The Surplus Girls' Orphans Page 8

  In any case, the flutters she felt weren’t just the anxiety stirred up by the shock and distress of her family and friends. There was a healthy dose of anticipation in there as well. She badly wanted this opportunity. Would Mrs Atwood’s colleagues at the Board of Health consider her suitable?

  Chapter Seven

  JACOB RAN AS fast as he could, his heart pounding so hard it felt as if his chest might burst apart. This would never have happened had Thad still been here. But Thad wasn’t here, was he? He had been packed off to the reformatory, leaving Jacob alone and unprotected, running for his life from a crowd of boys whom Thad had bullied mercilessly and who were now bent on giving Jacob the hammering of his life for having been Thad’s faithful crony.

  From behind, a hand snatched at his shoulder but failed to cling on. Jacob flung himself onwards but had no more speed in him. The boy behind was so close that his harsh breathing got mixed up in Jacob’s ears with the sound of his own ragged breaths. Then all the air was knocked out of him by an almighty thump on his back and he and the other lad tumbled to the ground, arms and legs in a tangle, his pursuer’s weight squeezing the air from Jacob’s lungs. As the other boy hauled himself to his feet, all Jacob wanted was to stay where he was until the stunned feeling subsided, but he couldn’t afford that luxury. The palms of his hands smarted where the skin had scraped off and his knees were red-hot, but he scrambled up before the angry mob could drag him up.

  In spite of his exhaustion, his muscles tightened instinctively, ready for flight, as they encircled him, these lads whom Thad had slapped around. Thad had clobbered each and every one of them to the ground – aye, more than once – prodding them with the toe of his boot as they lay curled in the dirt, dreading the rib-cracking kick.

  Jacob gulped. These boys were going to kill him. The bugger of it was that he had been as scared of Thad as any of them. Oh yes, he had hero-worshipped his big brother, had been proud to run in his wake. It had been exciting to pinch stuff off the market and leg it at top speed. Being with Thad had made him feel bigger and stronger. Everyone was wary of Thad, even the teachers – when he could be bothered to attend school. He had started chucking his weight around at home an’ all and something that was half-horror and half-delight had sent tingles down Jacob’s backbone when Thad cheeked Mum or Dad. Sometimes Dad had given him a clip round the ear, but Thad didn’t care. Thad didn’t care about anything.

  Oh aye, he had hero-worshipped Thad.

  He had been shit-scared of him too. Shit-flaming-scared. Thad was a bully and a thug. He’d belt you one as soon as look at you. Being Thad’s faithful sidekick had kept Jacob safe from Thad’s fists and from his sneers and taunts – well, usually. Hell’s bells, he had seen other kids wet themselves in fear enough times to ensure he wanted to be on Thad’s good side, in so far as Thad had a good side.

  And now he had been left to face the consequences of everything Thad had done.

  He was surrounded. His attackers were closing in, squeezing the air out of the situation. His throat closed. His bowels slackened. He was as good as dead.

  ‘Oy! What’s going on?’

  Mikey! Thad had loathed Mikey, ragging and taunting him and generally making his life a misery; and because Thad had done it, Jacob had an’ all.

  Now here was Mikey, pushing his way through the group, and he was going to make the other boys stand aside so he could land the first blow.

  Except that what came out of Mikey’s mouth was, ‘Leave my brother alone. You were all too scared to stand up to Thad. Now he’s gone, you want to take it out on Jacob. Very brave, I must say. Well, I’m not having it. If any of you…’ Mikey turned in a slow circle, staring into the eyes of every single boy. ‘…If any of you lays a finger on my little brother, you’ll have me to deal with. I have plenty of mates, not just in my class but in the top class an’ all. So if you want to get clobbered, go ahead and beat up my brother. Otherwise clear off.’

  Jacob could barely believe his ears. Mikey had as much reason as anyone to maul him to pieces. Instead he was standing up for him.

  ‘Why?’ he asked after Mikey had out-stared the other boys and they had slunk away, muttering.

  ‘You’re a pain in the neck, Jacob, but you’re my brother.’

