A Woman of Courage, page 1
RITA BRADSHAW
A Woman of Courage
For our beautiful furry baby, Muffin. You were infinitely precious and unique, little man, and we loved you beyond words. Your passing has left us broken-hearted, and with a Muffin-shaped hole in our lives that can never be filled.
Acknowledgements
The research needed for this book was quite intensive, and although the internet was as helpful as ever, the following books deserve a special mention:
The Gilded Age in New York, 1870–1910, by Esther Crain
Immigrant Women in the Land of Dollars: Life and Culture on the Lower East Side, 1890–1925, by Elizabeth Ewen
Picturing New York: Photographs from the Museum of Modern Art, curated by Sarah Hermanson Meister
Island of Hope: The Story of Ellis Island and the Journey to America, by Martin W. Sandler
Immigration to New York, edited by William Pencak, Selma Berrol and Randall M. Miller
Contents
PART ONE
Toby, 1890
PART TWO
Adam, 1891
PART THREE
Jack, 1892
PART FOUR
Luke, 1904
Epilogue, 1906
PART ONE
Toby
1890
Chapter One
‘Now remember what I said and be careful, hinny, all right? Keep to the streets where the gas lamps are and no taking shortcuts through them dark alleys.’
Josie Gray smiled at her mother, nodding her head. ‘Don’t worry, Mam, I never do. Toby said he’d meet me out tonight and walk me home, by the way.’
Maggie patted her daughter’s arm. ‘Did he? That’s good,’ she said, but the worried expression didn’t lift. Her eldest daughter was such a beauty, that was the thing, with her great green eyes and mass of curly chestnut hair. Josie was a good girl, no doubt about that, but in Sunderland’s labyrinth of passageways and back lanes there were plenty of dark corners where things were known to go on. The East End was bad enough in daylight but once night fell it was no place for a young girl on her own. However, Ralph said Josie had to work at the Fiddler’s Elbow and that was that.
‘I’ll be fine, Mam.’ Josie touched her mother’s lined cheek before she pulled on her coat and hat. Not for the world would she worry her mother more by admitting she always scurried along with her heart in her mouth until she reached the public house where her father had arranged for her to sing each night. She hated to be out on the streets after dark. The dockside dollies would be plying their trade and drunken sailors thought nothing of making a grab for you as you walked past. Her two older brothers, Toby and Joe, had shown her some moves to defend herself if she was accosted, but had emphasized that the first thing to do if she was attacked was to scream her head off.
‘Bite and kick and try to bring your knee up into their privates,’ Toby had said, ‘but scream too. Whatever you do, don’t freeze in fright, lass. They’ll likely panic and let you go if you make enough racket.’
Dear Toby, Josie thought, as she left the house in Long Bank close to the docks. The Bank joined High Street and Low Street and the stink from the kipper-curing factory coloured the air summer and winter. She knew her brothers worried about her like their mam, but her da couldn’t care less. He’d had her singing in the East End pubs since she was knee high to a grasshopper, and now, at fifteen, she could earn more money than Toby and Joe did working at the docks. Money was all that mattered to her father but like Toby said, it didn’t matter enough for their da to go out to work himself. He was forever complaining of a bad back, but if it suited him he was as sprightly as the next fellow.
It was sleeting in the raw wind as she made her way towards the Fiddler’s Elbow and the November night was miserable. For once there were no bairns playing or women gossiping on their doorsteps. Years ago the old river-mouth settlement of Sunderland’s East End had been the place where the wealthy and influential residents of the town had built their fine houses, but when they’d left the busy commercial area to reside in the more fashionable and quieter Bishopwearmouth, the working class had taken over. Beautiful three-storey houses built for wealthy merchants and shipbuilders had fallen into rat-infested slums where whole families lived in one room and the outside privy and tap was used by twenty or thirty folk. Now the smell of poverty and decay was the order of the day.
It only took Josie a few minutes to reach the Fiddler’s Elbow. It was one of many notorious public houses in the East End and a frequent haunt of the dockside dollies. Most evenings she had to sing there from seven o’clock until after midnight. Her father had come to an agreement with the landlord – George Mullen – some years ago and had told her she should count herself lucky to have regular employment when she hadn’t even left school. On the first night she had made the mistake of slipping outside into the pub’s courtyard for a breath of fresh air and had found several women obliging their customers. She’d scampered back inside, shocked to the core. It had been then she’d understood why the Fiddler’s Elbow and some of the other pubs were called whore markets, but overall she didn’t mind working there. George Mullen might be rough and ready but he looked out for her and wouldn’t tolerate any of his customers taking any liberties with her; neither would his wife, Ada, who was big and blowsy and could put the fear of God into even the most awkward drunkard.
When she pushed open the heavy studded front door of the pub the noise hit her. The enormous interior was dimly lit by flickering gas lights and the smell of beer and smoke hung in the air. There was the normal crowd of folk inside, a good number of them sailors and dock workers, and the level of conversation was deafening. The only time the din died down was when she sang and then the regulars would make sure she could be heard.
