back, nor was there anything more to be said. Anna-Maria sat absolutely still and silent, gazing out of the window until the train slowed at the approach to Clapham Junction.

  When it stopped she stood up awkwardly and Drummond rose to help her. She shook off his arm and got down from the carriage without assistance, walking away without a backward glance. He never saw her tears.

  Back at Macaulay Road she found Mimi occupied with a visitor who had been put in the back bedroom, so Elsie dourly warned Anna-Maria. Which meant keep away.

  On the following day a silent, white-faced young woman departed in a hansom cab, all alone, and watching her go, Anna-Maria realised that Mimi Court not only delivered babies, but she also got rid of them. And would have done the same for Anna-Maria if Jack had wished it. Ah, but he hadn’t, she thought with satisfaction. Jack had chosen to marry her and for all his imperfections she knew that he loved her in his way. And she loved him – far, far more than she could ever have loved Eric Drummond.

  At last an upturn in Jack’s business deals allowed him to secure a house to rent furnished, a small, narrow-fronted terrace ready for occupation from the first of April. After waiting so long it was difficult to believe that finally they were to have their own home. Sorrel Street was in north Battersea, one of a maze of residential thoroughfares between Queenstown and the Wandsworth Road, and theirs was number 12. Jack took his wife to see it and told her that it would be an ideal first home. She was overjoyed.

  But his mother insisted, and Jack of course agreed, that they should stay at Macaulay Road until after the confinement, so that Mimi would be on hand to deliver the child.

  It happened on 30 March 1894.

  ‘Jack, are you awake?’

  ‘Huh – mm-mm – what?’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘What? Dunno. It’s pitch-dark still. What’s up?’

  ‘I’ve been lying awake. Oh! There it is again, another pain.’ She moaned and buried her face in the pillow.

  He slowly surfaced from sleep. ‘Is it the baby, d’ye reckon?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure, but it’s hurting a lot. Oh!’

  ‘I’ll call Mimi.’

  Anna-Maria was in labour and the next twelve hours were remembered only as a blur of pain, with Mimi bustling around the room and Elsie’s raw-boned features appearing at intervals as Mimi demanded fresh water and towels. Morning passed into afternoon and at about two o’clock Mimi told her to start pushing down when she got the pain. ‘Push, Annie, come on, push, an’ again, push!’

  And push again. And again for countless more times, until she thought she would die before giving birth. The agony was indescribable.

  ‘An’ once more, Annie, one more big push down – come on, take a big breath an’ hold it, grit yer teeth an’ push – an’ push – push – push – push – push!’

  She heard herself screaming as she stretched and split, and something burst forth from between her splayed legs. There was a gasp, a choking sound and then the room was filled with the piercing cry of a newborn child.

  ‘Oh, it’s a girl, would yer believe. Well, time enough for a boy.’ Mimi sounded rather flat and out of breath. ‘Elsie, go down an’ tell Mr Jack it’s a girl at . . . er . . . a quarter past three.’

  When the baby was wrapped in a towel and placed in her arms, Anna-Maria
was filled with wonder and something she had never known before. A great sturge of love welled up like a fountain within her, directed towards this new being who had so changed her life, right from the moment of its conception. It had become she and was hers to hold, to keep, to cherish for the rest of her life. She thought of her own mother, the loving mamma who had died ten years earlier: her name had been Mabel and this child would be called after her.

  ‘You’re my little girl,’ she whispered, gazing at the sweet round head covered with golden down, the clear blue eyes, the rosebud mouth. And those tiny hands, each finger so perfect, tipped with its delicate nail. Anna-Maria touched the baby’s hand with her forefinger, which was at once encircled by the little clinging fist. ‘My daughter,’ she whispered. ‘My own beautiful little Mabel. You’ll make such a difference, my darling. All the difference in the world.’

  Chapter One

  ‘COME ALONG, ALBERT, never mind about dilly-dallying with them Paddys,’ Mabel called to her brother outside their school. ‘It’s my piano lesson today and Mum’ll give it to me if I’m not home when Miss Lawton comes. Why’re yer shuffling along like that? Oh, just look at yer bootlaces, ye’ll trip and fall for sure – here, let me do ’em up!’

