Bound to Sarah Page 5

  Amid his troubled home life Pat was developing into quite a character, with a cheeky grin and big blue eyes that could touch the coldest heart. His clothes were what his mother had acquired from the local charity: tatty shirt and jumper, half-mast trousers and a thin jacket, and looked like they had passed through charity on a number of occasions before reaching Pat. He never went anywhere without his cap. Too big, it flopped down over his ears, but when he wore it, it gave him an air of confidence. Some of the locals would laugh at him, in a sympathetic sort of way, but others resented his cheeky mischievous ways, plus the fact that he was a Roche; the name itself didn’t stand him in good stead.

  Pat was always out in search of fun and friends, despite his reputation as a cellar dweller, which he hated. With the coming of summer, he felt a sense of adventure, and decided to go out with his brothers one day to see what they got up to. But they had different ideas; they had their plans set out for the day and could not afford to have a tag along like Pat. Having left the courtyard they roamed out into the street and headed for the dock road. Pat decided to follow them anyway, but was soon noticed by Danny.

  ‘Where d’ye fink you’re goin’, twerp?’

  ‘I’s comin’ wif ye.’

  ‘No ye not, now ger off ‘ome. Ye too little.’

  ‘No I ain’t. I wanna come.’

  ‘Ye follows us any furver, an’ I’ll turn round an’ give ye a clip round the ear. Now clear off!’

  Pat’s brothers didn’t have any time for him and with the threat of a smack from one of them, he backed away. Still anxious for something different, he decided to venture a little further up the street, to see what he could find. He started strolling up Crosbie Street. The sky was blue and not a cloud in sight when his bare calloused feet tread up the dusty street towards a group of children who had captured his interest. As he drew closer he noticed some familiar faces in the crowd, though he had never spoken to any of them before, or rather they had never spoken to him. He was eager to join in the fun but for now he just leaned against the wall of a house and watched for a while.

  They looked like they were having a great time and he wanted to go over and join in their games, but he was a little wary of them. His confident front had been developed in order to protect his feelings, because he was well aware of what other people thought of him and his family, even at the tender age of five. The more he stood watching the fun, the more he longed to join in. The excitement of watching the children running around playing tick and catch was so captivating that he soon forgot his troubles. After a while he could resist no longer and plucked up the courage to go over to them.

  ‘Can I play wiv’ ye then?’ he asked, fidgeting from one foot to the other. Some of the children stopped playing to study the intruder.

  ‘No ye can’t!’ shouted a chubby little girl, slightly older than Pat, as she come bounding over to him. Audrey Fletcher! The sight of her filled him with dread. He hadn’t even noticed she was playing amongst them. He knew her only too well, as she lived not far from him. She was a torment, with a big mouth and he had run into her a few times already.

  ‘You’re one of them cellar dwellers, an’ we don’ play wi’ cellar dwellers. So go back to the ‘ole ye crawled out of,’ she yelled, as the other children started to gather round.

  Stunned by her sharp tongue, the weight of shame and embarrassment bore down on Pat. His cheeks flushed and began to burn and he stood there frozen to the spot. He had felt confident that he would be accepted and the rejection had come as a great shock. The other children started to laugh at him, sparking a renewed attack of taunts.

  ‘Go on, go away wi’ ye!’ said one lad.

  ‘Ye a Roche, ain’t ye, lad?’ came another. Pat looked at him and nodded hesitantly.

  ‘Well, we don’ play with no Roche’s, ‘specially not cockroaches like you.’

  Pat slowly backed away, crushed by the cruel jibes, only to be shoved to the ground by a bigger boy, who told him to ‘Clear off somewhere else.’ He picked himself up off the ground, tears welling up in his eyes, but he was not going to cry, not for anyone. He turned and ran as fast as his legs could carry him back down the street.

