by M. J. Tjia
We follow Connolly, who carries a large basket. There’s a skip to Miss Haven’s step as she chatters away, looking up at him once in a while.
“Do you know where we are headed?” I ask Ripley.
“Green Park,” he says. “Dang lot of factory workers will be there, I believe. With their families.”
“Pleasant,” I remark, but I’m also thinking how a gathering of families would actually be a clever way to cover up another meeting. Keep any secret deeds away from the police.
“How’d you come to meet Connolly?” I ask him.
“Met him in America, I did. Good man. Very passionate.”
“Passionate about what?”
Ripley halts to choose five apples from a cart. As he pays the vendor, he says, “About many things. Mostly about what is fair and right for the working man. You heard his speech.”
“I did. And will the same people be at the picnic today?”
“Probably.”
It doesn’t take us long to reach the park. We join a straggle of people who also make their way along the path.
“Constitution Hill, Miss Haven,” says Connolly, turning to include Ripley and me in what he has to say. The pleasant burr of his accent doesn’t quite take the chill from his words. “It’s seen three attempts on the Queen’s life, you know. And the death of one prime minister. Not a poor record at all. Pity it were only attempts, though, not successes.” He winks at Ripley, and I can’t help but look sideways at him too.
Ripley nods at the Irish man. “But I’m afraid you’ve shocked Miss Charters, Connelly. She’s probably a staunch royalist.” And I wonder if there is the slightest note of warning in his voice.
“Not at all,” I murmur, hoping to further the conversation, but another fellow joins Connolly and in not many more moments we arrive at the picnic spot, nestled beneath several oak trees. The grass squelches underfoot as I tread, still a little sodden from the earlier shower. How I hate a picnic. The flies, the ants, the uncertain weather. Perhaps as many as twenty families sprawl across interconnecting blankets and, standing about, there seems to be the same number of single males again. Some of the men only wear vests over their shirts, while most of the women have warm, woollen shawls, of chequered or paisley design, drawn over their grey gowns or white bodices. Connolly chooses a space next to a buxom woman, her giant of a husband and their four children. The woman slaps the eldest boy over the back of his head so that his cap falls to the ground, tells him to go find somebody named Ralph, fetch their quart of milk back from him.
Connolly flaps the blanket wide so that it settles across the grass, a spray of woodpigeons rising into the air, landing on the branches of a nearby hawthorn.
I make the excuse of procuring bread rolls from a coster I can see in the near distance and, weaving a slow path past chattering circles of people, I keep my ears pricked for news that might be of interest to Mrs White. It very soon becomes clear to me that most of the picnickers are Irish, and while they seem to be bent upon a merry time, I clock at least two small clutches of men who, mugs of ale in hand, speak to each other in low voices. I pause by one such group, ostensibly to look about me, but they stop talking, wait for me to move on.
By the time I return to the others, Mr Connolly’s tea things – three large pork pies, a jar of pickles, two green bottles of wine, a chunk of cheese and Ripley’s five apples – are spread across the blanket. I add my offering of bread and lower myself to the ground and, as I lean my palm and fingers against the blanket, I can feel damp rise through the thin fabric. Ripley sits with his back against the gnarled trunk of a black poplar, his long legs stretched out before him. He peels and slices an apple with a short, sharp knife.
“I still think it’s mighty amusing that we met up in Paris like that, and then bang straight into each other here as well.” His drawl sounds lazy, relaxed, but I can tell he’s alert. I’m not sure what his game is, but I might as well follow suit.
“Indeed. Especially as that tavern in Paris, and the workers’ meeting in Soho, are not my usual haunts.”
His eyes narrow, but he smiles too. “Is that right?”
“Not my sort of places at all,” I say firmly. “In fact,” here is my chance, “I found Paris terribly savage. Would you believe I was very nearly run down and killed?” I think of how poor Violette did not escape being murdered. I watch Ripley’s face closely, but he gives nothing away.
