from the turning when without warning three shadowy figures suddenly appeared from the darkness and approached them with arms uplifted in a threatening manner.
‘Give us yer purse!’ one said in a coarse, guttural tone.
‘And yer jools!’ barked another with a jeering laugh.
‘We haven’t got any money or jewellery!’ Bessie cried.
‘We’ve lost everything in the fire – the one you can see glowing in the sky over in the next street!’
The arm she now lifted to point to the conflagration was without warning brutally hit down by one of the three assailants as he tried to make certain that she had nothing hidden on her person. The thieves now began swearing as they discovered that the two females they hoped to rob were without property of any kind.
Harriet stepped forward between Bessie and the man who was threatening her. ‘Don’t you dare hit my maid again!’ she commanded. ‘She was telling you the truth. We have nothing but the clothes we are wearing, and this …’ She took off her wedding ring and handed it to him. ‘Now leave us alone or I shall shout for a constable. We saw one just now walking towards the fire,’ she lied.
It was the last thing Harriet would say before she fell to the ground as a heavy blow thundered into the back of her head. When she regained consciousness, she was lying in the gutter. Blood was beginning to congeal from the wound in the back of her head and was colouring her clothes. A burly constable was trying to lift her to her feet. He blew his whistle for assistance and shook his head, assuming that the bedraggled young woman was one of the many who walked the streets of Liverpool, plying their trade more often than not to sailors. There was no sign of Bessie.
When further help arrived, it was decided Harriet should be taken in an ambulance to hospital, but then, realizing it might be overflowing with casualties from the fire, they began to doubt if there would be room for this woman. Concerned about the amount of blood she was losing, from down her legs as well as from her head, they reached an agreement that, the hospital being too far away as well as over full, the best hope for her survival would be the nearby Convent of the Sacred Heart, which was not ten minutes distant. It was well known that the nuns there take care of anyone in need – even a streetwalker. They were renowned for caring for the poor and destitute, even harlots like this young woman who was without proper clothing and appeared to have no money. Clearly she had been robbed of any she might have had upon her person. Knifings, robberies and drunken fights were commonplace during their night-time shifts patrolling the maze of dark streets bordering the docks. This was undoubtedly one of them.
It was three-and-a-half weeks before Harriet recovered from the coma she had been in. She opened her eyes to see a tall, slim woman in a nun’s habit standing at the foot of her bed, watching her. Beside the bed was another nun, round-faced with kindly forget-me-not blue eyes, who was holding a cup of water to Harriet’s lips.
‘So you were right, Sister Brigitte!’ the first one said. ‘Your patient has finally recovered her senses!’ Her voice was quite harsh, and without knowing why, Harriet felt a stab of fear. Then the one who had been addressed as Sister Brigitte gently wiped her mouth with a white napkin and smiled as she asked, ‘Are you feeling a little better, dear?’
‘My head hurts!’ Harriet whispered. ‘And my stomach!’
‘Not to be wondered at!’ said the tall nun, her mouth tightening. ‘God punishes those who sin as he thinks fit.’
Not sure what she meant, Harriet closed her eyes and drifted back – not into her previous coma, but into a deep sleep. When she woke again, the room was in near darkness, only a single candle giving a glimmer of light from a table by the window. Above it, Harriet saw a framed picture of Jesus on the Cross. Somewhere at the back of her mind she
‘Give us yer purse!’ one said in a coarse, guttural tone.
‘And yer jools!’ barked another with a jeering laugh.
‘We haven’t got any money or jewellery!’ Bessie cried.
‘We’ve lost everything in the fire – the one you can see glowing in the sky over in the next street!’
The arm she now lifted to point to the conflagration was without warning brutally hit down by one of the three assailants as he tried to make certain that she had nothing hidden on her person. The thieves now began swearing as they discovered that the two females they hoped to rob were without property of any kind.
Harriet stepped forward between Bessie and the man who was threatening her. ‘Don’t you dare hit my maid again!’ she commanded. ‘She was telling you the truth. We have nothing but the clothes we are wearing, and this …’ She took off her wedding ring and handed it to him. ‘Now leave us alone or I shall shout for a constable. We saw one just now walking towards the fire,’ she lied.
It was the last thing Harriet would say before she fell to the ground as a heavy blow thundered into the back of her head. When she regained consciousness, she was lying in the gutter. Blood was beginning to congeal from the wound in the back of her head and was colouring her clothes. A burly constable was trying to lift her to her feet. He blew his whistle for assistance and shook his head, assuming that the bedraggled young woman was one of the many who walked the streets of Liverpool, plying their trade more often than not to sailors. There was no sign of Bessie.
When further help arrived, it was decided Harriet should be taken in an ambulance to hospital, but then, realizing it might be overflowing with casualties from the fire, they began to doubt if there would be room for this woman. Concerned about the amount of blood she was losing, from down her legs as well as from her head, they reached an agreement that, the hospital being too far away as well as over full, the best hope for her survival would be the nearby Convent of the Sacred Heart, which was not ten minutes distant. It was well known that the nuns there take care of anyone in need – even a streetwalker. They were renowned for caring for the poor and destitute, even harlots like this young woman who was without proper clothing and appeared to have no money. Clearly she had been robbed of any she might have had upon her person. Knifings, robberies and drunken fights were commonplace during their night-time shifts patrolling the maze of dark streets bordering the docks. This was undoubtedly one of them.
It was three-and-a-half weeks before Harriet recovered from the coma she had been in. She opened her eyes to see a tall, slim woman in a nun’s habit standing at the foot of her bed, watching her. Beside the bed was another nun, round-faced with kindly forget-me-not blue eyes, who was holding a cup of water to Harriet’s lips.
‘So you were right, Sister Brigitte!’ the first one said. ‘Your patient has finally recovered her senses!’ Her voice was quite harsh, and without knowing why, Harriet felt a stab of fear. Then the one who had been addressed as Sister Brigitte gently wiped her mouth with a white napkin and smiled as she asked, ‘Are you feeling a little better, dear?’
‘My head hurts!’ Harriet whispered. ‘And my stomach!’
‘Not to be wondered at!’ said the tall nun, her mouth tightening. ‘God punishes those who sin as he thinks fit.’
Not sure what she meant, Harriet closed her eyes and drifted back – not into her previous coma, but into a deep sleep. When she woke again, the room was in near darkness, only a single candle giving a glimmer of light from a table by the window. Above it, Harriet saw a framed picture of Jesus on the Cross. Somewhere at the back of her mind she
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