Lizzie pulled Jim’s hand back as he was reaching out for another chunk. “But the gravy might do her good,” she suggested. “Just a little taste. Stop shovelling it down so fast, Jim. Let Ma have a bit.”
She turned round to her mother’s pile of bedding and pulled back the ragged cover.
“Ma,” she whispered. “Try a bit. It’s lovely!”
She held a piece of gravy-soaked piecrust to her lips, but her mother shook her head and turned over, huddling her rug round her.
“I’ll have it!” said Jim, but Lizzie put it on the corner of her mother’s bed-rags.
“She might feel like it later,” she said. “The smell might tempt her.”
“I told you,” said Emily. “She don’t want food no more. That’s what she said.”
Jim paused for a moment in his eating, his hand resting over his portion of pie in case his sisters snatched it away from him. “What’s the matter with Ma?” he asked.
“Nothing’s the matter,” said Emily. She chucked a log on the fire, watching how the flames curled themselves round it.
“She’s tired, is all,” Lizzie prompted her. “She just wants to sleep, don’t she?”
“But she’s been asleep all day,” Jim said. “And yesterday. And the day before.”
“Just eat your pie,” said Emily. “You heard what she said. There’s no more shillings in that purse, so don’t expect no more pies after this one.”
“She’ll get better soon,” Lizzie said. “And then she’ll be able to go back to work. There’s lots of jobs for cooks. We’ll soon be out of this place. That’s what she told me, Jim.”
“Will we go back to our cottage?” Jim asked.
Lizzie shook her head. “You know we can’t go there, Jim. We had to move out when Father died.”
“Eat your pie,” said Emily. “She wants us to enjoy it.”
But the pie had grown cold before the children finished it. They pulled their rag-pile close to the hearth and curled up together, Jim between Emily and Lizzie. In all the rooms of the house they could hear people muttering and yawning and scratching. Outside in the street dogs were howling, and carriage wheels trundled on the slushy roads.
Jim lay awake. He could hear how his mother’s breath rattled in her throat, and he knew by the way she tossed and turned that she wasn’t asleep. He could tell by the way his sisters lay taut and still each side of him that they were awake too, listening through the night to its noises, longing for day to come.
They must have slept in the end. The next thing Jim heard was a stamping of heavy feet on the stairs and the rapping of a cane on the floor outside their room.
“The Stick Man!” whispered Emily.
Before the children could sit up the door was flung open and in strode the owner of the house, stamping snow off his boots. He swung off his cape, scattering snowflakes round the room, and as he shook it into the hearth the white embers spat.
“I did knock,” Mr Spink barked. “But when lie-abeds don’t answer then lie-abeds must be got up.”
Emily and Lizzie scrambled to their feet at once. Jim would have crawled under the covers, but his sisters hauled him up between them. The children stood in a limp row in front of their mother.
Mr Spink pushed the damp, yellowy strings of his hair behind his ears and peered over their heads at her. His breath came in little wheezing gasps.
“Is she dead?”
“No, sir, she ain’t dead,” said Emily, fright catching at her throat.
“Sick, then?”
“No, sir, she ain’t sick, neither,” Emily said.
Jim looked at her in surprise. It seemed to him that his mother was very sick, and had been for days.
“Then if she ain’t dead nor sick what’s she doing down there? Lying under the covers like a grand lady with nothing to do! Hiding is she? Counting all her money?” Mr Spink pushed the children out of the way and lifted up the rag-pile with his cane.
The children’s mother had her eyes closed, though the lids fluttered slightly. In the daylight Jim could see how pale she was. He felt for Lizzie’s hand.
“Leave her, sir. She’s tired out, she’s been working that hard,” Emily said. “She’ll be off out to work again soon.”
Jim could tell by the way her voice shook how afraid she was, and how brave she was to talk back to Mr Spink like that.
“Well, if she’s been working, she can pay her rent, and we’ll all be happy. Up you get, woman!” With the silver tip of his stick he lifted the rags clean away from her.
Lizzie knelt down and helped her mother to sit up.
“Where’s your money, Mrs Jarvis?” Mr Spink thrust his cane under his arm and stood with his hands in his pockets, jingling the loose coins there like little bells, as if they made sweet music to his ears. He saw the purse bag on the floor and peered down at it. He leaned down towards Jim, who backed away from his wheezy breath.
“I’m an old man, and I don’t bend. Pick up that purse for me, sonny.”
Jim bent down and picked it up. He held it out at arm’s length for Mr Spink to take, but the man rolled his eyes at him.
“Is it empty, sonny? Empty?” He said, as if he couldn’t believe it. He saw the pie cloth in the hearth, with the crumbs of pastry that the children had left, and the stain of gravy on it. He started back as if the sight of it amazed him and glared round at them all.
“Did you eat pie last night?”
The girls were silent.
“Did you, sonny?”
“Yes,” Jim whispered.
“Was it a lovely meat pie, all hot and full of gravy?”
“I don’t know.” Jim’s throat was as tight as if he still had a piece of pastry stuck there, refusing to be swallowed. He looked at Emily, who had her lips set in a firm line, and at Lizzie, who was sitting now with her head bent so her hair dangled across her face, hiding it. He looked at his mother, white and quiet.
“I bought it,” he burst out. “It was Ma’s last shilling, but I bought the pie.”
He heard Emily give out a little sigh beside
