She looked at the chicken coop in one corner of the yard, the squalid outhouse in the other, and shivered. She could hear Flora coughing in the kitchen. She needed to do something about that, she thought wearily.
Ma shifted and stroked Essie’s cheek. ‘You’re almost grown now. Same age as me when I had Freddie. You’ll be wantin’ to find a good husband.’
Essie started to protest: ‘Ma!’
How could she leave home when her mother couldn’t even stand up? Who would care for the girls? No, she’d stay, and she’d work her fingers to the bone if that’s what it took to ensure the girls would grow up to have a better life than this.
She thought of the women in white, marching by the Monument. She imagined Gertie among them, dreaming, planning …
Her mother grabbed Essie’s chin with surprising force. ‘I’ll tell you though, Miss Esther Kirby, there’ll be no trying before they buy for you. You hear me? You’ll not bring shame upon your father’s name. A lass with your pretty face and fine figure—’
‘Ma!’ Essie flinched. It was impossible to see how the Murphy name could be sullied any further. Everyone knew Clementine Murphy was a drunk. Even the priest, Father McGuire, had suggested that he make home visits on a Sunday afternoon rather than have Clementine bring the family to communion. The last time they went to church, Essie’s mother had tipped the entire contents of the communion cup down her gullet as she kneeled, and the shocked priest had had to wrestle the silverware from her grip.
‘I’ll throw you out, Esther Kirby. The lot o’ you will be in the workhouse as quick as I can blink. If you or any of my girls—’
Essie was saved from the usual tirade by the appearance of Mrs Yarwood with Gertie.
‘Well, Gertie. You put the kettle on and then take the little ones to your room. There’s a girl. Essie, let’s get your mother up.’
Mrs Yarwood smoothed her skirts and winked at Essie. Her neighbour had no children of her own, yet regularly swept in and took command of their household like she’d been doing it all her life.
‘Clemmie, can you stand? Oh, you’ve hurt your knee? Righto, take my arm. Essie, you grab the other arm. Now, let’s see if we can get you standing.’
The two women lifted Essie’s mother to her feet and they helped her limp into the kitchen and sat her on a chair.
Mrs Yarwood started to unbutton Ma’s dress, while Ma slapped her hands away. ‘I’m fine,’ she mumbled. ‘Just tired.’
‘I know,’ Mrs Yarwood said soothingly, not taking a jot of notice as she peeled the filthy layers of underskirts and tunic from Ma’s skinny body.
Essie ran to and from the tap outside, filling pitchers of water and transferring them to the round zinc tub. When the kettle had boiled, she added the hot water and then helped Mrs Yarwood lift her naked mother into the bath.
Essie began to sponge her mother, just like she did the twins. As Essie washed the remaining chicken shit from her cheeks, her ma nuzzled into Essie’s hands like a small child. But when Essie looked her ma in the face, there was no hiding the bloodshot eyes and purple rings. Essie would have given anything to wash away her mother’s sorrow and shame.
Meanwhile, Mrs Yarwood unbraided Clementine’s hair and massaged it with a few drops of sarsaparilla.
When they were done, Mrs Yarwood held the dozy Clementine while Essie dried her and slipped a crisp white calico nightie over her head.
‘Let’s get you settled into bed then, Clementine.’
They walked upstairs with Essie’s mother supported between them. Ma’s brass bed took up the entire room—the only other furniture was Pa’s desk, which stood like a shrine in the far corner. It was all they had left of him. When they’d had to move to the Yarwoods’ garden flat four years ago they had sold everything except the bed and his desk.
Mrs Yarwood helped Essie finish drying Ma’s hair and wind it into a side braid with rags.
‘There, there. You’ll feel better in the morning.’
Essie studied the floral wallpaper and felt her chest tighten.
Things would be just the same in the morning …
Her mother went straight to sleep, her cheeks rosy, smelling of sarsaparilla, between white pillows and sheets.
Mrs Yarwood turned and squeezed Essie’s arm. ‘You’re doing well, Essie. Your linen is as white as snow, there’s not a scrap of grease in the kitchen. You wash and scrape this place and all that’s in it every night. Clementine …’ She stalled. Then, after a glance at Essie’s red raw hands, she pursed her lips. ‘You’ll be coming over for supper at ours tonight.’
‘But—’
Mrs Yarwood raised her hand. ‘No arguments, now. I have such a big pot of supper cooking, it would take Mr Yarwood and me weeks to eat it. And he does like different dishes … So you see? You’d be doing us both quite the favour.’
Essie started to cry. Mrs Yarwood was so kind, and Essie was just so very tired. She wanted to crawl into bed with her mother and sleep. But she thought of the girls and their skinny legs …
‘Thank you. I’ll bathe the girls, and we’ll be over.’
‘That’s more like it.’ Mrs Yarwood drew Essie into a hug and rubbed her back. ‘See you in an hour.’
Chapter 12
Essie knocked at the door while the girls stood behind her in fresh dresses with pink cheeks.
Mrs Yarwood flung open the door and gathered them all into a big hug. Flora started to cough and their host stepped back and studied the girl, quickly pressing the back of her hand to the child’s forehead. Turning, she checked Maggie’s forehead too before stepping back to let them in.
‘Ladies, I hope you brought your usual appetites. Mr Yarwood has already had his supper.’ She waved them inside and down the hall before shutting the front door.
The smell of roast beef wafted down the hallway and they eagerly followed the scent.
As they walked past the front parlour, Essie spotted Mr Yarwood sitting in his favourite leather chair, smoking a cigar and reading The Times.
Mr Yarwood quickly lowered his paper and nodded at Essie and her sisters and gave them a warm smile as they passed.
‘Hello, Miss Murphy. Hello, young ladies.’
‘Good evening, Mr Yarwood,’ Essie replied as she ushered the girls down the hall and into Mrs Yarwood’s bright kitchen with its buttercup walls and floral curtains. Instead of the Murphy’s dirt floor, the Yarwoods had gleaming floorboards polished with linseed oil.
They sat at a sweet round oak table, already set with soup spoons and blue linen napkins. Essie unfolded her napkin and gestured at the girls to do the same. Maggie flicked her napkin with a flourish and giggled as she laid it across her lap, spine straight, as if she were dining at the Ritz.
Mrs Yarwood busied herself ladling soup from a big tureen into blue bowls.
Flora leaned over to smell the soup, and Maggie shot Mrs Yarwood a quizzical look, not daring to speak.
‘Lentil with a few caraway seeds. I thought I’d make up a bit of soup using the cider stock I had left over from the ham,’ Mrs Yarwood said, in answer to their quizzical looks.
‘Well, it sounds delicious,’ said Essie, lifting her spoon and nodding at the girls to do the same.