Pauper's Child

by Meg Hutchinson

  Tears of what might have been anger but were the tears of defeat blurred the empty deserted stalls. There was nothing more she could do. The hope of earning enough to buy her mother a meal was gone and there would not be so much as a bone or even a sausage skin left among the rubbish cast aside by the butchers during the day; they would have been devoured by stray dogs long since. But the vegetable stalls, perhaps the dogs would not have eaten the cast-offs from those. Hope flickering uncertain as candle flame caught in a breeze, she pulled the shawl close. A few vegetables cooked into a broth might not be a feast but it would provide a meal.

  *

  Oswin Slade parted his sandy hair down the centre and combed it sleekly towards his temples. Laying the comb aside, he ran the palms of his hands over the thinning drift helped to lie smooth with a smear of bay rum. He cut a smart figure, one any woman would be glad to be seen walking with! Fastening the high buttoned jacket of the fawn and brown check suit bought from a pawnshop in Wolverhampton he stood admiring himself in the speckled mirror of his bedroom. The close fitting trousers, coming as they did well down over his boots, gave a slenderness to his legs, while the high starched collar of his white shirt, teamed with a large crimson tie, gave the whole ensemble a pleasing effect. Yes, Oswin Slade cut a figure to be noticed in Wednesbury. Satisfied, he reached for the brown derby hat purchased from the same pawnshop. It was something of a journey taking the train to Wolverhampton, but in that town he was unknown while in this – he patted the hat now perched on his head – it was not known where his suit had been purchased.

  There was just one thing marred his satisfaction. Oswin’s reflection frowned among the speckled depths. He had to pay for his pleasure, pay for the services of a woman. But not for much longer. The frown became a smile. A month from now would see him married and his pleasure would cost him no more than the five shillings paid for the licence. A lifetime of taking what he wanted when he wanted it and that for less than it cost paying a prostitute every night for a week. And he liked his pleasure every night; liked the feel of a naked body beneath his own, the touch of a moist tongue tracing a line from his navel to his crotch, lips parting to take him into a mouth, and later… much later… legs opening wide giving him access to that delicious hall of delight. All of this he would get from Callista Sanford: long nights of sensual excitement. And when that particular excitement wore off? He would still get his money’s worth. In and out of the bedroom, the Sanford girl would earn her keep.

  Full of thoughts of the ease the next month would bring to his pocket, Oswin walked confidently from his house in Loxdale Street, glancing once at the row of small tightly packed terraced buildings. What had bought one of these would buy another and another until they all belonged to him. If only there were a way of speeding things up. He couldn’t risk upping those rents again for a few months and the account books… those too were best not fiddled with; Sabine Derry had a sharp mind and a vicious one. But there had to be a way. Following the way of Camp Street and the Shambles he paused. Should he seek his entertainment here at the Green Dragon or should he go on to the Turk’s Head? The company he sought could be found in either. Mentally debating the choice he stepped back from the road while a heavy cart rumbled past, its driver clucking his tongue encouragingly to his tired horse. Then, his line of vision once more unobstructed, Oswin’s thick lips jammed hard together, annoyance blazing in pale eyes as he watched a thin figure bend to pick up something from the ground. He knew what was being gathered; he had seen it done many times before, women with no other way of feeding their families grubbing through market waste. What he had not seen was Callista Sanford grubbing alongside them. Had anyone else seen her; anyone of importance? How would it sound when he was a man of consequence? ‘Did you know Slade’s wife one time grubbed for food among the rubbish of the market place?’

  A hiss of anger pushing his lips apart, he almost ran between the empty stalls, pushing aside several people, ignoring the angry calls that followed after him.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing!’

  Jerked almost off her feet by the angry snatch at her arm, Callista’s mind at once sped her back to Paget’s Passage with its tall shadowed figure. Fear she had felt then flooded rapidly through every vein and she screamed.

  ‘Stop that, you fool!’

  One hand slapped sharply across Callista’s mouth knocking her head back on her neck while at the same time the other hand jerked her arm so fiercely cabbage leaves and carrots went tumbling from her grasp.

