Ragamuffin Angel by Rita Bradshaw Page A

you’re not old enough. Now you know that.’  
    ‘But lots of ’em do it, you know they do, Father.’  
    ‘That does not make it right.’  
    ‘Oh, Father.’  
    When her voice broke and she lowered her head her face was not clearly discernible but he knew she was fighting back the tears, and after a long pause, during which he drew his lower lip into his mouth and shut his eyes for a few moments, Father Hedley said, ‘What do you want me to do, Connie?’  
    ‘Just . . . just to tell me if you hear of anythin’ goin’, Father, an’ . . . an’ maybe tell them you know me?’  
    ‘You want me to recommend you for employment when you should be attending school?’  
    Put like that it sounded awful. Connie rubbed her nose and fiddled with one of her plaits, but then she raised her eyes to his and answered simply, ‘Aye, yes. I do, Father.’  
    He should have known better than to .ask. Where her family was concerned there was nothing she would not do or say. And then he was further reminded of this when she prompted urgently, with scarcely a blush, ‘Will you? Will you, Father?’  
    The righteous disapproval of Father McGuigan was like a sword probing his conscience but he ignored it for the moment. ‘What sort of thing did you have in mind?’  
    ‘Anythin’, Father, I don’t mind. I’m as strong as a horse.’  
    They looked at each other, the old priest and the slim young girl, and the thought flashed through his mind that if half the men and women he knew had this sort of loyalty and love his life would be a lot more tranquil. And then he nodded slowly, and, her hand slipping into his, they continued their walk to the road.  
     
    Sadie was later than normal as she hurried along the cobbled alleyway which led from the High Street to the quayside. There were numerous small boats moored at the water’s edge and several upturned along the quay, and she could hear the sound of the ‘Keel Row’ being sung with the accompaniment of a fiddle in the Earl of Durham. There was a pair of constables standing outside the Old Custom House – owing to the many nefarious and rough and rowdy characters frequenting the riverside no policeman was so foolish as to walk alone – and so, although she had arranged to meet one of her regulars in that pub, she slipped into the merry din of the Earl of Durham.  
    The song changed to a popular hit of a couple of years before, ‘Bill Bailey won’t you please come home’, as the door closed behind her, and through the murky light, thick with a film of smoke, she saw the normal seething crowd of sailors and dockers interspersed with steelworkers, miners, fishwives and – like herself – dock dollies. She had been indignant when that term had first been applied to her, she remembered now with a bitter twist to her lips. That had been when she could still feel and react. Now she felt nothing, it was as though a paralysis, a slow deadening of her mind and emotions had choked the life inside her leaving just an empty shell. But it was a shell that men were still prepared to pay for and that was all that mattered.  
    And then, as though someone had heard the thought and offered a direct challenge, she saw him. John Stewart. He was standing with a group of men at the bar, and just as he spat down on the sawdust-covered floor his eyes glanced across the room and met her shocked gaze. She saw him stiffen, and then watched his hard black eyes take in her loose hair, the low neckline of her dress which was now exposed after she had dropped her shawl over one arm on entry in to the public house, and the paint and powder she had hastily applied in the alleyway a moment or two before. They were the marks of her trade and he recognised them as such, and slowly, very slowly, a smile slid across his good-looking face.  
    And Sadie knew she could still feel.  
    Should she go? Now? Quickly? The thought was there through the surge of blinding hate that was making her ears