She made her way through the tables and chairs towards the bar where George and Ada, along with their two daughters, who were younger versions of their mother, were busy serving customers. The Fiddler’s Elbow was a popular pub with the locals and George and Ada turned a blind eye to the goings-on in the courtyard and other nefarious activities that took place in dark corners. If smuggled goods or drugs changed hands it was nothing to do with them; they had a living to earn after all.
A couple of the young local lads called out to Josie as she passed but she just smiled in reply and kept walking. She had never had a beau and wasn’t in any hurry to acquire one, and the thought of marriage held no appeal whatsoever. From what she’d seen, it seemed that once a lass got wed it meant having one bairn after another as regular as clockwork and living in fear of the rent man for the rest of your life, like her mam and everyone else she knew. It didn’t appeal.
Ada Mullen smiled at the girl she thought of as pretty as a picture. She had a soft spot for Josie; the lass was reliable and not mouthy like some of the types they got in the pub. Furthermore, she felt sorry for her having a father like Ralph Gray; as far as she knew the man had never done a day’s honest work and would sell his own grandmother if the price was right.
‘There’s a fresh pot of tea in the back,’ she said as Josie reached her. ‘Go an’ have a cup before you start, lass, an’ warm yourself up. I’ve left a couple of teacakes out an’ all an’ a slab of butter.’
‘Aw, thank you, Mrs Mullen.’ Josie’s mouth was already watering; she was always hungry. It was rare her brothers got a full week each at the docks – often it was just three or four shifts and even with what she brought in money was always tight. Her mother could stretch a penny to two but with her three younger sisters to feed besides the rest of them and the rent to pay each week they were forever robbing Peter to pay Paul. She had never spoken of what it was like at home to Mrs Mullen but she felt the publican’s wife knew anyway. There were no secrets in the East End.
Ada shook her head to herself as Josie disappeared into the corridor behind the bar. Poor little beggar, she thought for the umpteenth time. The lass was as thin as a lath and always looked half-starved, but at least she could make sure the bairn filled her stomach when she was here of a night, which was something.
She caught her husband’s eye and he, reading her mind, shook his head too before turning back to his customers. He knew his wife was fond of Josie and she was a nice little lass after all, but the bairn was one of many such undernourished youngsters hereabouts. At least Josie was lucky inasmuch as she had something special that might set her apart in the future. Her voice was exceptional; with a bit of training from someone who knew about such things she could go far. He’d said as much to Ada, hoping to comfort her when she was worrying about the girl, but his wife had merely shaken her head and said sourly, ‘With a da like Ralph Gray? He’d never let her pay out a penny to better herself as long as she’s keeping him in beer and baccy money. The man’s a parasite, a leech, an’ you know it. And his poor wife – Maggie must have given birth to thirteen or fourteen bairns in her time and only six of ’em alive, and I’m amazed she’s managed to rear that many with a ne’er-do-well of a husband like him. For two pins I’d refuse to serve him when he comes in here an’ tell him to clear off home an’ give the money to his wife.’
‘You’ll do no such thing,’ George had replied, faintly alarmed. Where would they be if his wife started getting a conscience about such things? ‘His money is as good as the next man’s and it’s up to him an’ Maggie to sort out their own going-on.’
That conversation had been a few weeks ago when the weather hadn’t been so bad, but it had curbed his tongue when Ada had come back from the market earlier today w
Reginald Hutton’s stall had a reputation for being more expensive than most; he dealt in better-quality second-hand clothing and his prices reflected this. Cheap wasn’t a word George would have associated with Hutton. He hadn’t pointed this out to his wife, however, neither had he remarked that to his knowledge they weren’t in the habit of giving Christmas presents to their staff apart from a few extra pennies in their wage packets. If buying the bairn a coat kept Ada happy and stopped any further talk about turning paying customers away then he was all for it.
When after a few moments he looked to where his wife had been standing and saw she was gone, he smiled to himself. Ada had been itching to give the coat to the lass and he’d had a private bet with himself that she wouldn’t be able to wait until closing time.
In the pub’s big kitchen, Josie was staring in wonder at the olive-green coat with a white fur collar that Ada had just presented her with. She found herself stammering as she said, ‘But I – I can’t accept th-this, Mrs Mullen.’
‘Of course you can, hinny.’ Ada was highly gratified at the girl’s reaction. ‘It’s your Christmas present from Mr Mullen and myself like I said. All right? There’s snow forecast so I thought you might as well have it now been’s I’d got it. Try it on and make sure it fits.’
In a daze, Josie slipped off the old brown coat that had already been somewhat the worse for wear when her mother had picked it up at the market three years ago and put on the new one. It felt as though she was being enfolded in a warm blanket and she stroked the soft collar as she said huskily, ‘I don’t know how to thank you, Mrs Mullen. It’s beautiful, just beautiful.’
Ada beamed. ‘My pleasure, lass. You look right bonny, I must say.’ In truth, she was taken aback at just how much the coat had transformed the girl. She’d always thought that Josie was a pretty little thing but now she realized the lass was a child no longer and she was going to be a stunningly lovely woman. Of course, she told herself in the next breath, Josie’s beauty would be wasted round these parts. Girls got old before their time and even the bonniest of lassies ended up haggard and work-worn. It would be a shame in this case, a crying shame.
