The Girl From World’s End. Leah Fleming

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       West Riding of Yorkshire, 1926

      A girl of about eight sat swinging her legs to and fro to keep them from going numb, watching the sky growing dark above. The weak December sun dipped behind the high moor and soon the cobbled streets would be crusted with frost. When was Father going to come out of the Green Man and take her home? The church clock had struck half-past four. Soon the mill hooter would buzz across the rooftops and the clatter of clogs would deafen the streets.

      It had been a grand afternoon: one of the good days when Paddy Gilchrist woke up by himself, whistling and promising her a ride on a tram to Bradford to look in the shop windows and hear the Christmas brass bands. They had got as far as the park, where he’d pushed her on the swings and slides, but then they’d made a detour through the back streets of Scarperton.

      ‘I’ll not be a minute, Mirren. Time for my medicine–just a wee nip to keep me warm,’ he laughed, his dark eyes pleading as he saw the little blue ribbon on her coat lapel and the wince of disapproval on her face.

      She was proud of that badge and the signed certificate from the Band of Hope that said not a drop of liquor would ever pass the lips of Miriam Ellen Gilchrist.

      ‘Don’t be long,’ she pleaded, trying not to pout as her lips trembled. ‘You promised me a ride up to town.’

      ‘Aye, I know, lassie, but you don’t begrudge yer dad a little comfort now, do you? You sit tight and I’ll buy you some sweeties when I’ve had my snifter.’

      She had sat on this bench so many times, dreading that the father who went in standing would be the one who’d come out on all fours. The Green Man was that sort of pub.

      Paddy and Mirren didn’t live alone. There was a master in their rooms: one who ruled over them night and day, whose presence lurked like a ghost in the corner of the compartments of the disused railway carriage that was now their home. He was a magician, full of piss and wind and wild schemes, who could turn her dad into John Barleycorn, the drunken sot who needed a guiding hand to round the corners on his way home, knocking folk off the pavement as he sang out of tune at the top of his voice. Sometimes she opened the latch and he fell through the door, stiff like a board.

      John Barleycorn had stale breath and leaking pants. He stole her father’s hard-earned wage and the food from their table, shaming her before school pals playing in the street, who would look up and snigger as she and her demon-possessed father wound their way down the ginnels from the pub, Mirren staggering under the weight of him. She worshipped her father–he was tall, handsome and strong–but she hated John Barleycorn, the drinker who was so weak and silly.

      Demon Drink was not like the pantomime devil with horns and a forked tale, all red and black, shouting from a stage, or the wily tempter from the pages of her Sunday school prize book, with forked tongue and goatee beard. He came and went for no reason.

      Sometimes he disappeared for weeks and gave her back the father she loved: the Paddy Gilchrist who had wooed and won young Ellie Yewell away from her farming family in the big Yorkshire Dales farmhouse, the railway navvy with his squeeze-box and fancy dancing and Scottish charm, who promised her the moon, sun and stars if she would be his bride. Then he went off to war, leaving his new bride with a bairn, Mirren’s angel brother, Grantley, and with no family to support them until he returned wounded right badly in the leg.

      If only Mother and little Grant hadn’t died in the terrible sickness that came when she was a baby, leaving her motherless. How she wished they were all together, snug by their fireside of an evening, not freezing to death outside a public house.

      Now the lamps were lit and Mirren was fed up of waiting. He’d forgotten she was there again and at the mercy of rough lads, making fun of her for being ‘Jill all alone’. Soon Woodbine Winnie would be touting for business and taking men in mufflers down the alleyway to lift up her skirts–to do quite what Mirren wasn’t sure, but it was something sinful.

      At last Mirren recognised one of the men coming out of the pub as Mr Ackroyd, who lived in one of the far carriages that made up their row of houses in Chapelside Cuttings; old rolling stock being the only homes left for returning heroes from the war. Some wags laughingly called them ‘the Rabbit Hutches’, but Dad shrugged off the gibe and so did she.

      Living in a neat line of compartments with steps up to their railway carriage was better than living back to back, up a steep hill with no garden to play in. She could sit for hours watching the engines shunting up and down the line, engine drivers waving and hooting. She knew the names of all the great iron boilers puffing and snorting out of the station on their way to Scotland and London; Duchess of Hamilton was her favourite.

      Dad was a ganger on the line repairing the track. When he was in work there was always plenty of coal for the stove and treats. When there were layoffs they still had vegetables from the allotment and eggs from the chicken coop, but money was always a worry. Granny Simms, who lived next door with her son and his one leg, cooked for them and took in the washing in return for coal and treats, baccy and beer for Big Brian, who hobbled about the town on crutches, begging.

      In Mirren’s life Granny Simms was a guiding light like the moon peeping through clouds. A neighbour who was mother, friend and comforter, she would know what to do. On nights like this Mirren could always knock on the window and Granny would open up, wrapped against the cold in the faded shawl she wore summer and winter, the long printed pinny with rubbed-out patches. Her face was leathery and lined with soot, hair scraped back in a knot, and she wore iron clogs, which rattled on the wooden carriage floor, and rolled-up stockings. She would take the little girl in and shove a fat rascal bun in her hand, spicy and full of currants.

      It was Granny who taught her to knit, to peg a rug and bake bread, railway slice and dumplings. She saw that she got a proper schooling at St Mary’s and was turned out neat to all Sunday school treats going in the town.

      ‘He can’t help himself, Mirren,’ Granny Simms would sigh, showing empty gums with two yellow cracked front teeth. ‘Drink is a terrible thing. There’s many a red nose makes a ragged back in this town. It’s a pity the Paddy Gilchrist what came back from France was not the young lad who went to war, nor the man yer mam wed. A wild-eyed stranger he returned, not able to keep down a job, but she got him straight again. But when the Spanish flu came to visit us, it went through the town like a dose of Epsom salts. Yer dad just couldn’t get his head round that carry-on. He did his best with you, but men are useless when it comes to babbies. It’s a terrible temptation to drown yer sorrows, lass.’

      These words made Mirren sad, for she knew her love would never be enough to mend her father’s heart. What he needed was the Word of God in his life, like the pastor in Sunday school preached, but Dad just laughed at her pleas for him to go to church.

      ‘Where was God when we needed him in the Battle of Arras? Where was he when the Angel of Death knocked at our front door? Ask your preacher man that!’ he would scoff. She had learned not to talk to him in drink but to hide in the little bench bed, under the quilt and blankets, pretending she couldn’t СКАЧАТЬ