  With a shrug, Mikey stuck his hands in his pockets and sauntered away, leaving Jacob gawping after him, relief thundering through him at the thought of what Mikey had saved him from…and a sort of wonder as well. After Mrs Rostron had shipped Thad off to the reformatory, she had told Jacob in no uncertain terms that he must pull his socks up or else run the risk of following Thad, the prospect of which made the sound of his pulse thrash inside Jacob’s ears. Imagine being stuck in a place full of Thads.

  ‘Follow Michael’s lead,’ Mrs Rostron had advised – ordered.

  ‘Copy Mikey,’ urged his family. Even his oldest sister’s fiancé, who barely knew them, had told him to follow in Mikey’s footsteps.

  And after what Mikey had just done for him, Jacob was more than happy to do so.

  Mikey had a half-time job, which meant he bolted down his school dinner dead on midday, then legged it to Brown’s, the stationer on Beech Road in Chorlton, just a hop and a skip from the orphanage. He had got the job there when they still lived in Stretford. All the other half-timers were able to get local jobs, but not Thad Layton’s brother. He had had to go further afield because of Thad’s reputation.

  All of which meant that, come the end of the school day, Jacob trailed home alone. Home? The orphanage? That was a laugh. No, it wasn’t. Funny was the last thing it was. Their old home might have been two scabby rooms in an overcrowded house, but at least it had been their own place. At least he had lived with his family. Now they were scattered to the four winds.

  As he dawdled along, a figure stepped out in front of him. Thad! His guts churned. Then his eyes adjusted and the dread subsided, leaving a sour taste in his mouth.

  It wasn’t Thad, but it might as well have been. A big brute of a boy – and he was a boy, still in the short trousers lads wore until they left school. Big shoulders and sticky-out elbows that were ready to shove you aside. Shrewd eyes and a sneering mouth. Taller than Thad – perhaps in the top class, desperate for July so he could jack in school. No, not desperate. Lads like him weren’t desperate to leave. It was their poor mums who were desperate not to have to hide from the truancy bloke.

  ‘I know you,’ said the boy.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Jacob’s every instinct screamed at him to scuttle to safety. Was this how it had felt for all those kids who had cringed when Thad came striding into view? ‘You’re not at my school.’

  ‘Are you Thad Layton’s brother?’

  ‘No.’

  The boy threw out his chest and laughed as if he hadn’t heard such a good joke since Christmas. ‘You’re one of the brothers. There’s you and the po-faced one. I’ve seen you from a distance. Your Thad pointed you out.’

  Oh heck. This didn’t bode well. ‘Nice to meet you. I must…’ He attempted to step around the boy.

  A hand caught his arm – not hard, not with an iron grip. He could have wrenched free, but if he did, next news he would be flat on his back on the pavement, winded and helpless. He knew, because that was what Thad would have done.

  ‘That’s not very friendly,’ said the boy. ‘Here’s me, stopping to say how do. A pipsqueak like you should be grateful.’

  ‘I am.’ I’m not, I’m not.

  ‘That’s better. What’s your name?’

  He gulped. ‘Jacob.’

  ‘I’m Shirl.’

  ‘I’ve never heard that name before. It sounds like—’

  Shirl thrust his face into Jacob’s. He smelled of unwashed flesh and aniseed balls. His nose was peppered with blackheads.

  ‘Sounds like what, pipsqueak?’ He bullied forwards a few steps, forcing Jacob to retreat.

  ‘Nowt, nowt.’

  ‘Me full name’s Shirley. You wanna make summat of it?’

>   ‘Me? Never.’

  ‘I’ll have you know Shirley were a boy’s name long before it was a girl’s name. What’s your name?’

  ‘I told you. Jacob.’

  ‘No, it in’t. It’s Jemima. What’s your name?’

  He swallowed. His Adam’s apple was as big as a golf ball. ‘Jacob.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that. What’s your name?’

  ‘Jacob.’ He had to hold his nerve. Giving in, showing weakness, was a sure way to earn a kick up the arse.

  Shirl laughed. ‘You’re a joker, aren’t you? I like a good joke.’

  Before Jacob knew what was happening, Shirl shoved him and he staggered backwards, pushing out a huff of breath as he banged into the wall. Looking down into his eyes, Shirl casually planted a hand round his throat and squeezed. Jacob gagged – tried to gasp – couldn’t. Panic swept through him. Black dots swarmed before his eyes, or were they Shirl’s blackheads?