  ‘Stop your screaming!’ Oswin sucked air savagely through flared nostrils, his order no more than a hiss. ‘Do you want the whole town to hear you, to see you here rooting through filth even pigs wouldn’t eat!’

  Senses dulled by fear, her mouth stinging from the blow, Callista stared unseeingly at her assailant.

  ‘Get away from here,’ Oswin hissed again, ‘get away before anyone recognises you.’

  The hand jerking again at her arm seemed to Callista’s distraught mind to be snatching at her as before, drawing her closer to a hard resilient body. He had followed her, she had not seen or heard him but he had followed her… he intended to do that which her running from him had denied him. Fear mounting higher, she screamed again.

  ‘I said stop that!’ Oswin’s hand struck again only this time it remained clamped over her mouth, an arm holding her trapped against him.

  Held more by her own fear than the strength of that arm, Callista stared at the angry face. Recognition filtering at last into her dazed mind, she twisted her head, freeing her mouth.

  ‘Oswin!’

  ‘Shhh!’ Oswin glanced rapidly to either side, seeing other night scavengers watching. ‘Not here, you will be seen!’

  It was not the same man who had accosted her in that dark street but one who repelled her almost as much. As her senses returned quickly she shook away his hold, her voice cold with dislike.

  ‘Is it my being seen disturbs you, Oswin, or yourself!’

  ‘It will be the same thing once we are married,’ Oswin snapped. ‘My wife was seen grubbing in the streets… my wife fighting the dogs for scraps… should anyone of significance…’

  Dormant until now, Callista’s grasp of the situation surged like an incoming tide, sweeping before it any thought of concealing the purpose of her being in this place at such a time, leaving in its wake a cold despising anger.

  ‘That is it, isn’t it, Oswin!’ Violet eyes blazing contempt, she stared defiantly at the heavy-jowled face she knew beneath concealing shadow would be suffused with wrath. ‘Should anyone of significance see… It does not matter to you the reason which brings any person here, only that the future wife of Oswin Slade be spotted among them, seen by someone of significance, someone who might prove useful to your future—’

  ‘That will do. You will return home at once!’

  There was no request, no offer of walking with her, seeing her safely back to Trowes Court; instead the words had held the familiar order. Keeping her own words quietly clipped Callista answered.

  ‘I will be glad to return… once I have what I came for.’

  Temper a bubbling mass seeping into his throat Oswin watched her retrieve the spilled vegetables then, as she straightened, his hand shot out, strewing the lot about Callista’s feet.

  ‘I’m telling you to go… now!’

  ‘And I am telling you, my friend, leave the young lady alone. I fear she does not welcome your advice.’

  ‘Mind your bloody own business!’ Oswin’s thickset body turned quickly but the hand rising to strike was halted by a slender cane, its tip flashing silver in light spilling from the tavern widow.

  ‘I perceive a young woman being subjected to treatment obviously unwelcome to her as being my business.’ Cool and well spoken, a man’s voice replied evenly though the cane remained raised.

  Taking a moment to swallow this fresh spasm invading his throat, Oswin took in what the dim light of evening allowed him to see. Tall hat,
its sheen marking it to be silk, thigh length dark coat with a single line of buttons showing below it, dark close fitting trousers, the whole finished off with a white high collared shirt and dark bow tie. He swallowed, hiding a rising chagrin. This was no man searching rubbish in the hope of a meal, nor was it a collier or foundryman returning from his work. This was a man possibly of note.

  ‘This…’ he stammered, uncertain of how to reply, ‘this girl is my fiancée.’

  ‘Then you are doubly at fault in your treatment of her.’

  It was like acid thrown in his face! Oswin recoiled, stung by the sarcasm.

  ‘I… this is no place for her,’ he replied defensively. ‘I wished her to return home.’

  The man lowered his cane; a pair of eyes flashed in the gloom and a cultured voice holding no trace of lenience spoke. ‘Is that the way you obtain what it is you wish from a young woman, by striking her?’

