The Ragamuffins

  The Ragamuffins

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  The Ragamuffins

  Anna King

  Chapter One

  ‘He’s ’ere again, Missus. D’yer want me ter send him packing, or yer gonna give the brat more of Mr Mitson’s hard-earned livelihood?’ Agnes Handly shot a malevolent glance at the young woman standing behind the shop counter, not bothering to hide the animosity levelled towards her employer.

  Ellen Mitson, fully aware of Agnes’ feelings towards her, and knowing the reason for it, simply shrugged. ‘Mr Mitson is well aware of the boy’s visits, Agnes, and, like myself, sees no harm in giving the poor child a few cakes and a loaf of bread now and then. As for your comments concerning the boy’s scrounging, you know full well he always works for whatever food he receives.’

  Checking the till once more to make sure there was enough change for the day’s business, Ellen Mitson shut the drawer with a loud bang that caused the scowling Agnes to jump.

  Ignoring the surly woman, Ellen crossed to the shop door. Her lips spread wide in greeting, she opened it and smiled at the shivering young boy waiting outside the shop. ‘Good morning, Micky. Have you been waiting long?’

  The boy grinned back at the young woman, who didn’t seem to be much older than himself, and answered cheekily, ‘Nah, I only just got ’ere. I was gonna come straight in, ’cos it’s blooming freezing out ’ere, but I saw that old bat glaring at me, so I thought I’d better wait till you came ter the door.’

  Behind her, Ellen heard Agnes take a sharp intake of breath and, adopting an air of conspiracy, she winked at the boy, saying loudly, ‘You mustn’t be afraid of Agnes, Micky. After all, she only works here, and has no authority to make any decisions.’

  As soon as the words left her mouth, Ellen felt a wave of shame sweep over her. It wasn’t in her nature to be nasty, but Good Lord, that woman would make a saint lose patience. Ushering the boy into the warmth of the bakery Ellen said briskly, ‘Well now, young man, there isn’t any work for you today, but if you’ll just wait a minute, I’ll get your usual provisions. I can’t risk losing a good worker like you.’

  Instantly the boy’s face lost all trace of merriment. Staring into Ellen’s brown eyes he said quietly, ‘I don’t want charity, Missus. If yer ain’t got no work fer me, then I can’t take anything from yer.’

  Ellen’s heart skipped a beat as she gazed into the proud eyes of the shabbily-dressed boy. Even though it was the middle of January and bitterly cold, the child wore no coat or gloves. The grimy knitted jumper covering the small chest was full of holes, beneath which could be seen a grey linen vest, and Ellen couldn’t help wondering what sort of mother would send her child out in such bitter weather without so much as a scarf to warm the boy’s dirty neck. Before she could speak, Agnes uttered a sarcastic laugh.

  ‘Bleeding ’ell. A beggar wiv a conscience. That’s a turn up fer the books. He probably—’

  Ellen rounded on the middle-aged woman angrily.

  ‘This is no concern of yours, Agnes. And speaking of work, isn’t there something you can be getting on with? I’m sure Mr Mitson would be grateful for some help. And I know how much you like helping out where my husband is concerned.’

  At Ellen’s words, the older woman’s head snapped back as if she’d been slapped. Lowering her head, she sidled past Ellen with her eyes downcast, yet Ellen could see plainly the look of bitterness etched on Agnes’ homely face. Putting out her hand, Ellen caught hold of her arm, saying quietly, ‘I’m sorry, Agnes, that was uncalled for, I…’

  Brusquely Agnes pulled away from Ellen’s grasp, muttering, ‘Don’t yer worry about me, Missus. It’ll take more than the likes of you ter upset me feelings. Now if yer’ll excuse me, I’ll go and see if I’m wanted in the kitchen, ’cos I ain’t bleeding well wanted ’ere, am I?’

  When the grim-faced woman had disappeared behind the curtain separating the shop from the large bakery at the back, Ellen turned her attention once more to the boy.

