Orphan of Angel Street by Annie Murray Read Free Book Online Page A

Thought did . . .’ They were walking very fast, jostling passers-by, turning into a wide street with enormous buildings, their walls blackened and the tops of them only hazily visible up there in a soup of damp, gritty air.
    ‘Where then . . .?’
    ‘You’ll see. Now shut yer trap for a bit, will yer? We gotta get ’ome quick.’ She spoke with such peculiar venom that Mercy decided to do as she was told.
    As they turned left out of that street with its grand shop fronts, Mercy saw a sign high in the wall, CORPORATION STREET , and then they were in another road with more huge windows full of clothes, shoes, china and glassware and cloth, the like or quantity of which she had never seen. The street was bustling with people and she gawped at some of the more smartly-dressed ladies with their beautifully fitted gowns in soft colours, after all the grey and black at the Joseph Hanley Home.
    Even though she was full of the thrill of being out in all these new places, Mercy began to feel despondent. Her throat was raw in the cold air and she longed to sit down somewhere warm. Mrs Gaskin was walking faster and faster, cursing people who got in her way.
    ‘Come on, yer wretched girl,’ she nagged Mercy. ‘We gotta get back!’
    When they reached the Bull Ring, for a time Mercy forgot she had a sore throat. She forgot her tingling nose and her shivers and this horrible, bad-tempered woman she was with. How exciting it was! From where they came into it, walking down the slope of Spiceal Street, Mercy could see a church at the far end with a tall spire and a big clock with gold numbers marking the face. In between snaked the row of market stalls, most protected by sagging tarpaulins, and a sea of hats: bonnets with little ribbons or posies, cloth caps and Homburgs, even the odd boater here and there.
    Everywhere there was movement and a great outcry of sound, with the traders trying to outdo each other shouting out the prices of their fruit and veg.
    There were others selling crocks, trinkets and bags and flowers and Mercy’s feet were dragging as she stopped to gape. The light was beginning to die and some of the traders were lighting flares at the side of their stalls which burned with a bluish-yellow flame, giving the place a cosy air.
    ‘Keep with me,’ Mabel shouted at her over the racket and seized her arm. ‘If I lose yer ’ere I’ll never find yer again.’
    There were so many smells that were new to Mercy: smoke from cigarettes, and a thick mouthful of it made her cough. But then there came the sweet smell of potatoes baking in a big green and gold handcart which made her mouth water, and other smells, discarded cabbage leaves, crushed onions, bruised apples and oranges left to rot in the street. But not for long. Mercy watched as three ragged children, their clothes caked in filth, slunk round the stalls, darting down now and then to grab some piece of refuse even though the stallholders tried shooing them away.
    ‘Can’t we just stay a bit longer?’ Mercy begged as Mabel dragged her past a man selling wire toys and a knife-grinder showering sparks.
    ‘No,’ Mabel snapped. A woman approached them and tried to push a posy of lavender through Mabel’s buttonhole.
    ‘Bugger off, will yer!’ She slapped the woman’s hand away. They hurried past a big statue behind some railings, and the church. The clock made it well after five.
    Soon after they were hurrying up a long, very steep road called Bradford Street. It was dark and the buildings felt high and close together. From every side came the most amazing din Mercy had ever heard. Banging and clanking sounds met them not only from the openings of buildings on the street but from under the ground through the gratings. In some places jets of steam unfurled through holes from down there and drifted raggedly into the air. The hammering and rattling, the sudden scream of metal and tearing crashes of noise met them all the way along.
    ‘What’s that?’ Mercy