Free Orphan of Angel Street by Annie Murray Page B

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    Mabel’s fury had been building up all that Sunday, and by the evening she was an unexploded bomb.
    Mercy knew she was only biding her time, waiting for an excuse. She knew the signs: the silence, Mabel’s clenching of her jaw, the way she averted her eyes from both of them.
    Susan was at the table (the wheelchair was to be stowed in the brewhouse at night – Mabel said she wouldn’t have it in the house). Mercy was moving round her laying the tin plates and the few eating implements they had, and Mabel was at the range with her back to them, stirring a pot. The room was lit only by the last of the summer evening light.
    ‘What’s to eat then?’ Susan asked cautiously.
    ‘Wait and see,’ Mabel snapped. She looked a dreadful mess from lying round on her bed half the afternoon, hair tumbling everywhere, and she knew it.
    Mercy stepped round her, eyes downcast, went to put a fork on the table and dropped it with a tinny clatter on the bricks.
    Mabel jumped and struck out savagely with her spare arm, knocking Mercy across the room so she crashed into the wall.
    ‘Yer clumsy little bitch!’ Mabel roared. ‘You’re useless, that’s what you are. Dropping things all the time and breaking them!’ It was true. Mercy lived in such a state of nerves around Mabel that it made her clumsy and there were frequent breakages. ‘What do we want forks for any’ow, when we’re ’aving broth? No bloody brains in yer ’ead, that’s your trouble!’
    Mercy slid down the wall, curling into a ball, head and arms pulled in tight to her knees to protect herself, a position she’d had to take up so many times in her life, it came now by instinct.
    Mabel thought she would burst from rage. She grabbed one of Mercy’s arms and dragged her with no difficulty to her feet, fingers pressing viciously into her flesh.
    ‘Look at me!’
    The child raised her eyes, those glittering grey eyes, which even in her fear were stony with disgust at the woman in front of her and Mabel almost flinched. She squeezed her fingers as tight as claws into the tops of Mercy’s arms.
    ‘Mom, don’t, please . . .’ Susan begged.
    ‘You’re nothing,’ Mabel went on. ‘Filth from the gutter, that’s what you are. That’s what your own mother thought of you, you know that, don’t yer? She didn’t want you so she just threw you away. Dumped you on the steps of Hanley’s. That’s ’ow much she thought of yer.’
    Mercy stared at her, stunned. She’d never, never heard this before. As far as she’d understood she’d been spawned in some mysterious way by the Birmingham streets and taken in. In a high voice she said, ‘But I never ’ad a mother. I was an orphan.’
    Mabel laughed nastily. ‘’Ark at ’er! “I was an orphan!” Didn’t they tell you nothing in that place? We all ’ave a mother, deary – ain’t no way of getting into the world without one. But some babbies is wanted and some ain’t and you was one of the ones that ain’t. Least I never gave none of mine away like your mom did.’
    Seeing the genuine shock in Mercy’s eyes she loosed her arm and began slapping her face until she’d made her cry.
    ‘Don’t, Mom!’ Susan was sobbing. ‘Stop it, you’re hurting ’er!’
    Mabel pushed Mercy away in disgust. ‘Get out of ’ere. Yer can go up to bed without no tea. I’ve had enough of yer for one day.’

    Later Mabel carried Susan upstairs and plonked her on the bed saying, ‘If you need any ’elp you can ask ’er Majesty there.’
    Mercy lay with her eyes closed, hugging her badly bruised arms tight to herself. When Mabel had gone she felt Susan’s hand tapping her shoulder.
    ‘Brought you this – look.’
    From out of her clothes she drew a chunk of bread and held it in front of Mercy’s face. ‘Don’t you want it?’
    There was a pause, then Mercy shook her head.
    ‘I wish I could stop her treating you so bad.’ Susan leant over her, talking close to her ear.
    Mercy shrugged as if to say, who