  Shirl’s voice spoke into his ear. He couldn’t make out the words, but he didn’t need to. He knew what they were. Opening his mouth, he tried to drag in a breath. A tiny rasp of air crept in, but couldn’t get down his throat. His heart had doubled in size. It was going to explode.

  Shirl let go. Jacob doubled over, gasping, eyes streaming, hot liquid sloshing in his bowels. Even though he was bent over, Shirl’s face was in front of his. He lurched upwards, but Shirl’s face was still there, right in front of him. Even when he tried to turn away, Shirl’s face was there.

  ‘Sorry, pipsqueak, I thought you wanted to answer my question. Am I wrong? Only, if I am…’ Shirl’s hand moved towards Jacob’s neck.

  ‘Jemima,’ Jacob whispered.

  ‘Louder.’

  His throat was hot and tight. He coughed to clear it. ‘Jemima.’

  ‘Once more for luck.’

  ‘Jemima.’ His eyes were wet. Shame sent tremors through him. He wanted to spit in Shirl’s face. Was this the way Thad’s victims had felt?

  Shirl clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good for you. I knew you’d see sense. You had a paper-round, didn’t you?’

  He blinked at the change of subject, the change of mood. ‘Just for a few days. My sister got me the job, but then…we had to move. We’re not allowed to have paper-rounds at the orphanage.’

  ‘Yeah. Shame, that. It could have been useful.’ Shirl looked at him, his eyes demanding a response.

  ‘Useful?’ His mouth was bone-dry, his tongue swollen.

  ‘Aye. It were your Thad’s idea.’

  ‘What was?’

  ‘Never mind that. It’ll never happen now. Time for you to get home to the orphanage, is it?’

  ‘Aye.’ Relief coursed through him. He wanted to sag against the wall, but had to hold himself upright, had to try to look strong. He started to back away.

  ‘Hold your horses, pipsqueak. You haven’t finished yet. You haven’t asked me what job you’ve got to do.’

  ‘Wha…what?’

  ‘Your Thad worked for me and he still owes me a job.’

  ‘He’s gone to the reformatory.’

  ‘I know. Heaven help the reformatory. The thing is, he isn’t here to fulfil his commitments, so you’ll have to do it for him. I wouldn’t ask your Mikey to help out, but I can trust you, can’t I?’

  ‘I…’ How did you say you didn’t want to, to Shirl?

  ‘Thad did a job for me reg’lar and I haven’t time to find someone else, so it falls to you as his brother to do it for him. Just this one time, while I look for someone else.’

  Hell’s bells and burnt toast. His heart beat so hard it hurt. ‘One job? One time?’

  ‘Aye. Just take this little packet to Chorlton and hand it to a boy with red hair, who’ll be waiting on the corner by St Clement’s church. Easiest job ever. It’s on your way home from school, so you won’t even have to go out of your way.’

  Anxious to get it over with, already feeling relieved because in a few short minutes he would be free of it, Jacob started off along Edge Lane, only for Shirl’s meaty hand to clamp down instantly on his shoulder.

  ‘Don’t hurry,’ Shirl ordered. ‘Don’t draw attention.’

  Jacob forced himself to walk. Coming to the fork in the road, he veered into High Lane. You could almost spit from here to St Clement’s. It was practically over and done with. A couple of youths sauntered towards him, hands in pockets. He crossed over so he was on the same side of the road as the church. Another youth stepped out from between the stone pillars of a gateway in front of him and they did that sidestepping thing, where you try to get round each other, but both of you step the same way. That was all it was; but in a dark, squirmy place deep inside, Jacob knew he was kidding himself. He was in trouble, but he side-stepped again just in case he was wrong.

  Then the two youths over the road crossed to this side and he couldn’t pretend any more. One of them slid an arm round his shoulders as if they were best mates, urging him through the gateway. He tried to resist, but it was no use. The nerve of these lads was staggering. To force him inside someone’s front garden – or did they know the house was empty?

  Fear was meant to feel cold, wasn’t it? But his fear wasn’t cold. His was hot and sharp, piercing his belly.

  ‘Give it here, kid.’

  ‘Give what here?’ He tried to sound jokey, as if it was all a big mistake, as if they would slap him on the back and say, ‘Wrong person. No harm done.’

