by M. J. Tjia
I lug my bag over to the front door which is painted a dapper blue, in stark contrast to the peeling paint elsewhere. Knocking, I watch two young ruffians chase each other towards the junction, and the barber steps out onto the road to peer over at me. Finally, there is a rustle at the door and it swings open into a dark corridor. A woman, older than me, with a dissatisfied look on her face, ushers me through. Her brown hair is pulled into a drab bun, and she wears a bulky, dark blouse, but her skirt is made of taffeta and has the most striking pattern of white shapes against a burgundy background. It’s quite a handsome piece of clothing and not one, I should think, acquired close by.
“You are here about the room?” she asks. Her accent is thick. Spanish perhaps? Italian?
“I am indeed,” I say, pushing the damned glasses higher onto the bridge of my nose.
She leads the way into the house, which smells like most other cheap housing: of oily fish and cabbage, and mouldy corners. We reach a shabby sitting room that overlooks the lane. It’s a rather large space. A round table for four takes precedence in the middle of the floor while a sofa – its saggy cushions not quite hidden beneath a crocheted throw blanket – is pushed close to the fireplace. Cloudy glasses surround a single bottle of ratafia on the side board, which appears to be in desperate need of a polish. Two armchairs reside companionably near the front window, next to which is a footstool, a side-table and a basket brimming with balls of wool.
I drop my bag to the floor, and look about, conscious of the woman’s eyes on me.
“What is your name?”
“Julia Charters,” I say. The Christian name I used at school, chosen because it matched the cadence of the Chinese name Amah gave me. “And you are?”
“Sofia Modesto.” She turns at the sound of footsteps coming down the hallway. “This be my husband.”
Mr Modesto appears much older than his wife. His pate is bald, and what hair is left on the sides he keeps long and has groomed to cup his almost skeletal head. A white beard covers his lower face and when he speaks, I see that his teeth are so full of gaps.
“Who is this, Sofia?” he asks. He too has a heavy accent.
“She wants the room.”
“That’s correct.” I move towards the window and look down on Green’s Court. This could be a perfect place from which to spy. “Do you still have one free?”
“Can I ask what is your name and occupation, madam? And do you have any reference letters?”
I tell them my story – that I’m a governess, waiting to sail abroad with a French family – and I hand them a rumpled letter of recommendation Mrs White made up for me. Not as herself, mind you, but in the guise of her niece, a young mother who lives in Shropshire.
Mr Modesto’s eyes rake over the letter and then linger on my dress, my portmanteau. “All we have is a set of two rooms. They must be taken together. Six shillings for you.”
He’s bamming me. I pretend to think. “But I’m not really in need of two rooms.” I sigh. Look out the window. It really is the best position, but I don’t want to look too eager. I have to be careful not to call attention to myself. “I am not sure I could stretch to such an amount. What about five shillings?” I beseech Mrs Modesto.
Mr Modesto gives a nasty little laugh. “No use looking to her. She has no head for numbers.” He taps his temple, rolls his eyes. “If I left things to her, our tenants would soon run this place and we’d be thrown out onto the road with the cat.” He waves his arms dramatically.
It’s lucky I finally accepted both rooms for they are tiny. The main bedroom, that fronts the tiny terrace on the second floor – Mrs Modesto having hastily taken down the drying clothes from its railing – barely fits a single bed and chest of drawers. When I pull out the top drawer, it sticks, and I have to wrench it back into place, inch by wretched inch. The room behind is really no larger than a wardrobe, in which a child-sized pine desk and chair have been crammed.
Mrs Modesto places a basin of water on top of the drawers. “Supper will be in twenty minutes, if you care to join us,” she says as she leaves me. “The dining room is at the back of the house downstairs. Next to the kitchen.”
So early. I feel as though I’ve barely finished my midday repast. I spend the time I have in washing my face and hands, although I decide to unpack my few pieces of clothing later. I unlock the doors onto the terrace, but I don’t step out, not trusting the sturdiness of the narrow platform. I crane my neck to look out onto Green’s Court. I’ve managed to find a perfect spot with a bird’s eye view of my surrounds.
Hearing voices, I pull the terrace doors shut and leave my rooms. I follow the noise down the stairs and find myself in a hot room, overcrowded with chairs and people. Mr Modesto is curt as he introduces me to a Mr Beveridge and a Miss Haven. We pull our chairs in tight to the dining table so that Mrs Modesto and the maid can reach over us with plates of cabbage, carrots and haddock. My heart sinks at the sight of the damp, pongy food. There is sacrifice indeed to be made in this spying business.
“Ah. Haddock, again. I apologise, miei amici,” Mr Modesto says to us, shaking his head, “but one day we will have something different for our dinner.”
Mrs Modesto opens her mouth to say something, then closes it again. Then she says, “But, Giuseppe, you told me to serve haddock tonight.” She looks a little confused.
“No, I said that we were sick of it, and that you should serve us some fowl. You misheard me. Again.” He glances my way, tips his head to the side. He sighs loudly and says in a jesting tone, “Perhaps one day I will taste the flesh of a nice, roasted fowl again.”