  She stooped down at the kerbstone and quickly laced up his boots while he fidgeted, conscious of the grins of the Irish boys. ‘I ain’t got no lesson,’ he muttered.

  ‘You mean you have not got a lesson,’ Mabel corrected him, straightening herself up and taking him firmly by the hand.

  ‘Ah, de poor liddle feller, see, he has to go wid his big sister!’ jeered the tousle-haired boys forced to attend the London County Council School in Hallam Road for lack of affordable Catholic education.

  ‘Shut yer faces, yer dirty Paddy-whacks, hope the boat sinks that brought yer over!’ retorted Mabel, whose tongue could be versatile when required. Breaking into a half-run she dragged the protesting six-year-old through the streets. There was no time to stare up at the high windows of the Women’s Rescue just off Lavender Hill with its iron gate through which the children could sometimes see the rescued women and girls sitting out of doors hemming sheets; today she had to hurry, for there would be trouble if she was not at home when Miss Lawton arrived on her bicycle.

  There would be trouble anyway when her mother saw the white card she had been given to bring home. Better wait until the lesson was over and Miss Lawton had gone, not that the timid spinster would be likely to pass anything on to Grandmother.

  Mabel enjoyed her piano lessons and the daily practice was no hardship either, except that there was rarely time for a full hour at the keyboard. At seven years old she already had her responsibilities in the house, especially in helping with the care of the younger children.

  ‘There you are at last, Mabel, and about time too,’ scolded their mother, standing at the door of number 12 Sorrel Street with four-year-old Alice and little Georgie who was not yet two. ‘There’s Miss Lawton just coming round the corner, so hurry up and get your music out. Oh, Albert, what a dirty face – here, let me wipe it – and your hands too. Just look at you, you little gypsy!’ She dabbed vigorously at the squirming, sun-browned boy whose black hair and eyes proclaimed him Jack Court’s living image. ‘Georgie must go into the kitchen while Mabel’s playing, otherwise he’ll be into everything. Alice can sit and listen to the music if she’s good and keeps quiet. Good afternoon, Miss Lawton,’ Annie continued, raising her voice as the black-clad lady dismounted and leaned her bicycle against the low railing. ‘Mabel’s all ready for her lesson.’

  Georgie gave a frustrated howl as his mother hoisted him up to carry him into the kitchen. Beneath her apron a fifth child was beginning to show, drawing on her reserves of strength, already drained by four children and a miscarriage.

  The years had taken their toll of Anna-Maria Chalcott; there was now little trace of the headstrong girl who had become Annie Court. The once bright hair was pulled up into a knot on the top of her head from which stray tendrils hung and the blue eyes were surrounded by a network of fine lines, the result of a continual struggle to survive on an income that could never be guaranteed from one week to the next, though the overall trend was downwards.

  Yet she smiled and her face lit up as Mabel’s nimble fingers began to play a scale on the second-hand upright in the front room. She often said that her eldest daughter was her chief comfort, for the beautiful baby had become a sunny-tempered child whose grey-blue eyes were always bright with interest in the world around her. Her heart-shaped face, which reminded Annie of her own mother, was framed with abundant light-brown hair that hung down her back in shining waves. By contrast Alice was dark like her father and Albert, with the same strong white teeth, while Georgie was fair like Mabel. It was often remarked that the combination of Jack Court’s swarthy looks and his wife’s delicate fairness had produced some uncommonly fine-looking children.

  While the music trickled through, interspersed with Miss Lawton’s gentle directions, Annie got on with preparing supper. It was mutton stew this evening, ready to serve at any time. She never knew when to expect Jack who liked to have his meal on the table when he came in; otherwise it had to be something that could be quickly done in a pan, like rashers of bacon fried with onions and potatoes. Eggs were an expensive luxury, for there was no room to keep chickens in the backyards of Sorrel Street.

