The Favourite Child Read online

  Bella wasted no time in putting her plans into effect. Clean sheets were brought from the linen cupboard and Tilly set about making up the bed in the guest bedroom next to her own. Young Sam, aged seventeen and known as the handyman by Simeon and the chauffeur by Emily, was instructed to fetch flowers and then post himself at the front door in order to alert her the moment their patient arrived. She needed him to be on hand as the poor girl would require help climbing the stairs. Bella herself prepared a tea tray and while she did so, sweet-talked Mrs Dyson into producing some of her delicious shortbread.

  ‘And no doubt you’ll be wanting yet more calf’s foot jelly as well?’

  ‘I thought perhaps a little oxtail soup for supper? Something warming that’ll stick to her ribs, eh? Dear Mrs Dyson, what a treasure you are,’ and Bella hurried away, allowing no opportunity for protest.

  On the dot of three an ambulance drew up outside the Ashton’s end-terrace house in Seedley Park Road, as expected. Emily herself stood on the doorstep to direct operations, if only to show the neighbours that she was in charge. Double fronted and built of the finest dark red Accrington brick, the house possessed bay windows on both ground and upper floors, as Emily would proudly and frequently remind her many friends and acquaintances. She herself did not view the house as an end terrace, choosing to ignore the row of smaller houses attached to its back, since from the front it appeared detached. In addition, unlike many another in less affluent streets, it also possessed a front garden, admittedly minuscule but nonetheless neatly contained by a small privet hedge and a front gate which Emily now opened to permit the brawny young Sam to carry their guest inside.

  Jinnie seemed bemused by all the attention, and barely awake. ‘Where am I? What’s happening?’ was all she managed as she was gently put to bed by Bella’s own hands.

  She didn’t want the tea; showed not a scrap of interest in Mrs Dyson’s freshly baked shortbread. Within seconds her eyelids had drooped closed and she was fast asleep.

  ‘Best thing,’ Mrs Dyson wisely remarked. ‘Sleep’ll put her on her feet in no time.’

  Bella tucked the sheet in more firmly and, smoothing a curl back from Jinnie’s cheek, looked down upon her patient with a soft smile. ‘You’re right Mrs D. Sleep is exactly what she needs. I should think this is the most rest she’s ever had in her entire life. And first thing tomorrow, while she sleeps, I shall take the opportunity to slip out and see the Stobbs family who I missed completely last night, due to events. At least here she’s safe from whoever did this dreadful thing to her. What I wouldn’t do to him, if I ever got my hands on him. He comes right at the bottom in the pecking order of decent humanity, so far as I’m concerned. Selfish brute!’

  Billy Quinn knew all about the pecking order and, so far as he was concerned, his position on it came right at the top. He’d arrived in Salford via Liverpool and the Ship Canal less than a decade ago when he was no more than a lad of fifteen. Leaving his large family behind in County Mayo, he’d come to the mainland seeking his fortune with a bag of clothes slung over his broad shoulders, a bit of luck money in his pocket and the devil in his eyes. He’d slept in ditches and under haystacks, common lodging houses or ‘kip’ houses as they were often called, where he’d fight anyone for a place to lay his head, and generally win.

  He’d dragged himself out of those ditches, worked on farms and in factories and finally got himself a good job on a building site; was even happy to be termed a navvy since the effort he put into the job was minimal as it wasn’t his main source of income at all. It was merely a front, meant to provide the veneer of respectability he needed for his real work.

  Billy Quinn was a bookie. Small time, as yet, but with a formidable reputation and woe betide any punter who thought he could put one over on him.

  As a result of his success, these days he was proud to have his own place, albeit only one rented room in an old terraced house on Liverpool Street. It stated loud and clear that he was on the up-and-up. He’d even got himself a steady girl. Except that this morning, after a long night spent running a particularly lucrative dog fight, he’d returned tired and hungry to find the room empty. No girl in evidence. Not a sign remained that she’d ever been there. Even the bed had been stripped of every sheet and blanket.