A blush rises to Mrs Modesto’s throat as she stares at her plate.
“Are you new to the area, Miss Charters?” asks Miss Haven. She’s very young and mouse-like, with a pretty, elfin face.
“Yes, indeed I am. I have just come from the country. A lovely woman I once worked with suggested that I might find a temporary home here.” I gabble on a bit more about my governess plans. I don’t model myself on a sensible Brontë or Austen type governess but, rather, one who’s more garrulous; more ready to please and be pleased. “And you? Do you work near here, Miss Haven?”
Miss Haven tells me of the draper’s shop she works in. Its proximity to King Street. Its genteel custom. Nobody takes up the conversation when she stops talking. All that can be heard is Mr Modesto wetly chewing his boiled vegetables and fish, and the clink of cutlery against plate.
I adjust the glasses on my nose. “And you – Mr Beveridge, is it? – may I ask what your occupation might be?”
Mr Beveridge has sandy, thinning hair. He is covered in gingery freckles; even the skin on the back of his pale fingers has not escaped the caramel spots. He lifts his head, mutters, “I work for the London Omnibus,” and returns his attention to his meal.
“He drives the ’bus,” explains Miss Haven. “And some-times even a horse tram, in Westminster, isn’t that right, Mr Beveridge?”
“Oh. Very interesting.” I am seated at a table with a bus driver and a draper’s assistant. Probably the most respectable people I have ever taken a meal with, really.
Positioning my fork and knife together across my plate, partly in order to cover what mush I cannot stomach, I say, “I think I will take a turn around the court. I’m a true believer in the importance of exercise,” I lie. I peer over my spectacles, as I look from one to the other. “I always take my wards out for a brisk walk after each meal. After each meal, I say. Nothing better to fortify one’s spirits and vitality.” This way, if these people notice me prowling about, they will hopefully put it down to a strict adherence to this ridiculous system.
Green’s Court is rather dark when I set out. Two of the tallest people I’ve ever encountered saunter towards me, and it’s only when they’re close, bathed in the light from Mrs Modesto’s sitting room, that I see that it’s just a couple of coster-women, piles of empty fruit baskets stacked high on the top of their heads. I walk past them, in the other direction to t
he end of the lane. Apart from the brewery, the shutters are down on the other businesses and all is quiet. Candlelight blinks from a number of the upper windows, and a woman pops her head through one, calls out to someone named Will. Where would this Prussian be hiding away if he were here? I frown, my eyes searching the dark windows. Or is something else afoot here, in this nondescript little lane? What would be of worth to bomb here? Turning, I make my way towards the other end. The shops on the corner are rather smarter than the others. The grocer’s walls are covered with green tiles, while the white columns outside Jackson Bros and Wilty, an establishment that seems to specialise in walking sticks and umbrellas, are very handsome indeed. I step from the dark lane to where the main road is illuminated by street lights. To my right the shops and buildings look rather similar to those in Green’s Court. Glancing to my left, though, I see a throng of people gathered outside a corner building, so I decide to walk in its direction.
Once close, I see that it’s an establishment called the Horse and Clover Inn, and men are gathered on the pavement sipping their evening pints. I peer into the crowd, trying to discern a familiar face. I move slowly, listening for a Germanic accent, but all I hear are the usual gripes and small talk and, often, the lilting burr of an Irishman. A menu is tacked next to the front doors that lead into the inn’s restaurant. I push my way in.
A waiter leads me to a table that, although in the middle of the eating house, is in a booth divided from others by panelling that rises close to the ceiling. There doesn’t seem to be any other table free. I slide into my seat and ask for a cup of tea to start. Straightening my spectacles, I pull my book from my bag and pretend to read. Only occasionally do I look up, quickly taking in the other custom. Across from me is an older couple, who concentrate on their pigeon and spinach. At the next table along are four noisy clerks, well and truly into their cups. On the way through I saw that the table in the booth before me is occupied by two elderly men but, unfortunately, I cannot see into the booth behind me, due to the panelling. The waiter returns with my drink and I hesitate over what meal to order. It’s not like I am full up after that watery meal at the Modestos’. Although tempted by the omelette, I settle on blackberry pudding.
Gaskell’s Margaret is quite fascinating and it’s difficult to not become totally engrossed in the book, but I must keep an ear out for the Prussian fellow. I’m savouring a mouthful of pudding when I look up to see Mr Modesto glaring down at me.
“You dine alone, Miss Charters? Or should I say… you dine again?” His eyes linger on my dessert. “How very strange.”
I let out a foolish whoop. “Ooh, you’ve caught me, I’m afraid, Mr Modesto. I do have a very sweet tooth. I couldn’t resist the urge to indulge when I walked past this inn. And you? Are you here to indulge in something sweet, too?”
He shakes his head. “Sometimes I come here of an evening to sip an aperitif. That is all. To escape the tedium of the domestic, you understand.” He gives a small bow and moves on.
