From his expression, Mr Godstow did not agree. “We don’t as a rule sponsor the native offspring of our employees. It sets a bad example.”
“So does abandoning the cub to starve. I remind you she is half English and not penniless. She will receive her father’s fee, I trust?”
“Yes, yes,” nodded Mr Godstow.
“See that she does. I will check it has been done. Now, I really must get on. I have two tigers to unload in their new pen.”
“But sir!” Sahira’s one frail prospect of any happiness was disappearing fast. She made a last ditch appeal and grabbed his sleeve. “They’re all I’ve got left!”
He brushed off her fingers. “None of that, child. You can’t make a life with tigers! Go with Mr Godstow. There’s no place for you here.” With a nod to the carter, he signalled for the tigers to be driven inside. The shire horses heaved in their harness and the crate rattled over the drawbridge and into the Tower. As the gates closed on Rama and Sita, she caught a last glimpse of their glittering eyes.
CHAPTER 3
The orphanage was in a poor district of East London, an area Sahira learned was called Whitechapel. Gazing out of the window, she could see nothing white, or even a chapel, among the cramped streets and rundown houses. Alleys were draped with grimy washing like grey creepers flung from cliff to cliff. Dirty-faced children sat listless on doorsteps, like rock lizards waiting for the invisible sun to warm them. The air smelled of coal dust and something much worse. It reminded Sahira of the badlands at the meeting of the rivers Nerbudda and Sher Nadi, a place where only the jackals flourished in the rocky ravines.
Mrs Tailor became more uneasy as the carriage made slow progress through the busy streets, alarmed by the signposts they passed. “Mrs Bingham, the orphanage: it’s not a workhouse, is it?”
Mrs Bingham shook her head, bonnet moving like a pelican’s beak from side to side. “No, but it lies close by that institution. It is a charitable home run on the most modern enlightened lines. Take notice, child: if you don’t behave, the workhouse is where you’ll end up!”
“But I like to work,” Sahira said. Travelling with her parents, she had always had tasks to do for each camp, collecting firewood or tending their donkeys. “I’m not afraid to earn my way.”
“Not in that place, you don’t,” corrected Mrs Tailor. “I’m afraid ‘workhouse’ is not a good name for it because it’s the last stop before the grave for most of the poor who go through its gates.”
Sahira shuddered. The carriage slowed, going past great iron gates in front of blackened brick buildings. People in grey uniforms milled about the yard or hung on to the bars. Workhouse? thought Sahira. It looked like the prison in Calcutta. The smell was terrible: sweat, toil, and hopelessness.
Mrs Tailor saw the direction of Sahira’s gaze. “Yes, that’s the workhouse. Believe me, an orphanage is a far better option.” She pressed the girl’s wrist. “Do try to fit in, Eleanor, for your parents’ sake. They would not want to see you in that hellish place.”
Despondent at being separated from the tigers, forced to break her word to her father that she would look after them, Sahira was finding it hard to care at all what happened to her. She knew, though, she should listen to the advice of her last remaining friend.
“I will try.”
The carriage turned into a road with the interesting name of Duck Street and drew up in front of a five-storey house squeezed in among others like it, much as the three passengers were squashed up on the bench of the cab. The lowest floor was below street level and the topmost set behind a parapet on the roof. Black railings barricaded the front area from the riff-raff on the street, and she spied a tradesmen’s entrance down at basement level. Brown curtains hung limply at the windows. Above the door was written:
Pence’s Orphanage for Pauper Children
Sahira knew that word. “But I’m not a pauper. I have money – not a rajah’s fortune, I know, but some.” Surely it would be enough for her to rent a room somewhere with a family and find employment as a maid or seamstress? Maybe the Company would employ her when she was a little older to teach her languages to those ladies going out to India? As well as English and Persian, Sahira could speak Hindustani and a little Telugu, thanks to her ayahs, or nurses, who had lived in her father’s household in India.