‘Take it off and have a sup tea and finish your teacakes,’ she said briskly, her face betraying none of the disquiet her thoughts had produced. ‘Come through when you’re ready but there’s no rush, hinny. Fred’s not here yet.’
Josie nodded. Fred was an ancient, gnarled little gnome of a man who accompanied her on the pub’s battered piano in return for as much beer as he could drink, the occasional packet of baccy for his beloved pipe and a spot of food now and again. This arrangement meant he was often three sheets to the wind by the end of an evening but as it didn’t affect his playing no one cared.
Once Ada bustled off, Josie sat in the relative peace of the kitchen. The hubbub from the main room of the pub filtered through now and again – laughter and voices and the occasional shouting – but she loved her moments in the kitchen. It was always as warm as toast courtesy of the huge black range that was kept going winter and summer, and Ada and her daughters – Dora and May – kept it as clean as a new pin. The pub’s cat, a fat tabby with golden eyes, was curled up on the thick clippy mat in front of the fire, and Josie stroked it for a moment or two. It purred contentedly before dozing off again as she reached for her mug of tea.
The cat was a bone of contention between the publican and his wife. Ada had acquired it as a kitten when the little scrap of nothing had turned up in the courtyard one winter’s night, soaked and shivering. She’d insisted on bringing it into the warm, saying it would pay its way by keeping the mice down once it grew, but when it had become obvious it was no mouser she’d refused to get rid of the animal, telling her husband that she’d as soon kick him out as the cat.
Ada’s ‘couple’ of teacakes had been a plateful, and Josie ate the lot before making her way into the big smoke-filled room in which she sang. She felt comfortably full for once. Fred had arrived and was sitting at the piano supping his first tankard of ale. He smiled at her as she joined him, revealing his brown rotting teeth. ‘How do, lass?’
It was his normal greeting and as he put the empty tankard on the top of the shabby piano and set about lighting his pipe, Josie smiled at him. She liked Fred. He’d lost his wife to the fever some years before and lived with one of his daughters but she didn’t like having him underfoot. The Fiddler’s Elbow was the old man’s refuge.
She climbed onto the upturned box next to the piano and immediately the room quietened a little. Even the dockside dollies sitting at tables or on sailors’ laps lowered their voices, and if they didn’t George’s regulars would make sure they did. Some of the inns and licensed premises in the better part of Sunderland would charge ‘wet money’ if any entertainment was offered. This was so called because the fee charged on admission was returnable by drink. When George had made the decision to employ Josie he’d known such a charge wouldn’t wash with his rough-and-ready clientele in the East End, so he had agreed to pay her a very small fee each week but have a hat on the piano into which his customers could throw coins to show their appreciation. Within a few weeks his gamble to take the girl on six nights a week had proved a success. Word had spread and his customers had nearly doubled; furthermore being close to the docks brought in the sailors and they were the ones with money in their pockets. The sight of a young girl singing about true love or mother love, or idyllic villages with thatched cottages and roses at the door, seemed to appeal more to men far away from home than the suggestive, risqué songs, although Josie was adept at both. ‘Silver Threads Among the Gold’ always brought a good response, along with ‘A Flower from Mother’s Grave’ and ‘My Dearest Heart’.
As always happened when she began to sing, Josie forgot about her surroundings. The room reeking of smoke and beer and unwashed humanity, the buzz of noise and the fact that she was being stared at by umpteen pairs of eyes faded away as she started the evening with ‘Rescue the Perishing’, a hymn the sailors always seemed to like. Her voice rose pure and unfaltering with a sweetness made more poignant by her faded old dress and lovely face. Even George and Ada and their daughters stopped what they were doing for a minute or two, leaning on the counter and listening quietly.
She sang another hymn before going into a rendition of ‘Grandfather’s Clock’ and then a couple of rousing Irish songs that had the customers’ feet tapping, before the slower ‘I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen’. She normally had a break and a drink of water after half a dozen or so songs – the heavy smoky air made her throat dry.
Walking across to the bar she stood with Ada and the others, sipping the glass of water as she watched the publican’s daughters laugh and joke with the customers. The two girls were younger editions of their gregarious mother and she found herself envying their confidence and quick repartee. Shy by nature, when she wasn’t singing and lost in that other world, she felt too self-conscious to engage in banter, although there were one or two regulars she felt comfortable with.
One was in tonight. Hans was a sea captain from Norway, a tall dark-haired man with vivid blue eyes. She knew he had a wife whom he missed when he was away and that they had seven children, the oldest a young man who accompanied him on his voyages. She had been surprised when he’d first told her he was from Norway. She had always assumed that men from that part of the world were fair-skinned with blonde hair – certainly the ones who drank in the Fiddler’s Elbow tended to be – but as she had got to know Hans better he’d told her that although his father was Norwegian his mother was from Italy.
She smiled at him now as he came to get drinks from the bar and he winked at her, leaning further over the counter as he said in his heavy accent, ‘And how is my little songbird this evening?’