“No kidding?”
“No. I do not jest. Very alarming, it was. I returned to London directly after that.”
“But you were saved?”
I nod, picking up a piece of the pared apple.
“Perhaps someone shoved you away in time?”
I stare at him. Lucky guess? Or witness?
I chew slowly, and then say, “That’s exactly what happened.”
“Dang lucky, you were then.” He jumps to his feet. “Come on. Get up. If you insist on frequenting rowdy areas, then you need to learn some ways of protecting yourself.” He walks a short distance to a maple tree, a little way from the others.
Standing, I brush leaves and crumbs from the hem of my skirt. The buxom woman on the next rug pours some wine into a cup, while her baby kicks its bare heels in the air.
Beneath the silvery leaves of the maple, Ripley shows me how to drive the palm of my hand into an assailant’s nose; how to stomp on his foot, or kick in his knee. I’m surprised at how seriously he takes his task. The teasing smile is gone, his wide jaw quite set.
“Now, turn around. I’ll show you what to do if you are attacked from behind.”
I feel his presence at my back. I wonder if it is his breath or a gentle breeze that tickles the hairs at the nape of my neck. My shoulder blades tighten.
His large hands circle me, and I flinch, despite the park being so full of frolickers he could not possibly try anything here.
“Now, if anyone ever happens to try and grab hold of you like this…” He lifts my left arm, high, so it snakes between his hold and my ear. “And step back with this leg,” he taps my left foot, with his. “Now turn! Quick. Push against me as hard as you can as you turn.”
I give it a tentative go.
“Nice one. Try again, with more force.”
This time I put my bodyweight into it, but my movements are still too slow to make a true impact. We try it a third time, and this time I thrust so hard, I fall against his chest.
He laughs as he steadies me, says, “All right. No need to get spooney.”
Spooney! I grin too, but give him a look.
Fourth time goes more smoothly, and after I break free from his hold, he grins and says, “And then you poke him in the eye. Or run.”
My smile fades as I catch sight of a familiar face. Could it be Cyril again, slinking past the small crowd who cheer on an unruly game of football? I’m sure it’s his lank hair and pasty skin I can see.
“Is that your friend over there, Mr Ripley?” But by the time I point, Cyril has bobbed out of sight.
Ripley gazes far into the crowd, shakes his head. “Can’t see anyone familiar.”
“I thought I might have glimpsed him seated with you in the taproom of the Clover the other day.”
“Spying on me, were you?” But before I can remonstrate, he continues, “Nah. If it’s the guy I think you’re speaking of – pale little rooster? – I don’t know ’im. He was just having a snifter on his own, as far as I can remember.”
I peer around for Cyril again, but seem to have lost him. I can’t understand why the frightful little beast keeps popping up. Although, maybe I am mistaken. Perhaps there is a working-class Cyril doppelgänger roaming Soho. Frowning, I walk back to our blanket and kneel down.
“What actually brought you to London from so far away, Mr Ripley?” I ask, pouring myself some of the red wine Connolly has brought.
“Just trying to find my way home, like everyone else in this life.” He smiles, but it’s half-hearted, nothing on his usual cocky grin.
“But surely you hav
e left your home to come here.”
“Nah. I was born in Ireland, you know. County Mayo lad.”
I’m surprised. There is nothing of the Irish brogue in his speech. “You must have travelled to America at a very young age.”
“Yep, indeedy. Long ago now. My pa couldn’t feed us in Ireland, you know, back then. Terrible famine. Do you know about that?”
I nod, too ashamed to admit that no, I don’t know a lot about it.
“I remember my gran dying. Took her ages and ages too. You know when a fresh cob of corn starts out plump and pearly, but left on the shelf too long turns dry, thins out to hollow husks. Like that. It was just like that.” There’s a tautness across his mouth as he empties the bottle of wine so that it sloshes over the edge of the cup onto his fingers. “And when Ma started to go the same way, Pa upped sticks and moved us to Boston.” He gulps down half the cup. “Too late for Ma though. She died on the boat over.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr Ripley.”