As Mr Modesto walks away I catch sight of a man entering the inn. He’s tall and, for some reason, faintly familiar. His clothes are well-cut and he wears a wide-brimmed hat, very exotic in these parts of bowler hats and caps. He saunters past and I hear the waiter usher him to the booth behind.
“Thankee, kind sir. Get me one of them ales my pal here has, would you?”
My eyes widen, and I almost wrench around in my seat to gape.
I’d know that drawl anywhere. It’s the irritating American from Paris. From that night in Bocages des Anges.
CHAPTER 14
AMAH
The air is chilly and a tacky mist drifts up from the waterfront. Amah pulls her shawl about her shoulders more firmly, her reticule clasped snug to her chest beneath. She’s in a puzzle over how she can trust Golda with her jewellery without her uncle having access to it. Surely the woman understands Amah’s reticence. Indeed, didn’t Golda seem uncomfortable in his presence, herself? Before she drank those four glasses of claret, in any case.
Amah glances around for a cab but there are none. She decides to walk a little way towards the harbour in search of one and as she passes the tavern, she notices Bert lounging against its front wall. He catches sight of her and tugs his cap. “Missus.”
She nods back at him and continues on her way. She knows that a little further on she will come to a road that will take her towards the harbour and to her inn. But the mist seems to thicken with each step, muting everything around her. Fellow pedestrians remain invisible until they are almost upon her; trees and buildings merge into a muddle of grey shapes; twice she slips into the gutter. She hears others’ conversations drone in and out towards her like the buzz of a roving fly, but mostly all that reaches her ears is the occasional passing carriage and the tapping of her own footsteps across the cobblestones. And perhaps their echo a little way behind? Amah’s fingers press against the hard corner of her jewellery box.
She walks at a more careful pace than her usual trot in order to avoid bumping into lampposts or knocking her shins on the edge of the odd pedlar’s cart, but she has an uncanny feeling that the slower she moves, the closer someone looms up behind her. She pauses for a moment, hears a faint pulse of footsteps. Her heartbeat quickens, its whoosh surging her eardrums.
Stupid. She’d been stupid to drink that extra cup of coffee. It’s made her jittery. She can feel the beverage hum in her fingertips, stir her nerves.
But Amah can also sense the gap shorten between herself and whoever follows. She shivers, as though a feather tickles its way up her spine. Probably just a hansom cab, she reasons, the driver moving through the soupy mist as carefully as she does. Her heart flops in her chest like a fish landed on deck. Flops again. She tightens her hold on her reticule, annoyed with herself. The coffee has left her behaving as foolishly as one of the simpleton heroines in Heloise’s novels. She glances over her shoulder, knowing it’s futile, that it would be impossible to see anything by this murky light. But is that the crown of a black hat? Hovering through the haze? A cap? A cap, not unlike Yosef’s.
Turning left at the next crossroads, Amah finds herself on a familiar street, where she used to work, at Ping Que’s. A street she had walked countless times, by moonlight, by sunlight.
“Excuse me, ma’am.” She starts as a man brushes past her, closely followed by two more. They hurry on until they’re swallowed up by the mist.
Amah follows them. Heading towards a row of bleary lights, she decides she will settle in a tavern or eating house and pay some boy to scamper down to the docks and fetch Taff and the coach for her. She comes to pass one of the beer shops, a larger establishment than most, yet not as spacious as a tavern. She hears a clacking sound and yelling, followed by laughter and the sound of clapping. Peering through the plate glass, she watches as a man stoops and rolls a black ball down the length of the wooden floor.
Skittles. They’re playing skittles. Amah shakes her head from side to side. Skittles.
She hasn’t seen the game played in years. And all it brings to her now is a memory of her girl, Heloise, absconding from home with that wayward Walters girl, to set up skittles in the filthy back lanes for a farthing a go.
A roar goes up as the ball smashes through the nine pins. A farthing a go from a bunch of rowdies like this. Amah’s mouth tightens. The beginning of the end, that had been. But to be fair, Amah can’t be certain of who led who astray, perhaps Heloise was the wayward one, not the Walters girl, after all.
A tussle breaks out between two of the players. One holds fast to the ball while the other tries to pry it from his fingers. A third joins the fray, who’s shortly joined by five more men who surge into the middle of the room, throwing punches or wrenching opponents apart; kicking skittle pins to the side and stumbling back against tables. The crowd spills through the doorway and tumbles about the narrow pavement. Two men thrust another onto the road so that a horse and cart have to rear to the side, the squeals of the horse and driver rising above the groa
ns and swearing of the combatants. Amah backs away and, unsure of how successful she’d be at circling the mob, she decides to duck down the alley beside the beer house, hoping it’s a shortcut through to the next street over. Just as she steps into the alleyway, a pale face catches her eye, and she’s sure it’s Bert, loping down the road towards her.
Weak moonlight cuts through the mist for several moments and, as she walks, Amah strains to see how far it is until the end of the lane. She’s only five steps in when she hears voices behind her and, looking back, sees that two, perhaps three, people are hard upon her heels. She picks up pace. It could be that they too are intent upon avoiding the fight. She clenches her reticule tight. Or maybe they want to snatch her bag, taking all her jewels.