  Sarah Leatherbarrow was among the group and had not said anything, having been taught to be more respectful to those less fortunate than herself. Her mother had come out to check on her and had witnessed the whole thing. When Pat ran off she shouted Sarah into the house. She was not allowed out very often, as her mother did not like her mixing with the local children, who could be very cruel to one another, and she didn’t want her associating with that kind of bullying behaviour.

  Sarah’s home was at the top end of Crosbie Street, near the break of Simpson Street. With three rooms on top of one another, Sarah shared the top room with her older brother Ben, who was a very sickly child. He could never really play out in the street, as the dusty summer air always gave him a chesty cough and it was much the same with the damp and cold of winter. He was suffering from consumption and was often laid up in bed for a few days at a time. Sarah’s parents had already faced up to the fact that Ben was unlikely to survive the forthcoming winter.

  The Leatherbarrows were one of the better off families around the area. Sarah was one of the few children who had shoes, even though they were second hand, and she could only wear them on Sundays for church, her clothes always looked quite clean. Sarah’s mother prided herself on her family looking respectable, ‘Cleanliness is close to godliness’ she would often say. The reason why they had that little bit extra, was probably because they only had two children to care for, and Sarah’s father worked hard to see his family right. He was a good family man, preferring to go home to his wife and children rather than to the pub after work, like plenty of others in the area.

  After her mother had called her into the house, Sarah questioned her about the poor boy who wanted to play with them. ‘D’you know who he is, Mam?’

  ‘I think he’s one of the Roche boys, from Huyton Court.’

  ‘Audrey called him ‘Pat’. She doesn’t like him very much, ‘cos he’s too poor.’

  ‘Yes, well, Audrey should have more respect, whether he’s poor or not.’

  She seemed to have an underlying sympathy for the Roche family, apart from Jack Roche, that is, whose reputation was well known; the only reason he and his family were in the cellar in Huyton Court was because of his love of drink. The family had started out in a three-room house, just like the Leatherbarrows, but in Elm Court, when they first arrived from Ireland, but slowly and surely they were reduced to the single room cellar, because Jack preferred to be in the ‘Bunch of Grapes’ rather than trying to build a life for his family. After speaking to her mother, Sarah felt intrigued by Pat. She had a sense of guilt at the way he had been treated and wanted to see him to say sorry. But Pat was nowhere to be found along the top end of Crosbie Street. He had shied away for obvious reasons and Sarah soon seemed to forget about him.

  It was about a week later, as she was walking down Crosbie Street with her mother, when she spotted him again, sitting on the ground leaning against a wall throwing stones. He looked lonely, bored and miserable. Sarah ran up to him ahead of her mother and stood there for a moment awaiting a reaction, but Pat didn’t look any farther up than her legs and carried on throwing his stones. Sarah then gave a rather shy ‘hello’. Pat lifted his head up to the unfamiliar voice, and immediately recognised one of his tormentors, but still managed to return a rather sullen and reluctant hello. She saw at once the bruising on his face, his right eye purple and raw from his father’s hand the night before.

  ‘What happened to your eye?’ she asked, with concern.

  Pat had forgotten about it and dropped his head again in order to hide the shameful mark, pulling down his oversized cap to cover it. ‘Nothin’ I just fell over,’ he answered sheepishly.

  Sarah’s mother had caught up by now and had noticed Pat’s eye and quickly guessed that it had been inflicted by his father, Jack.


  ‘You should watch yourself, young ‘un, and stay out of your father’s way,’ she said, as they passed, her tone affectionate and soothing to the poor lad. He looked up at Mrs Leatherbarrow. How did she know what had happened? Sarah looked round as they turned the street corner and gave Pat a wave, a gesture he shyly returned. Why had she stopped and talked to a poor wretch like himself? It felt like the warm sun had kissed his cheeks and then a cold breeze had blown it away in an instant before he had the chance to appreciate its true warmth.