“You have a shilling in your pocket and only a promise of more from Mr Cops,” said Mrs Bingham severely. “And what is he? A menagerie keeper!” She said it as if were the most despised profession on Earth when to Sahira it sounded perfect. “To all accounts and purposes, today you are a beggar depending on other people’s charity and so you should be grateful that some of us have been prepared to go out of our way to accommodate you. You have no idea, do you, of what it costs to live in London?”
Sahira shook her head. “But I’m willing to work for my keep. I can make camp; build a fire; capture animals without harming them.”
“Make camp! Capture animals! Ridiculous! No one will employ someone of your background. You’ve just had that proved to you at the menagerie. Did you not think of either of us when you embarrassed us with your outrageous request to Mr Cops?”
Mrs Bingham was the kind who liked to press on a bruise. Of course, Sahira hadn’t been thinking of them. She had been thinking of what was best for her tigers and her future.
“I don’t understand this place at all,” Sahira appealed to Mrs Tailor but she could see from her expression that the nicer lady was in agreement with her companion.
“That is quite apparent,” continued Mrs Bingham. “Now, Eleanor Clive, listen and learn. Children, especially girls, should act modestly; they should not cause trouble; and they should keep a still tongue in their head. Remember these three things and you will do well enough.”
Impossible. Sahira knew she was not that girl, either in India or in England.
Mrs Bingham got out of the carriage and was joined by Mr Godstow on the pavement from a second cab.
“Let us go ahead and broach this delicate matter with my cousin, Mr Pence,” she said. “Mrs Tailor, will you watch the child?”
They clearly thought Sahira was in danger of fleeing, which was true. She would have run if she had the least idea of where to go. The streets around her looked perilous – black chasms housing the desperate lairs of bandits and beggars.
“I don’t want to live here,” Sahira whispered, looking up at the ugly building. “It’s not a happy place.”
“How can you tell that?” Mrs Tailor asked with forced cheer. “You will make lots of lovely new friends and learn a suitable trade.”
“Do you really think that?” Sahira asked.
Mrs Tailor fell silent. A Christian missionary to Bengal, she had promised Sahira that she would always try to tell her the truth.
After fifteen minutes of what must have been difficult negotiations, Mr Godstow emerged with a broad smile on his shiny face.
“Good news, Mrs Tailor! Mr Pence has agreed to overlook Eleanor’s origins and admit her to the house. We’ve assured him that she barely looks like a native and will behave with English propriety. I trust you will not prove us liars, Miss Clive?” he said sternly.
With a nudge from Mrs Tailor, Sahira murmured a “no, of course not”. It was ridiculous though: there were no more well-mannered people than her mother’s. Compared to them, English people were ill-bred louts.
“Then, please come in. Mrs Tailor?” Mr Godstow helped the lady from the carriage, leaving the girl to make her own way. Sahira jumped down and went to the head of the cab to stroke the grey in thanks.
“Best keep away from Dobs,” called the cab driver from his position high behind the passenger compartment. “He bites.”
The horse snorted.
“Only those that deserve it, I bet,” Sahira murmured. With a last pat, she moved away and followed Mr Godstow inside.
And so, with no other choice, Sahira broke her promise to herself and crossed the threshold of the orphanage.
; “So this is the child?” asked Mr Pence, a tall stick of a man with stooped shoulders. He stood in his study like a heron on a riverbank. Sahira could just imagine him spearing her with his cane held ready in his left hand, her the glittering fish thrashing about for escape.
“That’s right, sir,” said Mr Godstow. “Her father was one of the Company’s most loyal servants.”
“But her mother was a native.”
“A Hindoo princess,” said Mr Godstow quickly.
Sahira’s mother was neither Hindoo nor a princess but she wasn’t going to correct him. If the story helped, then she would let it stand.
“Royal blood, eh? Well, that counts for something, even if it is Indian royal blood.” Mr Pence sniffed. “Well, Miss, what have you got to say for yourself?”
Many inappropriate comments came to mind but Sahira chose one that would allow her a roof for the night. She wasn’t planning to stay long.