  ‘Now then, me laddo. I’ve enough on my hands with Agnes without you giving me a hard time.’ She smiled, taking the sting out of her words. ‘It’s all very well to be independent, it’s an admirable trait, but sometimes we have to swallow our pride for our own good. As I said, there’s no work for you today, but it’ll be a different story tomorrow when the coalman makes his delivery. I keep on at my husband to have a trap door fitted to the basement, like most keeps forgetting. So until he gets round to doing something about it, it falls on me to carry it downstairs every month. It’s a horrible, backbreaking job, and filthy into the bargain, so I’d be much obliged if you’d come along at six tomorrow and help me.’

  The boy’s face brightened. ‘You leave it ter me, Missus. And don’t yer worry about ’aving ter help me. I can do it by meself. I might be thin, but I’m strong. Honest, you wait an’ see.’

  Ellen’s lips twitched in amusement at the boy’s eagerness. She wasn’t about to tell him that Mr Dobbs, the coalman, had been carrying the monthly consignment of coal to the basement for years – for a small remuneration, of course – and he wasn’t going to be too pleased when he discovered his monthly bonus of five shillings would no longer be forthcoming. She was going to be popular tomorrow. It was bad enough having to put up with Agnes’ sour face day after day; now if she was going to be in the coalman’s bad books as well. Arching her eyebrows she stifled a giggle. Oh, to hell with them both! The child needed the work, and the money, more than Mr Dobbs.

  ‘What yer smiling about, Missus?’

  Jerked out of her reverie, Ellen replied merrily, ‘Nothing, Micky. At least nothing that would be of interest to you. Now then, are you going to take your wages in kind, or would you prefer money today?’

  The young boy hesitated for only the briefest of seconds. The smell of the newly-baked bread was like torture to his undernourished body; moreover he hadn’t only himself to think about. There was someone else with an empty belly who would be waiting anxiously for his return. Hitching up his tom, soiled trousers that came to a halt just below his knees, he answered cheerfully, ‘Thanks, Missus. I’ll ’ave some grub, please. I’m so hungry, me belly thinks me throat’s been cut.’

  ‘Well, we can’t have that, can we?’ Ellen was already behind the counter putting six currant buns and a large loaf of bread into a brown paper bag. ‘Here you are, Micky, you get off home while it’s still hot. I’m sure your mother must be very proud to have a hard-working boy like you, though you must try and get a more permanent job now you’ve left school…’ Ellen stopped in mid-flow, her hand flying to her mouth as she realised she sounded as if she was poking her nose into the boy’s affairs. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Micky, it’s no business of mine what you do. After all, I’ve only known you a few weeks.’ Giving a ne
rvous laugh, she said, ‘I seem to be putting my foot in it with everyone today, and it’s not even six-thirty yet.’

  As she spoke, the bell over the shop door tinkled heralding the first customer of the day. Taking his chance to escape any more probing questions, Micky thanked Ellen once again, adding quickly that he would be round bright and early the next day, then quickly vanished into the cold, dark morning.

  When the boy left the shop, Agnes returned saying sullenly, ‘Mr Mitson wants ter see yer. I’ll take over here.’

  As Ellen passed through the heavy curtain to the room out back she heard Agnes make some remark about it ‘being all right for some’, but Ellen had heard such disparaging remarks from Agnes for so long she no longer took any notice.

  A blast of heat hit her full in the face as she entered the bakehouse. Arthur Mitson was in the act of taking a batch of piping hot loaves from the oven when he became aware of his wife’s presence. Tipping the six crusty loaves from the large, flat shovel onto a nearby workbench, he mopped his sweating brow with the back of his hand and smiled tenderly.

  ‘You all right, love? I’ve just had Agnes giving me an earful about encouraging beggars. I take it she was referring to the young lad that’s been hanging around for the last couple of weeks?’

