The Tigers in the Tower

by Julia Golding

  She swiped the back of her hand across her eyes and answered angrily: “No, of course not.”

  He tugged her elbow, pulling her to one side out of the main thoroughfare. “Tell me what’s ’appened.”

  “Nothing,” she said weakly.

  “So you just made yourself ’omeless for a lark? Sahira, I wasn’t born yesterday. Don’t you trust me?”

  “Of course I do!”

  “Then tell me,” he said sternly.

  So Sahira did, explaining about the Newtons’ sister, losing her bed, and the rest.

  “Joanna Newton? She’s a barmaid at the Anchor, must be about eighteen now. I bet it’s ’er.” Ned looked down at her feet and smiled bleakly. “They really must want those boots – this ’as to be about savin’ their pride now. Good for you to keep ’em. And Mr Pence just let you go?”

  “I didn’t ask permission. It seemed if the orphanage wasn’t going to give me a bed, I had no place being there. I don’t want to get packed off to the workhouse –”

  Ned shuddered and crossed himself. “That you don’t.”

  “So… so I suppose I’m homeless, like you say.”

  “What about that fancy cousin of yours?” Ned ventured.

  She’d had the same thought: John might help. “I don’t know where he lives.”

  “You can ask Master Bobby,” he suggested, as though it were as easy as that.

  “I can hardly go walking up to the Peels’ house, knock on the door, and ask. I’d be turned away.”

  “You don’t ’ave to do that. Send ’im a note. I’ll see it gets delivered,” he said.

  There was a chink of light, even if it meant relying on the charity of relations who would probably prefer not to recognize she existed. She wouldn’t spoil things for their daughters; if they just let her live somewhere quietly where she could visit her tigers, that would be enough. Sahira hugged Ned.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  After a second’s hesitation, he hugged her back. “You’re welcome.” He looked a little embarrassed to be caught showing affection in the middle of the street – a tough kid didn’t do that. “Come on, I’ll sneak you back into the menagerie and see you get some breakfast. I’ve got to buy it first though.”

  Sahira trailed after him, watching with some expert appreciation at his haggling over the price of the loaves. She’d been very good at bargaining in the bazaars of the towns she visited with her parents. Her father often gave her the task, as he looked too foreign and her mother was too well born for the cut and thrust of negotiating. Ned was a gifted dealmaker, coming away with an extra loaf, one of yesterday’s so only a little stale. He passed this to Sahira.

  “It won’t be missed,” he said.

  “How do you fancy coming with me on animal-collecting expeditions when we’re older?” Sahira asked, ripping a bit of crust off.

  “Is that like a proper job?” Ned replied, juggling an armful of bread.

  “It’s what my father did – and what I’m going to do when I can. I’ve already got Mr Jamrach to agree to be a customer as long as I don’t send him ‘bloomin’ parrots’.” Spirits lifted by having a friend to talk to and something to eat, Sahira no longer felt so overwhelmed.

  Ned chuckled. “I’d like that. I’d like to see where Nebbie comes from, maybe find him a lady zebra and then we’d have little zebras. Wouldn’t that be grand?”

  “Then we’d have to go to Africa.” She swallowed, remembering how her parents had died soon after the ship left Cape Town. Concentrate, Sahira: no bad memories, not now, only good. “I saw zebras when our ship called into port – and elephants – ones with huge ears and tusks, much bigger than the kind I know.”

  Planning their first trip – which would bag them at least a pride of lions, they decided – the two friends slipped back into the Tower.

  Sahira spent the next few days following the same routine: sneaking a breakfast with Ned at dawn, wandering the local streets to avoid Mr Cops until noon, then a happy afternoon going about her duties. Just as she had expected, no message came from the orphanage; nobody cared two hoots, as Ned put it, as to what had become of her.

  “Why two hoots and not one – or three?” she asked Ned seriously as they shared the bread on her third day of freedom.

  He shrugged. “It’s just a saying, Sahira.”

  “And is it ‘hoots’ like an owl or like the horn on the mail coach?” she pressed.

  “You’re really givin’ this too much thought.”

  She frowned at him. “But how am I to understand this place if I don’t understand the things you say?”