  Too stunned at first to take in the fact that Jinnie had finally summoned the nerve to leave him, for all she’d frequently threatened to do so, he told himself that she was the loser. His next move would have been to a proper house all his own, a two-up and two-down, and he would’ve taken her with him - if she’d played her cards right. But he was peeved by this sudden display of independence. No one walked out on Billy Quinn, not without his say so.

  ‘Would ye know where she is?’ The question was asked on a low, growl of anger.

  Rarely ever more than a few feet from Quinn’s side, save for when his boss had a woman in tow, Len Jackson was expected to supply the answers to all of his questions, which wasn’t easy, seeing as they were often a mite awkward, demanding answers bound to annoy. Len would’ve liked notice of this one in particular.

  ‘Nay, Quinn. I know nowt about it. Women are a mystery to me. Allus have been.’ Len sidled over to the window to look down into the back entry, keeping an eye out for likely trouble. He could see Harold Cunliffe leaning nonchalantly against the back yard wall. Harold suddenly bent down to tie his laces and Len turned quickly back to Quinn.

  ‘Hey up. There’s rozzers about. Harold has just signalled.’ But for once Billy Quinn’s mind wasn’t on business. He smashed his fist down on the rickety table so hard that it almost buckled beneath the pressure. ‘Then bleedin’ well find out where she is.’

  It was rare for him to swear. Despite his reputation for meanness, outwardly at least Billy Quinn’s manner was mild, his voice a soft Irish brogue. Quinn saw himself as a gentleman, with the kind of good looks that made women swoon or wish they were eighteen again, the sort they paid sixpence to drool over at the Cromwell Picture House. Thick brown hair swept back from a high brow and, unusually, he never used Brylcreem but left it loose and floppy so that he could flick it back with an arrogant toss of his head whenever it fell forward. His eyes were sleepy, heavy-lidded, often half closed against the curl of blue smoke drifting from the cigarette frequently seen dangling from his lips. And his seductively piercing blue gaze asked only one question of a woman. Was she willing or would he need to use persuasion? For all he liked to have Jinnie around as his regular girl, since she was an attractive little waif, Quinn never disguised the fact that he was fond of other women. He would say that, after gambling, they were his favourite pastime. But he was most particular which ones he slept with. Once having declared an interest, however, it was for him to decide when the relationship should come to an end.

  Jinnie had made a big mistake by leaving. A fact he would make plain to her when he caught up with her again. He wondered if their neighbour Sadie knew anything, and vowed to find out.

  On this occasion Len could sense this was not the moment to suggest that perhaps Quinn hadn’t treated Jinnie quite as he should, or that it was a wonder she’d hung around as long as she had. He was grateful therefore to be saved from answering by the door bursting open and Harold Cunliffe charging in.

  ‘Didn’t you catch me signal? The rozzers is here. Get moving. It’s the real McCoy this time.’

  To run a successful bookmaking business, Quinn and his punters were required to defy the law which stated that street betting was illegal. He’d been doing so with ease for some considerable time. Conducted from the back entry, he depended on runners to collect bets, and lookouts, known locally as dogger-outs, to keep watch. It was vital that Quinn himself wasn’t caught. His success depended upon it. No punter would place bets with him ever again if their hard earned money was confiscated by the police. What he needed now, therefore, was for someone to act as mug. Like the joker in a pack he would be the throw-away card, and since Harold was the only one handy who they could afford to lose, he w
as the one selected.

  ‘Get down the entry Harold. I’ll see you right.’

  ‘Aw Billy lad, I’ve seven childer to feed, and the missus is badly. How would they manage if I got nicked?’

  Quinn rested one large hand on each of Harold’s skinny shoulders. ‘Trust me Harold. Would I let them starve?’

  ‘Nay, I’m not suggesting you would, only...’

  ‘And remember,’ the tone dropped to a menacing whisper. ‘There’s worse that could happen to you, Harold m’boy, than spending a few days in clink. Is there not?’

  Recognising his cause to be lost and believing that all fines would be paid for him by Billy Quinn, as was normally the case with a bookmaker, Harold hightailed it out the door and stationed himself at the end of the entry, as instructed. In his pocket were a sheaf of betting slips, none of which were genuine.