“I’m very grateful for your charity, sir,” she said, hoping this choice of words would appeal to her audience. Mother had always said Sahira should be gracious under all circumstances.
“Quite so. You are to be admitted to the girls’ dormitory on a month’s trial. If by then you prove unworthy of your place, you will be passed over to the workhouse to deal with. I hope that provides you with enough incentive to curb your behaviour?”
Mrs Bingham evidently had spread tales about her already.
“Sir.” Sahira bobbed a curtsey. Be gracious: remember you are a daughter of a noble family on both sides.
“Matron will find you a change of clothes. Colourful gowns such as the one you are wearing might do for Sunday best, but they are not permitted for daily use. The heathen elephants must be removed, of course.”
How could elephants be heathen? Sahira wondered.
“I will enter you in our admission book,” continued Mr Pence. “I take it you were christened?”
Sahira’s father had raised her in his faith, her mother in her Islamic traditions, so she was able to nod. “Yes, sir, by the Company chaplain in Madras.”
“Full name?”
“Sahira Eleanor Clive.”
“Sahira? No, that won’t do. I’ll put you down as ‘Eleanor Sarah’.”
“But that’s not my name, sir.”
He thumped the ledger closed. “It is now. Say goodbye to your friends, then follow me.”
Sahira already hated the orphanage. She stared at the three adults who were abandoning her here, leaving her as trapped as a caged tigress. It was hard to find any word of thanks. Rage seethed powerlessly behind bars.
Mrs Tailor patted her cheek awkwardly, soothing some of the anger with her attempt at kindness. “Be brave, Eleanor. I wish things had happened otherwise for you but you’ll soon get used to the change. It’s a lesson we all have to learn at some time in our lives.”
Despite herself, Sahira leaned into the lady’s hand, drinking up this last tender touch. She missed her mother so much. “Thank you for your kindness, Mrs Tailor.”
“I’ll remember you in my prayers. God watch over you, child. I’ll call in when I’m next in town.”
Mr Godstow gave her a curt nod. “I’ve arranged with Mr Pence for the money owing for the tigers to be set against your account with him. He’ll take your expenses out of it.”
“What? Please, no, I need that money!” Sahira wanted to add that Mr Pence had the shifty look of a swindler at the bazaar. If he got his hands on her small inheritance then she’d never see a penny of it.
“What can you, a child, do with such a sum? Someone would take it from you in a trice. No, it is much better that it goes to a responsible adult to manage on your behalf.”
Now Sahira knew why Mr Pence had agreed to take her.
“Have you ever known such ingratitude?” asked Mrs Bingham. “Anyone would think from her expression that we were leaving her in the hands of pirates.”
Their ship had fought off buccaneers in the seas near Madagascar but Sahira knew well from her travels in India that piratical people sailed on dry land as well as the high seas. Father had taught her not to be taken for a fool. But what could she do? As Mr Godstow made plain, all these arrangements were being agreed over her head. She hated being a child – hated being at the mercy of these merciless grown-ups.
“Good, that’s settled then.” Mr Pence exchanged a snide smile with Mrs Bingham. “Come, Eleanor Sarah Clive. I’ll introduce you to Matron.”
With a final pleading look at Mrs Tailor, Sahira let herself be led away.
Matron appeared an easier person to manage compared with the conniving Mr Pence. Her frizzled brown hair curled from her mob cap; her little eyes sat like currants in dough before it is cooked. There was an air about her of someone who had seen everything, done too much, and so given up caring. She rummaged through her linen store and pulled out a set of clothes for Sahira, making wild guesses as to size. Sahira ended up with a shift that finished at her calves and a drab woollen dress that trailed on the floor. A close-fitting white cap and apron completed the uniform.
“There you are, lovey. I’ll look after your pretty dress for you. Ooo, I like these what-you-ma-call-its.” She held it up to the light, swaying slightly.
“Elephants,” Sahira supplied. She reminded herself that she had to be as strong and excellent as an elephant to survive in this jungle.