  “I don’t understand ’alf the things I say, so why should you be any different? Now ’urry up. The keeper will be ’ere shortly.”

  Sahira brushed the crumbs from her lap. She wore her orphanage uniform while wandering the streets so as to blend in, her Indian work clothes being too distinctive. “I will. I’ll see you later.”

  “This won’t last, you know,” Ned said glumly, walking alongside her to the exit. “’E’ll catch us one day.”

  “Don’t be a crocodile of despair, Ned,” she jested.

  “A what?

  “Snapping at my happiness. I finally like London.” Sahira smiled.

  “What’s a crocodile like?”

  “Big jaws, fierce, meat eater, like a huge lizard but lives in rivers,” she explained.

  “Cor, I’d like to see a crocodile.” He gazed at her in wonder.

  “Maybe you will, when we go animal collecting together.” She turned to wave goodbye, then left Ned at the gate.

  She headed east, intending to explore the area around the docks. It shouldn’t be too dangerous at this time of day, not like at night. The troublemakers were normally still sleeping and she could watch the ships being unloaded. Among the sailors would be men from India. If she could catch them at the right moment, maybe they’d tell her news and stories from home?

  Turning into the docks where she had landed, she recognized the carter who had carried her tigers to the tower, as well as his excellent elephant-sized horses. She didn’t want the man to see her; fortunately he was busy with his current load, which gave her a chance to make her acquaintance with the shire horses. They tossed their heads to at her unfamiliar, tigerish smell, but then relaxed when she made no sudden moves. Soon they were accepting strokes and pats to their huge necks. She had to stretch on tiptoes to reach.

  “There she is!” The cry came from behind her, startling the horses. The nearest one tossed his head, sending Sahira stumbling to the ground.

  “Grab ’er, someone!” It was the Newton twins. Sahira’s heart raced, beating like the hooves of a fleeing antelope. Where could she go? “That one – in blue boots!”

  The carter looked around. “Here, what you doing with my horses?”

  Sahira scrambled to her feet and ran. Why had they not just come for her at the menagerie? Why were the Newtons hunting her on the street? That made no sense. But she knew one thing: she couldn’t let them catch her. She headed back to the Tower, going at her top speed with her limping gait. Mr Cops would at least protect her from the twins and she had a head start. That is, until the Newtons changed the game on her.

  “Stop, thief!” yelled Tommy. That brought all the bystanders in on their side. Sahira did not have just two pursuers now, but a pack of stallholders, sailors, and even beggars who sensed a reward for capturing her. Her hip sang with pain.

  “Get Blue Boots!” shouted Alf, hurdling a newspaper stand.

  Sahira darted in and out of the carts making their way from the docks. The carters lashed out at her with their long whips. One caught her cheek, drawing blood in a thin line of fire, another the back of her legs. She stumbled again, her injured leg protesting.

  That was enough to snare her. A sailor darted out of a doorway and tackled – a big man smelling of garlic and beer. Sahira went down underneath him, squashed like a bug under a rolled newspaper.

  “Got her!” crowed Alf.
He hauled Sahira to her feet, his grip cruel on her neck.

  “Thanks, mate,” said Tommy, tossing the sailor a penny.

  “Vot she steal?” asked the sailor in broken English.

  “Never you mind. She’s wanted at the Thieves’ Court.” Tommy stared him down.

  “Thieves’ Court?” The man was obviously questioning what he’d done. “You all right, devushka?”

  “No – no, I’m not!” exclaimed Sahira, seeing the slightest of chances to escape in his change of heart.

  But a second sailor took the man by the elbow. “The Russian’s just arrived,” the Londoner said to the twins. “Don’ know nothink about your dad.” He tugged at the big man. “Leave it, Vlad.”

  Vlad took a step forward. “But…”

  “Really, leave it. Not our business.” The sailor towed the reluctant Russian back to the inn whence they had come.

  Tommy cracked his knuckles. “Right, let’s go.” He shoved Sahira between the shoulders.

  “Tommy, it’s almost time for me to go to work at the Tower. I’ll come back to the orphanage later,” she said desperately. “I promise.”

  “Didn’t you ’ear, mutton’ead? You’re not going to the orphanage. Our dad wants a word.”