  Ellen stepped forward and placed a kiss on her husband’s chubby cheek. ‘Don’t you worry about me. I can handle Agnes, and yes, she was referring to Micky. The poor little soul. And he’s no beggar, Arthur, as you well know. When I told him there wasn’t any work for him today he refused to take any form of payment from me, when it’s painfully clear to see he’s desperate for a decent meal. I had to invent a job for tomorrow, just so he could justify himself in taking a loaf of bread and a half dozen buns.’

  Arthur appraised his wife wryly. ‘And what, may I ask, is this important job you have lined up for the young lad?’

  Casting her eyes over the top of her husband’s thinning hair, Ellen said guiltily, ‘I pretended I needed help with tomorrow’s coal delivery.’

  Arthur Mitson’s eyebrows seemed to meet across his forehead in a worried frown. ‘Oh, now, love, you shouldn’t have done that. You know Mr Dobbs has always seen to the coal delivery. He’s done it for the last ten years or more.’ Shaking his head anxiously he added, ‘You’ve put me in a bit of a spot now, love. I mean, how am I going to explain to the man that his job’s been given away to some street urchin?’

  Ellen’s eyes clouded. ‘Micky’s no street urchin, Arthur, any more than he’s a common beggar. He’s just a decent young boy trying to make do the best way he knows how. As for Mr Dobbs, huh!’ The mirthless laugh made Arthur flinch. ‘I’ve hardly taken away his job; blooming hell, Arthur, he runs his own business. The only reason he carries the coal down to the basement is because of the five shilling tip you give him. He doesn’t do it out of charity, and that young boy needs the money more than Mr Dobbs.’ She stared hard at her husband. ‘I’ll tell you what, Arthur, come tomorrow, I’ll tell Mr Dobbs he won’t be getting his extra five bob anymore, then we’ll see what he says. If he still insists on carrying the coal to the basement for nothing, then I’ll apologise. But if he makes a fuss, then I’m going to give the job to Micky. What do you think of that?’

  The thinning head shook from side to side helplessly as Arthur tried to remember the girl he had married. A girl who had been totally dependent on him. The young woman now facing him bore no resemblance to that memory. His plump face grave, Arthur said anxiously, ‘All right, all right, love. Let’s not fall out over it. After all, the boy might not even turn up tomorrow.’

  Even as he said the words, Arthur knew it was only wishful thinking on his part. Of course the boy would show up. Where else would he get fresh food and five bob for an hour’s work? It wasn’t that Arthur resented the boy, quite the contrary. He had only met him once, but the lad had seemed a decent sort – not like some of them around these parts. No, it wasn’t Micky that was the trouble. If it hadn’t been him, it would be someone or something else for Agnes to complain about. Now it seemed that, come tomorrow, he would have Mr Dobbs to contend with as well. Sighing loudly, Arthur Mitson reflected that life would be a lot quieter if only Ellen would act like other businessmen’s wives and stay out of his place of work.

  Ellen watched her husband’s silent battle and felt a wave of compassion for the kindly man. She knew how Arthur loathed any form of confrontation, and was saddened that she had heaped further worries onto his shoulders. The poor man had enough on his plate dealing with Agnes on a daily basis without her adding to his troubles. If it had been anything else she would have backed down, but she had promised Micky a job tomorrow and she wasn’t going to go back on her word.

  ‘He’ll turn up, Arthur,’ she said softly.

  ‘I know he will, love,’ Arthur replied, the tone of his voice resigned to the inevitable. Then he had an idea. Clearing his dry throat he said carelessly, ‘Tell you what. How about you having a lie-in tomorrow? I don’t like you having to get up so early, especially when Agnes is here to do the work. There really is no reason for you to get up at the crack of dawn. And don’t worry about the boy, I’ll see to him, I promise.’ He looked into his wife’s face, his countenance earnest.