  It was well known that many raids were ‘staged’ since the police were largely sympathetic to the plight of the working man being put on the wrong side of the law just because he wanted to place a threepenny each-way bet. They’d also no real wish to be made unpopular, acting as a ‘spoilsport’ by enforcing the letter of the law too harshly. Every now and then, however, the Chief of Police would take it into his head to send out a surprise raid, a genuine one; usually to please a magistrate or make the arrest sheet look better. Today was one of those days.

  Arriving in force, the police spotted Harold, who was duly arrested and carted off to their van. As on previous raids it proved impossible to catch Quinn, or any of his other runners as doors mysteriously opened and were as quickly found locked shut, with no sign of the perpetrators of this ‘crime’ anywhere. Quickly losing interest in the chase, they gave up the search and withdrew, content to at least have one victim to show to their Chief.

  Len, back at his lookout post and watching events over a corner of the back yard wall, said, ‘You realise this was Harold’s third offence. It’ll cost you fifty quid to get him out.’

  ‘Fifty quid?’ Quinn stubbed out his cigarette and lit another before continuing to check betting slips. ‘Over my dead body. He can do three months instead.’

  ‘But his wife and childer. You said ...’

  Quinn paused in his counting, glanced up at Len through those half-closed eyes. ‘Did ye have something to say on the subject?’

  Len swallowed. ‘Nay. Not me. I know nowt about owt, me.’

  ‘Then ye’d best keep it that way.’ And Billy Quinn returned to conducting his business as usual.

  Chapter Three

  Mrs Stobbs had tried Gregory powder, liquorice, Fenning’s Little Healers and California Syrup of Figs on her eldest, yet still the child complained of stomach ache and pains in her head. She also had no appetite and was sufficiently flushed to indicate a temperature. Bella was fast coming to the conclusion that a doctor should be called, yet knew she’d have a hard job persuading the mother of this fact. Doctors cost money and with nine other children to care for, Mrs Stobbs had little enough to spare.

  As if reading Bella’s mind she said, ‘My friend Gladys give me this tonic for her to try. That’s all she needs. A pick-me-up.’ Mrs Stobbs went on to explain how she’d already tried rubbing the child’s chest with vinegar and goose fat, administered a purgative to clear the bowels and purify the blood as well as wrapping a stocking soaked in tea leaves about her sore throat. All to no avail.

  Bella was privately of the opinion that the awfulness of their surroundings may have something to do with the ill health of the children, that and the fact they all lived in this one room; the whole family sleeping together in one, not over-large, bed. Bugs fell from the ceiling, damp soaked through the walls, a pitiful fire burned in the grate. Only the newspaper covering the shelves and small wooden table were put on clean every day, thanks to Mr Stobbs fondness for the Evening News. This was Mrs Stobbs idea of hygiene.

  Bella examined the bottle which claimed to contain an ‘elixir for good health and a strengthener of the blood.’ Taking off the glass stopper she sniffed. A noxious aroma assailed her and she screwed up her nose in disgust. ‘You’ll never get Lizzie to take this. It smells revolting.’

  Mrs Stobbs almost snatched the bottle from her grasp and began searching the cluttered table for a spoon. ‘She’ll take it if she knows what’s good fer her.’

  Bella drew a spoon from her bag and rubbed it clean on her pocket handkerchief. There was no sink or water in the house and she quailed at using the contents of the jug set by the bed. ‘I still think a doctor would be best, Mrs Stobbs. She’s running a fever.’

  Bottle poised over the spoon the woman glanced across at the child huddled in the chair by a puny fire, her gaze haunted, filled with pain and fear. Lizzie was ten years old now and surely past the most dangerous stages of childhood. Besides, she was a grand help to her mother with the little ones. How would she manage without her? The hand that held the spoon began to tremble and Bella gently took it from her. ‘Here, let me. I’ll see if I can get her to take it. The label says it’s made from seaweed so the iron in that might well be of benefit. But if her temperature hasn’t come down by morning, I shall bring the doctor myself, Mrs Stobbs, and pay for him too if need be.’

  Two fat tears rolled down the woman’s cheeks but she made no move to wipe them away, since this would require energy she didn’t possess.

  Recognising her exhaustion, Bella said, ‘Maybe you should try a spoon or two of this yourself. You could do with a tonic too. It’s been one thing after another lately, what with all of them going down with sniffles and coughs.’