  ‘I did not strike her, I merely knocked that… that rubbish from her hands.’ Oswin followed the lie with a stare. His back had been turned to this man; he could not have seen.

  ‘You add lies to your other questionable habits!’ Stiff with contempt, the answer met Oswin’s account. ‘An undesirable trait in any man.’

  ‘Now look here…’

  ‘I have looked and must confess I do not like what I have seen!’ The head moved slightly to concentrate a look on Callista. ‘One can only hope your fiancée sees as clearly.’

  The anger Oswin had hastily swallowed regurgitated, flooding his throat with fire. They were all the bloody same, these people of property, thinking they possessed a God given right to belittle those with less. No longer so careful of his own reply he was sharp. ‘My fiancée, sir, has the sense to see I act only in her best interests!’

  ‘You surprise me.’ The other man’s voice held a note of mockery. ‘I would hardly call striking a woman across the mouth acting in her best interests.’

  He had seen! Oswin’s teeth gritted together. The man could call for a constable, have him charged with assault. If that happened he could kiss any dreams of bettering his future goodbye. Sabine Derry would take great pleasure in getting him dismissed from his job as rent collector, which would mean no more money siphoned into his pocket. In fact it would be another charge to answer when his fraud was discovered – and robbery carried a heavy sentence!

  ‘Please.’ Callista intervened, wanting to avoid further unpleasantness. ‘No harm has been done, my… my fiancé is right, I should return home.’

  ‘I am glad you understand that, Callista.’ Oswin smarmed his satisfaction.

  ‘One moment.’

  Callista halted as the tall hatted figure bent to retrieve several of the fallen vegetables, holding them towards her.

  ‘I believe you said you came for these. I would not wish you a wasted journey by forgetting them.’

  ‘She does not want—’

  But the man had already turned his back on the furious Oswin, his silver topped cane dancing in the yellowy tavern lights as he signalled a carriage stood a short distance away.

  ‘When you have retrieved all you require my carriage will take you wherever you wish to go. That way your fiancé has no need of interrupting his evening by accompanying you home.’

  Callista almost felt the wince of Oswin’s heavy body at the other man’s obvious dismissal of him and she answered quickly. ‘I have no need of a carriage though I thank you for the kindness of your offer.’

  ‘Take it.’ The cane flashed as it lowered. ‘I will not be requiring it for several hours. It will find the man something to do… give him a little less time with his fellows in the stables of the George Hotel.’

  It seemed to Callista the voice held a smile, a hint of mischief, but Oswin’s ears detected only confrontation. The man wanted him to disagree, wanted an argument. A further opportunity to call a constable? He could not afford the possibility of that happening, although it would have given him a great satisfaction to snatch that cane and beat this interfering bugger over the head with it.

  Stifling the desire if not the thought, Oswin forced a degree of apology to his voice. ‘I do have business that needs my attention, Callista; to go with you to your home would mean missing an important appointment. You do understand?’

  Yes, she understood, and judging by the nearly inaudible sniff so did the other man. Holding the vegetables in the fold of her shawl, Callista felt the distrust she had often felt when listening to Oswin’s excuses. Dislike and distrust. She turned her glance from the heavy face. It was no foundation for marriage!

  Helped into the carriage, Oswin’s hand painfully warningly clutching her elbow, Callista leaned to the window; but the thanks she intended to say caught on her tongue as the man standing beside her fiancé raised his hat, the light spilling from the tavern windows playing across his face… a face she recognised.

  7

  Out of sight of the market place, Callista called for the driver to bring the carriage to a halt, clambering out almost before the wheels ceased to turn. Asking if he would relay her thanks to the owner, she turned away, disappearing quickly into the night.

  It would be seen as unmannerly, probably churlish, but she wanted no favours though to be honest she felt gratitude to that man for relieving her of having to endure Oswin’s company and recrimination all the way back to her house.

