Valerie Wood - The Long Walk Home

Table of Contents

Valerie Wood was born in Yorkshire and now lives in Beverley. She is the author of The Hungry Tide , was the winner of the Catherine Cookson Prize for Fiction, and twelve other novels, all available from Corgi Books.
Find out more about Valerie Wood's novels by visiting her website on www.valeriewood.co.uk
www.rbooks.co.uk

Also by Valerie Wood
THE HUNGRY TIDE
ANNIE
CHILDREN OF THE TIDE
THE ROMANY GIRL
EMILY
GOING HOME
ROSA'S ISLAND
THE DOORSTEP GIRLS
FAR FROM HOME
THE KITCHEN MAID
THE SONGBIRD
NOBODY'S CHILD
FALLEN ANGELS
and published by Corgi Books

THE LONG
WALK HOME Valerie Wood

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ISBN 9781409080879
Version 1.0
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THE LONG WALK HOME
A CORGI BOOK:
ISBN: 9781409080879
Version 1.0
First published in Great Britain
in 2008 by Bantam Press
a division of Transworld Publishers
Corgi edition published 2009
Copyright Valerie Wood 2008
Valerie Wood has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of
historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.
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2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

For Chris Buckle

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS The author is pleased to acknowledge the useful background information that she has gleaned from the following two books: John Hollingshead, Ragged London in 1861 , Dent, Everyman Classic 1986, and Edward Gillett and Kenneth A. MacMahon, A History of Hull , Hull University Press 1989.

CHAPTER ONE Hull 1852
He ran; swift as the estuary tide, spry as the breeze which rocked the barges and lashed the cracking canvas sails; full gallop like a gypsy horse escaped from its harness and bidding for glorious freedom.
One rabbit slipped from his pocket to be caught up by other grasping hands, but its mate was clutched even tighter, the blood-matted fur sticky on his fingers.
Voices shouting; the butcher waving his arms. 'Stop him! Stop thief!' A crony, 'Go on, Mikey,' giving away his name.
A woman stopped to watch, her fingers clutched to her mouth, a tenseness in her stance urging him on. A man took a tentative step towards him and then thought better of it.
But still he was caught. The tall gentleman in black coat and top hat put out his arms and Mikey ran straight into them. From beneath the man's armpit, which smelt faintly of sweat and spice, he looked at the young girl who had prevented his escape. If it hadn't been for her he would have swerved and got away, but she was standing so close to the man that he could not have done so without knocking her over.
They stared at each other, she from sea-blue eyes, he from dark brown. Mikey gave a sudden grin as he thought of how he might look from her standpoint, with only his face showing beneath the man's armpit; but she tossed her fair head in a haughty gesture, turned up her nose and darted out the tip of her pink tongue.
A constable came rushing up, his baton swinging, followed by the butcher brandishing a cleaver. 'What's all this then?' the officer asked no one in particular but expecting an answer from someone.
Mikey wriggled. 'I'm choking,' he gasped. 'Let me out.'
'I'd say you will choke, my lad.' The gentleman eased his grasp on Mikey's neck. 'One day you'll swing from a rope if you don't mend your ways.'
Mikey saw the girl grow pale and put her hand over her mouth. He shook his head to reassure her. No, he wouldn't.
'Pinched two rabbits from outside my shop, Mr Kendall,' the butcher complained. 'How am I expected to make a living when these young ruffians are forever stealing?'
'Not me, mister.' Mikey shook himself like a young dog when the gentleman released him into the constable's firm grip. 'I've never pinched owt from you afore.'
'Haven't been caught, more like,' the butcher retaliated. 'I've seen you about looking for mischief.'
'Well, 'evidence is here.' The constable pointed to the rabbit. 'I'll have to confiscate it,' he told the butcher. 'It's proof of theft.'
The butcher put his hands on his hips, the cleaver glinting dangerously. 'That'll be 'last I'll see of it, then. Some copper'll have a nice rabbit pie. I might as well give it to 'lad!'
The gentleman broke in. 'He has to be taught a lesson.' He wagged a finger at Mikey.
'He must learn that he can't get away with such misdemeanours. Society would break down if we allowed it.'
The girl pressed her lips together and from wide blue eyes stared anxiously at Mikey, but said nothing.
The butcher turned away. 'Tek it then, and him as well.' He glared at Mikey. 'And if I should see you within a mile o' my shop' he waved the cleaver 'you'll be sorry.'
'I am sorry!' Mikey said hastily. 'It's just that my ma'
'Come on!' The constable reached into his pocket and brought out a pair of handcuffs. 'No excuses. We've heard 'em all before. Your ma's dying, your da's done a runner and you've nowt to eat in 'house!'
I don't think she's dying; at least I hope not. But she is poorly, Mikey thought, glancing over his shoulder at the girl as he was led away. She too turned her head as the man put his hand on her shoulder and ushered her across the road. She looked frightened, he thought, and winked at her to reassure her.
His da! No, he hadn't done a runner. He'd gone to sea and the ship never came back. Lost somewhere in the fishing grounds in search of cod. That had been nearly four years ago, when Mikey was ten, and his mother had struggled ever since to work and feed her family. Mikey was the eldest of her four children; after him came his brothers Ben and Tom, and his sister Rose. He was old enough to work if only he could get a job. But not at sea. His mother refused to let him go. 'I've lost one man,' she'd told Mikey. 'I'm not going to lose another.'
'You'll spend 'night here,' the charge clerk sitting on a tall stool in the Blanket Row police station told him. 'Then in 'morning you'll be up before 'bench.'
'My ma'll worry about me,' Mikey said. 'She's not well. She'll expect me home.'
The clerk shook his head. 'You should've thought of that afore. Name?'
'Quinn. Mikey.'
'Michael Quinn.' The clerk began to write, his pen scratching in the ledger.