  Ellen returned the look, then shook her head wistfully, knowing full well how her husband’s mind worked. He was simply trying to get her out of the way tomorrow so that he could create another job for Micky, thereby keeping his promise to see to the boy, and thus appeasing Mr Dobbs into the bargain. Her eyes flickering, Ellen fought down a feeling of resentment. It wasn’t Arthur’s fault he had no gumption; some people were born that way, but that didn’t mean to say she was going to encourage her husband’s weakness. Keeping her voice low she said softly, ‘You know I don’t like lying in bed, Arthur.’ Actually, that wasn’t quite true. She loved her bed and would happily stay in it all morning if she could do so without feeling guilty. Though she did allow herself a full half hour after Arthur had risen. Then she would stretch out luxuriously, revelling in the opportunity of having the large four-poster bed to herself, even if it was only for a short time. ‘Anyway, I like to earn my keep. Speaking of which, Agnes said you wanted to see me. Do you want me to keep an eye on the bread while you see the delivery man? He’s due soon, isn’t he?’

  The factory where Arthur bought his supplies delivered every Tuesday morning. And such was the high regard her husband engendered, partly due to the large order he placed every week, that the owner of the factory always brought Arthur’s purchases personally. And once their business was concluded, the two men would indulge in a glass of port upstairs in the drawing room above the shop where their living quarters were situated. ‘I know how much you enjoy Mr Stone’s weekly visit, as does he.’ She paused; then, with a mischievous grin, she said playfully, ‘And of course, there’s always the added bonus of the usual tipple to warm him up on the journey back to his factory.’

  Arthur made a face at his wife, while at the same time sliding another batch of loaves into the hot oven, followed by a large tray of currant buns which he placed on the shelf below the bread. His task completed, Arthur Mitson looked at his young wife, and as always when he saw her, his heart began to race with love – and fear. With love because he worshipped the very ground she walked on, and for the joy she had brought into his life. With fear, because he was constantly afraid she might leave him one day. Even though she had never once, in the nine months they had been married, shown any sign of discontent, Arthur feared there would come a time when she would see him for the overweight, balding, middle-aged man he was. If he had married a woman of his own age, then his fears would have been unfounded.

  But Ellen was only just 18, and even though she wasn’t what one would term beautiful, she had a pretty face and a kindly nature.

  ‘What’s the matter, Arthur? You look as if you’re miles away.’ Ellen was gazing at him quizzically.

  Blinking the sweat out of his eyes, Arthur answered quickly, ‘Oh, you know
me, love. Always in a world of my own.’ Taking off the coarse linen apron he always wore when baking, he carried on, ‘Look, you go back into the shop while I finish tidying up.’ Nodding his head towards the custom-built oven he added, ‘Those last two trays should see us through the day. If we do start to run low, I can always bake some more.’

  Ellen nodded, glad to get away from the stifling heat of the small room. ‘I’ll let you know when Mr Stone arrives. In the meantime I suppose I’ll have to put up with Agnes’ delightful company for a while longer.’ With a wry smile, Ellen winked playfully at her husband before closing the door behind her.

  Alone once more, Arthur lowered his large frame onto a three-legged stool. His face, red from the heat of the oven, was pensive as his mind travelled down a well-worn path of distant memories.

  He had struck up a friendship with Eric Simms while still at school and that friendship had remained firm for over 30 years. Arthur had been best man at Eric’s marriage to Mary Sumner, a childhood friend of them both. A year after the wedding, Mary had given birth to their only child, a daughter they had named Ellen. Arthur could still remember the awe he had experienced the first time he had held the tiny bundle of humanity, and the overwhelming feeling of love that had been generated inside his body and heart towards the child cradled safely in his arms. Over the years he had watched Ellen grow from a helpless infant into a lovely, warm-hearted young girl, not realising she had taken over his life. He had only existed from one Sunday to the next. A lonely man, with no other friends or family, his entire world became centred on that one day; the day he visited his friends and their captivating daughter.

  Then there had come that dreadful night, 15 months ago, when a fire had swept through the terraced house he had come to look on as his second home, killing his dear friends, and leaving their only child an orphan.

  Ellen would have suffered the same fate had she not been staying the night at a friend’s house. Naturally distraught, Ellen had turned to Arthur for comfort. She had been 16 at the time of her parents’ untimely death, a very naive and trusting 16. Arthur hadn’t planned what had happened next – it just had.