  Clutching the few vegetables, light boots tapping a rapid rhythm, she ran on. Going by way of Lower Russell Street would get her to Holyhead Road and home more quickly than would her going on to the White Horse and turning there. The decision made, she turned to her right. To one side an uninterrupted line of tiny houses showed dim anaemic light telling of the burning of a solitary candle, the smoke grimed brickwork of their exterior blending into the darkness leaving only chimney stacks outlined against the sky like giant blackened teeth, while on the opposite side St Bartholomew’s School and an opening leading to the chapel broke the same monotonous pattern.

  Ahead a pool of stronger light silhouetted a figure in wide skirts and tiny topknot bonnet, a jug balanced in both hands, shuffling into the side entrance of the Market Tavern beerhouse. The nightly fetching of a quart of ale. Callista slowed to a walk, somehow comforted by the sight of another woman.

  Had it been a terrible rudeness, her dismissing that carriage as she had? What would Oswin have to say of such behaviour when he next called? If only he did not have to call ever again… if only she did not need to marry him. But good fortune rarely made an appearance in Portway Road and miracles never!

  You will return home at once…!

  Oswin had made no attempt to disguise the command, no effort to veil the demand. He saw nothing untoward in speaking to her with such authority while they were yet unmarried. What then would her life be once she became his wife? She would be no more than a possession, a chattel to be used for his comfort… a woman with no voice of her own. It would be a waking nightmare, one from which she knew well there would be little respite. But what else could she do but marry Oswin Slade? That was the only way she had of bringing a little comfort to her mother’s life.

  Emerging onto the wide Holyhead Road Callista glanced at the dark outline of the recently erected municipal buildings and the more elaborate facade of the art gallery which was the bequest of Mrs Edwin Richards, wife of the proprietor of Portway Coach Springs Works. To have even a fraction of the money that building had cost!

  Pushing the impossible aside Callista switched her glance to the steam tram lumbering past. Dreams were like the first air of morning, like the scent of fresh mown meadows, sweet as the fields she had walked with her parents, heady and wonderful; but like air you could not live on them.

  After the tram had rattled on its way, she crossed the road, taking care to lift her feet clear of the lines of tram rails. She hurried on, averting her eyes, passing the street which held the church and school of St James without a glance. Dreams did not last forever… so why did her nightmare live on?

 
; *

  Who did he think he was? Sir bloody Lancelot! Anger hot inside him, Oswin watched the stranger walk away. They had both watched that carriage round the curve in the road, the echoes of wheels and horses’ hooves soon losing themselves amid the rumble of heavier carters’ wagons heading for one of the many ale houses; then without a word or glance the man had turned his back and walked away.

  He’d had no right to interfere! Callista Sanford was nobody’s business but Oswin Slade’s, she was his promised wife and as such it was his duty to monitor her behaviour, to see she did nothing which could reflect upon himself, and it was hardly creditable to him for her to be seen scavenging among the rubbish of that market! Yet that man had picked up the scabby cabbage leaves and mouldy carrots, handing them to her with apparently no consideration for the fine kid gloves he wore. No doubt the fellow had expected him to slink away, to leave the field open. Then the real purpose of his interfering would have shown itself. He would have offered Callista more than cabbage leaves and carrots. Only Oswin Slade had not slunk away, he had not allowed Callista to be propositioned, but had given the man a rude awakening. A smile of self-satisfaction touching his mouth, Oswin swung in the direction of the Turk’s Head. Whoever it was had thought to provide himself with a cheap evening’s entertainment would have to buy himself a prostitute elsewhere.

  The thought calming his still hot anger, Oswin glanced about the hotel bar room, then taking his tankard of beer chose an empty table separated a little from the rest. He would take his time in choosing a companion for the evening.

  ‘… well, that was what her told me… said it were given her.’

  ‘Oh ar, and a body be supposed to believe that?’

  ‘You believe what you likes but that were what were told me.’

  ‘Ar, well, what be told and what be truth be two very different kettles o’ fish. It ain’t only big tits that there Sally Baker has, her’s got a big imagination an’ all, if her thinks folk’ll go believing that woman gives anythin’ for nothin’. From what I hears o’ Emma Ramsey, her wouldn’t give the drip from the end of her nose and talk has it that there visitor her entertains so often, that there wife of Edwin Derry, ain’t no more charitable.’