“Yeah. Well. That was just the beginning of our troubles.” He takes his place next to the tree trunk again. “We swept our way through dirt and manure across the country to the east until Pa found some work in a copper mine. Lost his eye, then his life. You haven’t lived if you haven’t worked in one of them mines, I can tell you. Drenched in copper, you are. Breathe it, eat it.” He rubs the fleshy part beneath his right thumb. “Worked there until I were about fifteen years old, I reckon. Had copper sores for years.”
“That’s truly terrible, Mr Ripley.” I have nothing else to offer. I know as well as anyone the bitter taste that comes with memories of hardship. And how inconsequential another’s sympathy can be. I don’t know if it’s his story, or if it’s the wine, but I feel myself softening towards him. I could become fond of his brash ways, his constant humour, his almost brutish physique.
“So, yeah,” he continues, “I guess you could say I am in sympathy with Connolly and his friends.” He leans back against his tree, pulls his hat low over his forehead, as though ready for a nap, so I suppose he has decided he has revealed enough.
I’m not sure where Miss Haven has disappeared to, but Connolly is standing in a group of five fellows, their heads bowed in towards each other as they talk.
“I wonder what they talk of so earnestly,” I say, sipping my wine. “Poor work conditions?”
“Never know with this Irish lot. Perhaps it is some Fenian business they speak of,” he murmurs.
“Fenian?”
“You haven’t heard of the Fenians?” The brim of his hat still shadows his eyes, but I am quite sure they are trained upon me. “Irish Republican Brotherhood.”
Brotherhood? Republican Brotherhood?
I shake my head in wonder. “Never heard of them. Who are they?”
Ripley pushes his hat back again, sits up straighter. “They want a free Ireland. You’ve never heard of them?” Incredulity sharp in his voice.
Again, I shake my head, while scoring this information into my mind for Mrs White. Fenians. Republican Brotherhood. I watch Connolly and his mates, remembering his words about Constitution Hill. What would they be willing to do to achieve a free Ireland?
“And do you consider yourself a Fenian, Mr Ripley?”
But before he can reply, Miss Haven returns, telling me it is time to go back to the lodging house if we are not to face Modesto’s ire again. She seems to be a little put out, and I wonder if she’s feeling sore that Connolly has snubbed her in favour of his more political cronies. As I toss back the last of the sweet wine, Ripley insists on escorting us home, but for once he’s quiet as we walk, perhaps caught up in memories of being buried deep below the earth’s surface, with the dust heavy in his lungs and the stutter of his young, frightened heart.
A starling, its feathers a spangle of gold and black, twitters in a branch above. Its handsome plumage reminds me of my favourite ball gown and I console myself with the thought that it won’t be terribly long until I can resume my usual life filled with theatre, sumptuous dining and revelry. Not terribly long at all. But instead of feeling consoled, I feel a little bilious, uncertain of what the morrow will bring.
CHAPTER 24
AMAH
The tallow candle gutters low in its saucer, losing its struggle against the gloom of the cellar. Amah has no way of knowing if it is day or night outside. Her stomach has been scoured of any nourishment, leaving her feeling heavy with fatigue. She remembers things she hasn’t dwelt on in years, things that used to form a hopeless, repetitive loop in her mind, driving her to the very brink of her senses. The hardship she faced when what little money John left with her dried up. How sultry the day was – bringing the pong of rotting fish and clammy sea water – when she finally realised he would never return to them. The mewling of a baby’s cry; the weary chore of keeping their clothing and faces clean, so they didn’t look like the pathetic waifs that haunted the dockside slums. Amah rubs the back of her hands, remembering how dry and papery they were from washing dishes in Ping Que’s scullery; the sting of a torn fingernail quick when she helped Mrs Walters wash the sheets and shirts of the merchants’ families for a few extra shillings. How Heloise was thrown together too often with the Walters’ eldest daughter. How enamoured she became with the Walters girl’s golden hair, her freckled skin and her pretty, fairy ways. Heloise – always so foolish – whose head was so easily turned by anything that sparkled or held the promise of adventure.