  Winter came in that year of 1802, and with it, hiding beneath the chilled winds, came the fever. The epidemic wreaked havoc in the city, resulting in many fatalities. One of those fatalities was little Ben Leatherbarrow. The family mourned his loss for months and were hardly seen by their neighbours. Though they had come to expect it, it did nothing to ease the agony of their loss, especially for Mrs Leatherbarrow, who longed to have more children, but had great difficulty conceiving. Now all that was left of her little brood was Sarah, who missed her older brother’s presence around the house. She used to sit at his bedside talking to him for hours after he became ill. They had learned to read together; one of the few activities he could manage without bringing on a painful bout of coughing. Sarah’s mother was a good reader unlike many people of their own class and she was keen to teach Sarah and Ben.

  Mr Leatherbarrow did not share their interest in reading, and, anyway, he was too tired to learn after a long day at the dock. Books were very hard to come by, so the bible was the main teaching tool. They were also quite a religious family, attending St Michael’s Church every Sunday, but it didn’t feel the same now that Ben was gone. Even when Christmas came their emptiness could not be filled, no matter how much they turned to God for solace.

  That winter was a harsh one and Pat had a hard time struggling through. His mother had been taken ill, and so he and his brothers were taking her beatings instead. Their freezing decrepit cellar room was perpetually flooded; its stone floor hard to keep dry, as the rain and slush kept running down the steps and under the door, though there were always a few ringing wet empty sacks under the door to soak up the water and keep out the draughts. On one side of the mantelpiece was a mound of melted candle wax, its wick burnt down to nothing, which had solidified and frozen into a long wax icicle. Next to it stood a fresh one, stuck into the neck of a bottle that would intermittently flicker with the draught, its tiny flame dancing like a devil, while Jack behaved like one on his frequent evenings of intoxication. The few candles they had only threw dim light on to the cracked grey plaster of the mould-encrusted walls.

  Pat and his two brothers would be huddled in one corner of the room on a pile of straw, whilst Jack and his wife were in another, with nothing more than a thin piece of ragged cloth separating them at night. The fireplace would provide welcome heat when they could afford the fuel or find stuff to burn and the two older brothers were expected to go out and earn whatever they could and bring whatever they could back for the fire. The idea of earning an honest crust was alien to them and petty crimes, such as stealing and pick pocketing were the easy options. Pat would be expected to follow in their footsteps as he got older, but a change of events would prevent him from fully embracing his expected fate.

  As the warmer months of 1803 came along and the days grew longer, the more sociable members of the community and their children emerged from their dingy hovels once again. Hibernation was over and out came Pat, feeling that he had been given a new lease of life, once again determined not to be put down by his fellow slum dwellers. And out came Sarah, feeling quite lonely. Not having anyone to play with in the house anymore, meant she was often bored with her own company. After a few brief encounters over the weeks an unlikely friendship slowly began to develop between them and Pat felt encouraged by Sarah. He started coming up the street on a more regular basis and in her company he felt the burden of his family’s reputation float away.

  Sarah’s other friends would still make fun of him at any given opportunity, but she still chose to talk to him and play with him, even though her parents also had their misgivings about her playing with one of the Roche’s. Mrs Leatherbarrow kept a watchful eye on young Pat. She would sit on the front step while they played and witness some of the torment he was receiving at the hands of the other children and she eventually came to realise that he was nothing like the tearaway that people perceived him to be. There was a huge void in her life from the loss of Ben and her emotions began to draw her towards Pat and she was generating a soft spot for him.

  Sarah enjoyed Pat’s company, possibly for similar reasons, and unlike her lost brother, she could play with him in the physical sense. Pat’s speech was immature and his vocabulary limited and it used to make Sarah laugh, because she was quite good at pronouncing her words, having been so well taught by her mother. Pat had been left to his own devices virtually from birth, and he revelled in the new attention he was getting from the Leatherbarrows. Mr Leatherbarrow however was still unsure. He tended to ignore Pat’s presence and didn’t like the idea of him coming into the house.