  There was no answer, just laughter as they stood round him, shoving him from one to another. Of all the ridiculous things to think, he realised it was the first time he had ever been on a garden lawn. It was like having a posh green carpet in front of your house. Thad had always nicked stuff that he could flog to someone else, but in his secret heart, Jacob had cherished the mad idea that what he wanted to steal was a small square of lawn that he could keep for himself and sometimes touch as a treat, a sort of promise for the future, a consolation for the crummy, overcrowded, feud-filled life they had led in Cromwell Street.

  With a jolly ‘Heave-ho, me hearties,’ the boys turned him upside down and shook him good and hard, laughing all the while. His piece of Plasticine got dislodged and tumbled from his pocket, followed by the screwed-up man’s handkerchief with D on it in blue embroidery. D for Denby, D for Dad. He would never ever forgive Dad for walking out on them, but Dad’s snot-rag had been in Jacob’s pyjama pocket the night of the fire and was now all he had left of his old life, the life he hadn’t cared for at the time, but which he now longed for with all his heart.

  The world whooped and he was back on his feet with a thud that jarred him all the way from his ankles through his knees to his hips. There were hands all over him. Were they about to strip him naked? No, they delved in his pockets – and out came – please, not Shirl’s packet – oh shit. A blow to the small of his back shunted him forwards into another thump in the bread-basket. His body doubled over, only to be hauled upright to receive more blows. Then, with a suddenness that almost toppled him, they whirled away and were gone, leaving him on his own in the front garden of a house with steps up to a covered porch and a grand bay window to either side, standing on a lawn, a real lawn, not the grass in the rec or on the meadows, but a real lawn. It wasn’t meant to have been like this. His first time of standing on a lawn shouldn’t have been like this.

  As he stumbled along the road to the church, someone crossed the road, aiming straight for him. Jacob nearly wet himself, then he realised it was Bunny. He had left his hot-potato barrow over on the other side. Coming from Stretford, Jacob hadn’t known Bunny before he was sent to St Anthony’s. Bunny looked a bit of a mess in his mismatched jacket and trousers, but his heart was in the right place, so everyone said.

  ‘You all right, son? You don’t look quite the ticket.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ Jacob mumbled – or perhaps he just thought the words without saying them.

  He rushed on, leaving Bunny behind. As he rounded the corner, there was the red-haired boy, not even as
big as himself. To his everlasting shame, tears burst forth and poured down his face. The red-haired boy hurried to him, hissing, ‘Shut up. Don’t make a show of yourself,’ looking over his shoulder as if PC Plod might pop out from behind a tree.

  Jacob explained, or tried to, but all that came out of his mouth was a muffled howl. Red Head grasped what had happened and, grabbing Jacob’s arm in sharp fingers, marched him straight back down Edge Lane. Once they were past Longford Park, there was Shirl, lounging on the corner, not smoking but looking like the kind of hardened schoolkid who could smoke if he felt like it.

  After battling so hard to quell his distress, Jacob got hiccups. Abrupt explosions of breath punctuated his attempts at explaining. He felt like the snotty kid in the babies’ class, made to stand in the corner after peeing himself.

  ‘He says he had it nicked off him,’ said Red Head, as if Jacob needed an interpreter. Maybe he did. Maybe he was babbling. Other kids had babbled after Thad had finished with them. Now he was one of those kids.

  ‘He does, does he?’ Didn’t Shirl believe him?

  ‘It’s true… They d-dragged me into a garden and…’ A violent hiccup wrenched the words away.

  ‘Suppose it’s true.’ Shirl addressed Red Head. ‘Suppose he really was jumped on.’

  ‘I was, I was.’ His flesh was clammy. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’

  Cross my heart and hope to die? Lads didn’t say that. Thad Layton’s brother didn’t say that. But he wasn’t Thad Layton’s brother any more, was he? He was Jacob, alone, unprotected, vulnerable, easy pickings. Jemima.

  ‘In that case…’ Shirl took him by the shoulder, thrusting his face at Jacob’s. At the side of his nose, in the crease where it joined his face, the blackheads had developed into a cluster of yellow-tipped pimples. ‘In that case, you have to pay back for what you lost and the only way to do that is to do more jobs.’

  More jobs?

  Hell’s bells.