LITMIR.BIZ

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I may have nowhere to go, nor any hope of escape. Yet I sense a core of steel of which I was not previously aware. Even if Nana cannot – will not – stand up to Ma, affection is affection and I’m not such a fool as to spurn it. Things may not be different in my life, but they are in my heart. I pledge myself to the improvement of both.

      I am to be tested far sooner than expected.

      The Wednesday after, all is as usual in The Comet: the bar full to bursting and a scuffle to stand closest to the fireplace. Ma and I circle each other like warring cats. She plays the cheery landlady, acting as if no cruel words were ever spoken. I move through the crowd, offering pipes from the rack to those who desire them, when one of the customers yells across the din.

      ‘Hey! What’s the weather like up there with you, lass?’

      Every eye swivels in my direction. It is an old joke and one I am well used to. I stretch my lips into a tolerable impersonation of a smile.

      ‘How about a song, Lady Goliath?’ he shouts, clearly not done with me.

      ‘Her? She can’t carry a tune in a bucket,’ quips another toper.

      ‘Shush now, you’ll upset the wee creature. She can’t help having cloth ears.’

      ‘Wee? You blind all of a sudden?’

      There ensues a general bout of mirth at my expense. I pick up a dirty glass.

      ‘Now, let’s have some respect.’

      I throw a grateful glance at whoever has spoken in my defence and find myself eyeball to eyeball with the bane of my existence, copper eyebrows and all. I wasn’t expecting him till tomorrow. He smoothes his hands up and down the front of his waistcoat and tugs at his cuffs. His shirtsleeves are uncrumpled, uncommonly fresh for this late in the day. I wonder how he keeps himself so clean. I’d bite off my own tongue rather than remark upon it.

      ‘Give us a smile,’ he leers, pinching my cheek. ‘Anyone would think you weren’t pleased to see your Uncle Bob.’

      ‘You’re not my uncle,’ I reply as rudely as I can, which is not very.

      ‘I declare. You’ve got a sight more zest these days. Then again, I like a lass with a bit of spunk in her.’ He doffs his cap and rolls his eyes at Ma. ‘What say you, Mrs Latchford?’ he enquires, the soul of civility. ‘A song from the lips of your charming daughter?’

      Ma rams a cloth into the throat of a pint pot and sniffs. ‘As you like it.’

      ‘Positively Shakespearian,’ he titters.

      Ma shrugs and concentrates on pouring a precise measure of porter into the clean glass. The head is thick with cream. He returns his attention to me.

      ‘I wager that you are a nightingale!’ he trills. ‘Furnish us with a song!’

      I shake my head. ‘I don’t know any songs,’ I mutter, worrying my apron into knots at the prospect of his slippery attentions twice a week rather than once.

      ‘I bet you do,’ says my tormentor cheerfully. ‘Do not disappoint your impatient audience!’

      The room takes up the cry, banging beer pots on the tables and stamping their feet. I am trapped. I wonder what it is about me that makes this scoundrel feel he has the right to pin me to the spot. It’s clear that peace will not be restored until I’ve placated the crowd with a song.

      ‘“Father, O Father, come home to us now,”’ I whisper.

      ‘Speak up, love!’ someone cries.

      ‘Can’t hear you!’

      ‘Put some vim into it.’

      I throw a pleading glance at Ma. She is looking in the opposite direction.

      ‘Go on,’ growls the gingery man. ‘Sing.’

      I place one hand flat against my stomach and hold up the other, pointing a finger at the ceiling. I clear my throat, gabble the verse and scuttle back to the safety of the bar.

      ‘If you will parade yourself you deserve everything coming to you,’ says Ma sourly enough to take the polish off a chapel pew.

      ‘I did nothing!’

      ‘Oh, hush your moaning and take this,’ she snaps, shoving a platter of fried bread into my hands.

      ‘But, Ma …’ I whimper. I want to give that man a wide berth for the remainder of the evening. Indeed, for the rest of my life if I can help it.

      ‘Move, girl, or I’ll make you regret it.’

      I squeeze between the tables. I’ve gone less than half a dozen paces when the pest grasps my arm and pulls me between his knees. He eyes the plate and smacks his lips.

      ‘Bringing me a treat, are you?’ he asks.

      ‘It’s for everyone.’

      ‘Such ingratitude!’ he chortles. ‘Is this how you treat your knight in shining armour? I saved you from the rude and churlish ways of this rabble. How about a thank you?’

      ‘I have to take the bread round.’ I take a step backwards, but he hangs on to my arm.

      ‘Go on. Give Uncle Bob first nibble,’ he says, poking me in the stomach.

      I hold the bowl out of reach, but Ma barks my name and I have little choice but to proffer it, however unwillingly. He takes a piece with a dainty gesture and places it between his lips.

      ‘That’s tasty,’ he says, gaze swarming across my breasts.

      I try to wriggle free. He presses his knees together like the jaws of a man-trap.

      ‘Let me go. Everyone else wants a bit.’

      ‘I’ll bet they do.’ He selects another piece of bread and slithers his tongue over it until it glistens with spittle. ‘I’ll bet you’ve got a queue of beaux lining up for what you’ve got.’

      ‘I don’t!’ I try to sound outraged at such an indelicate suggestion, but it comes out as petulance.

      ‘No?’ He swallows the damp morsel with a gulp. ‘Unplucked. How delectable.’ He sucks grease off his fingers and wipes them on his spotless waistcoat. ‘I must check such an assertion.’

      As innocently as a man retrieving a dropped sixpence, he bends to the floor. Hidden by my petticoats, I feel his hand circle my ankle. I start away but am caught in the vice of his thighs. In a leisurely fashion, he draws himself upright and, as he does so, his fingers slide up my calf. I can’t move, can’t speak. He squeezes my knee.

      Our eyes lock. He smiles with tender solicitation, as if it is the most natural thing in the world for a stranger to have his hand up a girl’s skirt. I look at the other customers. They are ogling their glasses and joking with each other as if we are quite invisible. I cast a desperate look at Ma. She is busy washing glasses. I open my mouth to shout for her to come and rescue me.

      The cry shrivels.

      What can I say? What sort of girl allows a man to do such a thing? The shame of it: I imagine every head in the room turning in my direction and seeing what is happening. I will bring ignominy on to Ma’s head. I will cause The Comet to become known as a den of iniquity where such carryings-on take place. Ma’s years of building up a respectable name dashed into smithereens in a moment.

      His hand creeps an inch higher.

      ‘What a pretty thing you are,’ he says, tilting his head to one side. ‘I believe this is going to become my favourite beerhouse from this moment on, if it has you to tempt me so. Wednesday night, Thursday night. Why, every night, I declare.’

      His fingers continue their spider-climb under my skirt until they reach the tops of my stockings. He caresses the naked skin of my thigh. My breath bundles in my throat. With all my being I try to say stop. Such a short word, less than a breath, but it falters on my

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