  Mrs Stobbs shook her head. Precious medicine was not to be wasted on tired adults when there were sick children in the house.

  ‘Thanks for your concern Bella luv, but we can manage now.’

  ‘I wish I could do more. I’m no doctor and my knowledge of medicine is so inadequate. But I’ll be back tomorrow to see how she is.’

  Once out on the pavement she couldn’t help heaving a sigh, partly from relief at escaping the sweet-sour stink of poverty but also out of a sad resignation, for Bella knew well enough what would happen next. No doctor would ever be permitted over the threshold. Some quack or other would be found, the child dosed till she either revived by sheer good luck or will power or, alternatively, succumb to the inevitable.

  Mrs Stobbs, hovering on her none-too-clean doorstep, half glanced back over her shoulder then drew the door almost closed behind her in a bid for further privacy before beckoning Bella to come closer. Bella could almost taste the woman’s foul breath but didn’t turn away as the whisper came in her ear. ‘I reckon I’m off again.’

  ‘Lord, no. The baby is only - what? Five months?’

  ‘Six!’ As if that made all the difference. ‘He only has to drop his trousers and I’m up the spout.’

  ‘I thought the doctor said you were to have no more children?’

  ‘Aye, he did. But he never told me how to stop ‘em coming, did he?’ Now she glanced up and down the street and Bella, heart already sinking with despair at this dreadful piece of news, began to feel utterly inadequate for the task facing her. Besides four miscarriages, (at least two of which may have been procured) and one stillbirth, caused through fright according to her husband and exhaustion in Bella’s opinion, Mrs Stobbs had almost died following her last confinement. It had taken weeks of careful nursing after the birth to get her well again. Even so, she’d run out of milk to feed the latest addition and the baby had never thrived. Bella brought what beneficial food she could for the child, but it rarely showed interest and spent much of its day in a sort of half-starved stupor.

  ‘That’s what I wanted to ask. I don’t like to put this on you, Bella love, a young lass like yerself, but ‘oo else can I ask? Doctor won’t talk about such matters to the likes of me, so I thought happen you’d find out what’s what for me.’

  ‘What’s what?’ Bella frowned, feeling utterly bemused.

  ‘You know. How to stop ‘em coming.’ These words were hissed in
an undertone, partly because women’s matters were never referred to directly, but also because abortion was not only illegal but hopelessly confused with contraception. To make matters worse, the Catholic church was utterly opposed to family limitation in any form, save for what was considered natural. So you couldn’t be too careful. ‘He’s not a bad husband, as husbands go, but careless, if you take my meaning? Particularly after he’s been on the booze. Don’t say owt now. Walls have ears. Just find out for me what I can do to stop it happening again, then I can go and get myself sorted.’ Then the door slammed shut in Bella’s astonished face.

  ‘Anyone would think I was some sort of miracle worker, the things they expect of me,’ Bella complained volubly to Mrs Dyson as she sat in that good woman’s kitchen later in the afternoon, hands warming around a mug of tea. ‘Where am I, a single young woman, going to find out about birth control? I’m not even supposed to appreciate such matters exist. And I can hardly ask Mother, can I? Or Pa. Perhaps the vicar could tell me? He seems to have an opinion on most things.’

  Mrs Dyson chortled softly as she munched on her best shortbread, interspersed with scalding sips of strong tea. ‘Eeh lass, you have a wicked sense of humour. I’m sure you’ll find a way, Miss Bella. You always do.’

  ‘How? What I know about sex, which is precious little, I’ve learned from you, my dearest friend. Mother has never uttered a word on the subject. I think she imagines that I still believe in the existence of the stork. But I think this one has got even me beat, for all I’d love to find some way to prevent women like poor Mrs Stobbs and young Jinnie upstairs from feeling driven to take such risks with their lives.’

  ‘You could always read that book by that doctor woman. Whatzername. Marie Stopes.’

  ‘Marie Stopes?’ Bella considered Mrs Dyson with surprised interest, brow creased with thought. The name had a familiar ring to it, but she couldn’t place just how or where she’d heard of it. ‘What book?’