  The piano lesson finished with quiet praise from Miss Lawton who proclaimed Mabel the best pupil in her grade. Annie smiled proudly and patted her daughter on the shoulder, which made Mabel all the more reluctant to produce the shameful white card from the newly appointed school nurse: for her lovely fair hair had been pronounced verminous.

  Mabel could not ever remember seeing her mother so angry. ‘How dare they! I’ve never heard of anything so disgraceful!’ It was a relief to know that her indignation was directed against the school, and the nurse in particular, for labelling her daughter a dirty child with head lice, when in fact the school itself was so obviously the source of the infestation. ‘I’ve a good mind to go and speak to that head teacher myself and tell her what I think,’ declared Annie with a flash of her old spirit. ‘Sassafras oil indeed, the sheer, barefaced cheek of it! Talk about adding insult to injury – your father will have something to say when he hears of it, I shouldn’t wonder!’

  But Jack Court had other matters on his mind when he got home just after seven. ‘Haven’t much time – got a couple o’ blokes waiting at the Falcon, a dead cert running tomorrow at Goodwood,’ he muttered, striding through to the kitchen and frowning at the sight and smell of the stew Annie was ladling out. ‘Is that all yer can do for a man who’s been workin’ all the bloody day? Mabel, go down to the corner for a jug o’ beer – here’s tuppence, that’ll do.’

  ‘But she’s just sitting down to her supper, Jack!’ protested Annie.

  ‘It won’t take her five minutes there an’ back, and there’re still plenty o’ kids playin’ out, so why worry?’

  ‘You know I don’t like ours mixing with that rough lot. It lowers the whole neighbourhood, having children running around and yelling till all hours. And I don’t like Mabel being seen going down to the public.’

  Annie looked prepared to stand her ground, but he dismissed her with an impatient gesture. ‘Run along, Mabel, there’s a good girl – for yer daddy.’

  Mabel half rose, while glancing anxiously at her mother who threw down the ladle in a rare gesture of defiance. ‘No! I’ll go myself, rather than send Mabel to that place. You see to the supper, Mabel – there’s some bread on the table to dip in the bowls.’ And Annie put on her jacket, hat and gloves, for she refused to wear a shawl like some factory worker or laundress; she picked up an earthenware pint jug and marched out of the house.

  Jack frowned, glancing round at their faces. Georgie had fallen asleep and Alice was busy with her spoon, but Mabel and Albert met his eyes accusingly.

  ‘Poor ol’ Mum,’ said Albert with a most unchildlike scowl.

 
; Jack Court shrugged, frowned and turned his attention to little Alice. ‘Who’s Daddy’s best girl, then?’ he asked, taking her upon his knee at the table and ruffling her dark head. Even at her tender age Alice was well aware that she was specially favoured by her father.

  She smiled up at him artlessly. ‘Poor ol’ Daddy,’ she said.

  The ongoing battle against head lice became part of daily life. Mabel was by no means the only sufferer and several mothers had marched to the school to complain rather than to make excuses for the outbreak revealed by the nurse’s inspection.

  A toothcomb was bought, and after Mabel’s hair was washed her mother pulled the comb through it strand by strand, searching out the offending black insects and their greyish ‘eggs’ or ‘nits’ that stuck to the hairs and would hatch out another generation if not removed. Oil of sassafras was rubbed in and a cotton cap worn overnight, followed by more hair-washing and combing until Annie was satisfied that Mabel was free of lice and nits; but how the girl’s heart went out to the persistent offenders who had to sit in a separate group in class, threatened with the ultimate disgrace, a shorn head. The smell of sassafras continued to linger, forever associated in Mabel’s mind with the school nurse’s visits.

  Sunday tea at 23 Macaulay Road was a time for clean pinafores and best behaviour. Jack’s mother received her son’s family with matriarchal formality, though she very seldom appeared at Sorrel Street. At fifty she had put on a little weight and now wore her hair curled like Queen Alexandra’s, with a fringe.

  Everybody had been warned not to breathe a word about the head lice.

  Jack kissed his mother as soon as she opened the door, though Annie who was carrying Georgie kept him firmly between herself and her mother-in-law.