  A prisoner under escort, Sahira was marched further into crooked streets leading to the Thieves’ Court.

  Harry Newton held his court out in the backyard of one of the many gin palaces in the East End. Though dragged here unwillingly, Sahira could see why the poor might voluntarily spend their last coins on the fiery spirit that they called Mother’s Ruin. In contrast to the shabby housing around it, this gin palace was a glittering jewel of plate glass and mirrors, with a touch of luxury in the padded velvet seats – if you overlooked the stains. A barmaid with a flushed face and low-cut blouse idly wiped the bar; she looked away when she saw Sahira with the twins. Men and women were slumped over their bottles despite the early hour, lost in their own worlds. A shot of gin might give them a holiday from the misery around them, until their money ran out. And they certainly wouldn’t be coming to Sahira’s aid, even if she screamed at the top of her lungs. This was Harry Newton’s world.

  “Dad, we found her,” said Tommy with what sounded like real happiness, not his usual sneer. He shoved her into a brick courtyard in front of a man seated on a bench, smoking a clay pipe. Built like a dockyard worker, Harry Newton was lounging in his shirt sleeves enjoying the sunshine that struck the spot where he was resting. A few of his men stood around him, seemingly relaxed but clearly on the watch. Their eyes never stopped flitting from predator to prey. Sahira thought of the wild red dogs in India, the most vicious of animals. They worked in packs and dominated the lesser creatures around them. Harry Newton, with his gap-toothed grin and reddish-brown hair, was the alpha dog.

  He took his pipe out of his mouth and tapped it on the side of his boot. Ash fell to the floor in a little glowing pile. “You did, son? That was quick.”

  “She was down at the docks – prob’ly looking to ship ’ome,” said Alf, not wanting to miss out on the praise.

  “You both did well. So this is the one they want? Doesn’t look like a Hindoo princess to me. Sure it’s her? We won’t get the reward unless it’s the right one.”

  “I promise, Dad. We know ’er, don’t we?” The boys were fawning on their father like puppies, seeking his approval.

  “Pence can’t complain then. ’E only asked me this mornin’ to find her and I deliver – as usual.” Harry Newton grinned at his boys. “Let’s take ’er back. I fancy a stroll.”

  “We wants ’er boots first.” Tommy gave her a wicked smile. “You goin’ to fight us again, mutton’ead?”

  Sahira was too exhausted and too scared to try anything in the centre of Harry Newton’s little kingdom. So she did nothing as they pushed her to sit on a bench and untied the laces. With a sharp tug, her feet were bared. Tommy knotted the boots together and hung them around his neck as a trophy of victory. As they were flaunted before her eyes, she remembered seeing the leather for her beloved boots for the first time on a stall in the bazaar, shining in the sunshine next to a sunset-red pair of shoes and slippers made of canary yellow leather. She’d known at once that the blue had to be hers so had tugged her father’s hand and pointed. He’d ordered a pair of stout boots made in her size immediately. Sahira swallowed against the memory of her father’s words: “So my little girl is going to walk the London pavements in sky boots, is she?”

  “Is she always this quiet?” asked Harry, studying her.

  “Nah, she tells stories and makes stuff up all the time,” said Tommy, taking a swig from a cup that stood near a jug of ale at his father’s elbow.

  “’Ere, you little tyke, that’s mine!” growled Harry, clipping his son around the ear. “Don’t you get ideas.” He held out the cup to Alf. “There you go. Must be ’ot work, chasing this little ’eathen around the docks.”

  Alf took the cup and grinned at his brother as he drained it to the bottom.

  “Tells stories, doesn’t she? That don’t sound too bad to me,” said Harry.

  “She’s got precious stuff in a trunk, pearls and things, but she’s ’idden it,” said Tommy. “We sent someone to crack it but it’s got a special lock and they couldn’t get in.”

  Harry came to stand before her and kicked the sole of her foot. “What ’ave you done with it?”

  Sahira hugged her arms to her sides.

  “We know. She took it to the Tower – paid a barrow boy to take it,” said Tommy.

  “Everybody pays me a tax when they arrive and you,” Harry stabbed a finger at Sahira, “owe me. Where’s the trunk?”