Matron took a swig from a silver flask before dropping it back in her deep apron pocket. “That’s the word. Saw one once, can you imagine it, at the Exeter Exchange?”
“What’s an exchange?” Sahira asked.
“An exhibition hall on the Strand. We used to have lots of wild animal shows once upon a time – a real treat they were. Anyway, they had to shoot the elephant when it got too frisky – poor Chunee.”
Sahira could guess exactly what had happened. “Did they not know that the bull elephant goes into must? Males cannot be caged when driven to mate.”
Matron clicked her tongue. “Little girls shouldn’t talk about mating. Terrible massacre it was. The place stank for days. Then the scientific men took over and they carved it up to study. You can still see the bones. Hard to believe the good Lord made such creatures – so big, and to think they eat through their noses!”
How could she get this basic fact wrong? “They don’t actually eat through their trunks. They have mouths.”
Matron wasn’t interested in Sahira’s correction. “Here’s a sheet and blanket. You take the bed by the window. Jenny left us last week so it’s free.”
Sahira blinked three times to erase the image of the elephant shot to death and dissected – a trick her father had taught her to get rid of bad thoughts. It only half worked. “Where did Jenny go?”
“Churchyard, of course.” Matron took another swig. “It was a harsh winter. Don’t worry: I’ve turned the mattress.”
Sahira knew better than to sleep in the same bed as someone who had recently died. As her ayah had told her, their spirit might return and occupy your body and Sahira had no amulet to ward them off. Her father told her this was merely superstition and had given a more scientific explanation that diseases might linger. Both views led to the same conclusion: she would sleep on the floor until she could find a way out of here.
“The other children will be out of their lessons soon for dinner. We then have prayers, chores, an hour of playtime, and then bed, understood?”
“Yes, Matron,” Sahira said solemnly.
“Mr Pence said not to mention that you’re Hindoo.”
“I’m not…” Sahira stopped herself from betraying the lie about her identity.
“So I won’t tell them anything about that when I introduce you. Best you forget all those foreign ways of yours, eh? And the name Eleanor, well that sounds too much like you’re taking on airs. You need something plain and serviceable for your new station in life. Better to be Ellie.” She hiccupped. Everyone here seemed intent on giving Sahira names she didn’t want: first “Eleanor Sarah”, and now “Ellie�
��. A bell rang downstairs. “That’s the signal for dinner.” Matron took Sahira’s hand, noticing for the first time that the new girl limped. “Hurt yourself, lovey?”
“A long time ago. It’s nothing. I’m not in pain.” Not from that old injury, she wasn’t.
“That’s the spirit. Soldier on. I never complain about my nerves, though they plague me something dreadful.” Taking another quick swig before returning the hip flask to her apron pocket, Matron led Sahira down two flights of stairs and into a large bare room with two long tables. Children were already standing behind the benches, one side for boys, the other for girls. Matron took Sahira to the top of the girls’ table to sit among the older orphans. “Here, squeeze in between Emily and Ann. Girls, this is Ellie.”
With curious looks, the two girls made a space for her. Matron carried on to the table at the far end, the only one covered by a cloth. Mr Pence and people Sahira assumed were the other members of staff, teachers and nursery maids, assembled around it.
Mr Pence rapped on the table. “Hands together and eyes closed.”
Like well-drilled troops, the children all assumed the attitude of prayer, Sahira following only a beat behind. Mr Pence then began a long prayer about how they should be grateful for his charity towards them and how wicked they all were and in need of forgiveness. He made special mention of all benighted heathens in foreign lands, especially India. Sahira could feel his eyes on her, even though she wasn’t looking. Eventually, after wandering through the highways and byways of all the possible sins the children might have committed since breakfast, he blessed the food.
“Be seated.”
With a rumble like thunder, forty children climbed over the benches and sat down. The forty-first copied them, again lagging a little behind.
“You have blue boots!” whispered the fair-haired girl next to Sahira – Emily or Ann, she wasn’t sure.
The Tigers in the Tower Page 3