  Pat would always wait outside on the step without complaint whenever Sarah went in for any reason. Then, as time went on, he was invited to go in one day by Mrs Leatherbarrow. He was in awe of how clean and tidy everything was, and the amount of space they had. Sarah’s mother was almost brought to tears on many occasions, simply because Pat was too afraid to touch anything inside the house. She thought he had a lovely nature, considering his upbringing, and she had her suspicions that it was probably down to his father. She had a notion that he would not allow Pat to move, never mind play. It all seemed to be happening so fast, it started to feel like Pat was never away. Mrs Leatherbarrow felt her heart beginning to heal; though she could never replace Ben, her maternal instincts were no longer dormant.

  Being used to a beating in his own home if he tried to play, Pat was always very well behaved, quite shy and reluctant to join in, almost embarrassed to be there. Yet the more time he spent with the Leatherbarrows the more he was beginning to understand that his own family life was not the way it should be. He also started to feel ashamed of his appearance, because everything around him was so clean and respectable. Sarah always looked spotless and Pat had never had a wash in his life. His mother no longer possessed the will or inclination for pride and self respect that had long been beaten out of her. Sarah’s mother could sense his discomfort and felt a great sympathy for him.

  One scorching afternoon, in the middle of summer, she could stand his misery no longer, and took it upon herself to do something about Pat’s scruffy looks,

  ‘If the Roche’s won’t make the effort to clean him up, I will.’ Taking a bucket out to the pump, she filled it and took it back to the house and gave both Pat and Sarah a good scrub. She took Pat’s clothes and washed them too, and he was given some of Ben’s clothes to wear. Seeing her son’s clothes on Pat tugged hard at her heart strings though she concealed it well. Pat loved every minute of it and didn’t seem too embarrassed about being naked. He stood admiring himself in Ben’s clothes, while Sarah and her mother laughed at his sweet innocence.

  ‘I’s as shiny as a new button, isn’t I?’ he said with delight.

  ‘As shiny as a star, Pat,’ laughed Mrs Leatherbarrow. Behind all the dirt and ragged clothes, there was a lovely little boy, with big bright blue eyes, a button nose and skin as clear as day.

  ‘’Specs ye fancies me now, doesn’t ye, Sarah?’ he said, with a cheeky grin, ‘Thems down the street’ll not call me names if they sees me like this.’ He turned to Mrs Leatherbarrow and continued his little speech, with his chest inflated rubbing his hands up and down his ribcage, ‘I’s very ‘bliged to ye, Mrs Lellerbarrer, makin’ me nice an’ all.’ Sarah’s mother was so amused by his antics of new- found respectability that she had to cover her face for fear of embarrassing him.

  After a close inspection of Pat’s own clothes, she realised that they were too tattered and torn to be worn again, and s
o decided he could keep the clothes he had on, but he didn’t want to part with his cap, so that was salvaged for him. When Mr Leatherbarrow walked through the door after a hard day’s work, he was none too pleased, but just gave his wife a glare of discontent without comment.

  Evening came and Pat was reluctant to go home, he had had such a good day and he wanted to stay with Sarah and her parents. He had never felt so happy. But the time came for him to drag his bare heels back to that detestable cellar in Huyton Court. On his way there he started to worry about what his father would say about his new look, but he knew his mother would be pleased. As he made his way down the dark dismal steps to the cellar home, he was met by his scowling father at the door. He had come home early, which was unusual. He had still been drinking, but had run out of money. Behind his father Pat noticed his mother picking herself up off the floor, holding her mouth. Having found no money anywhere, she carried the marks of Jack’s frustration. Jack then grabbed Pat by the collar and lifted him off the stone floor, eyeing his new attire.

  ‘What’s all this then?’ he asked, with a scowl of disapproval, as Pat dangled in the air in silence.

  ‘Where did they come from, boy?’ he snarled at his now terrified son.