  Sahira said nothing. Harry’s hand shot out and slapped her hard. She reeled back on the bench.

  “Tell me!” he shouted.

  “I put it in the tiger cage!” hissed Sahira. How she wished she could scratch and bite them!

  Harry turned to his sons. “I ’eard they ’ad tigers at the Tower. Is that likely?”

  “She works with ’em – at least that’s what she claims. She could be lyin’,” said Tommy.

  Rubbing his palm, which stung from the blow he’d given her, Harry gave a sound of disgust. “We’ll take ’er back now and get the reward. You get that trunk from ’er and bring it to me, all right?” Harry hauled her up by the elbow. “Right, quick march. I ain’t got all day.”

  “I have no shoes,” she said, shaking with useless rage. She refused to think it was fear.

  “And that’s my problem? You’re lucky I left you with toes,” he hissed.

  Sahira had gone barefoot at home often enough but never on the cold, muddy streets of London. She had to watch every footfall to avoid cuts or stepping in muck. As the reality of her new life settled on her – the flicker of hope she’d harboured snuffed out by the hands of the Newtons – she felt like all the fight had gone out of her. It must be how Rama and Sita felt now that the bars around them had closed in, with even their friend Sahira doing nothing to free them. Maybe this was her punishment? She was lucky they hadn’t taken a swipe at her first for imprisoning them.

  But she knew they didn’t blame her, even though they could. Thinking of the joy she felt seeing the tigers playing in the moonlight, Sahira hugged the memory to herself, the only warm spot in her chilled body.

  After a brisk ten-minute walk where no allowance was made for her weak leg or bare feet, Harry Newton rapped on the door of the orphanage. Mrs Pence answered.

  “Ma’am, I bring good news,” he boomed, entering past her without pausing for an invitation. “Your lost sheep ’as been found, the coin you swept London for ’as turned up, the prodigal ’as returned.”

  Tommy and Alf pushed Sahira inside. She stood shivering in the entryway.

  “Mr Newton, if you’d just wait –” began Mrs Pence, casting an anxious look toward her husband’s study.

  Harry bent close to her ear, his smile a ghastly thing to behold. “’Arry Newton does not wait, ma’am. I wants
me reward.” He marched straight into Mr Pence’s room. “’Ere she is, Pence, right as rain, as promised.”

  “Who is this man?” asked a female voice, refined, not like the women who worked in the orphanage.

  Sahira marvelled at the transformation that came over Harry Newton. His bluff manner vanished and he became obsequious. “My lady. Apologies, I did not know Mr Pence was occupied with so fair a guest.”

  “Cheek,” muttered the woman. “But you’ve found my niece?”

  The word penetrated Sahira’s blankness. Niece? Then this had to be John’s mother – her father’s sister. She looked up from the floor of the entryway to find a woman staring at her from the door to Mr Pence’s study. With elaborate ringlets pinned around her ears and a blue satin carriage dress with puffy sleeves, she was clearly from the upper classes. No wonder Harry Newton had immediately changed his tune.

  “Sahira? Why has the child no shoes – and what’s happened to her face?” She directed that question to Harry. Sahira felt a little flicker of hope that she would finally have an adult in her family who cared about her.

  “She is a savage, ain’t she? She don’t like wearing ’em,” said Harry, lying happily with the flair of long practice. “My boys were looking after ’em for her. Tommy!” he beckoned.

  Scowling, Tommy unlooped the boots from his neck and shoved them at Sahira. She hugged them tightly to her chest, gaze swimming in tears.

  “Sahira, I’m your Aunt Bracewell.” The lady held out a hand. Sahira didn’t know what to do with that so stayed rooted to the spot, embarrassed to be at a loss. She felt like she was failing some test she didn’t understand. Her aunt dropped her hand. “Do you speak English? John gave me the impression you did.”

  Sahira nodded.

  “But you were raised in India – and you now work with my late brother’s animals?”

  She nodded again.

  “How old are you?” she asked, her voice gentle.

  “She’s twelve,” said Mr Pence. “Raised a heathen, I’m afraid. We’ve been trying to tame her but as you saw, she’s too wild for a decent home – running away at the first opportunity. But she’s young yet – might be a chance to reform her if she’s brought up strictly.”