Joshua enters the room, interrupting Amah’s glum thoughts, with a fresh jug of water and another plate of sandwiches. Amah turns her head to face the wall. She won’t look at him or the food. He leaves the cellar, closing the door behind himself and she listens to the sound of his footsteps fading as he climbs the stairs.
Amah frowns. Something bothers her. She tries to remember what she was thinking of before Joshua entered but, shaking her head, she realises that’s not what troubles her. It was something to do with Joshua. Her eyes take in the ink and notebook that still rest upon the table, and the food – surely poisoned – that he has left behind. She stares at the door. Joshua walked from the room, shut the door, walked up the stairs. But she hadn’t heard the key rattle in the lock.
The muscles in her weakened legs ache as she stands and makes her way across the cellar. Taking a deep breath, she grasps the door handle and turns. Keeps turning. No resistance. She pulls the door open an inch, and a cool draught of air sighs against her nose and lips. Opening the door wider, she peers up the staircase into the cavernous darkness.
Night time.
Amah fetches what’s left of the candle and returns to the doorway. By its flickering light, she gazes up the flight of stairs. Her heart gallops. A wave of dizziness sweeps over her but is immediately snuffed by the force of her determination to escape. She will not allow her weakened body to hamper this opportunity to flee her cellar prison and that dastardly couple. First, she slips off her left shoe, then her right. She wonders if she should just leave them behind, but decides she’ll carry them, use them as projectiles if need be. With one stockinged foot, she tests the bottom step, resting her weight upon it. No creak. She tests the next step with her other foot. Again, no creak. Only the fifth stair bows a little, emitting a slight squeak. Amah freezes. Waits. Her ears pricked for any trace of movement or voice. When nothing happens, she continues up the remaining stairs, until she finds herself in the hallway. A rug, the colour of port, runs its length, leading from the front door through to the back. She moves further into the hall and looks above. On the second floor, gentle lamplight flows from a room towards the back of the house. She hears a low voice murmur something, and the shrill notes of the woman’s response, but they are too far away for Amah to know of what they speak.
Amah tiptoes to the back of the house. She holds the candle aloft and sees that the room to her right is a cramped, old-fashioned kitchen. A length of wood barricades the back door. Amah gently places the candle and shoes on the floor and, cursing the trembling of her feeble arms, she
inches the bar upwards, out of its brackets. By the time she lays the bar on the kitchen table as quietly as she can, perspiration prickles her hairline.
She turns back to the door. Please, please don’t be locked too. She doesn’t know how she would begin to search for the key. Her hands shake as she reaches for the handle and when it unlatches, she almost cries out loud in jubilation. Peeping over her shoulder to check that all is still clear, she slowly pulls the door open. The first puff of air blows out the candle, but that is all right, for moonlight bathes the garden. She picks up her shoes and backs out through the doorway, closing the door softly behind. She doesn’t pause to put on her shoes but runs as fast as her jittery legs will take her across a raggedy patch of lawn and into the surrounding woods.
Twigs and prickles jab the soles of her feet through her stockings, and low-hanging branches twist in her hair and scratch her face, but she’s heedless. She just wants to put as much distance between herself and those two as she possibly can before they notice she is gone. She keeps up a quick pace and, before long, her laboured breaths wheeze from her chest and she clutches at a tight stitch in her side. She stumbles into a rut, twisting her ankle, which is already weakened from a bygone injury. Falling to her knees, she has to clamp her hands across her mouth to stop from gasping with the pain of it. She rocks a little as she massages her leg just atop where her ankle throbs.
She drags herself towards the closest tree and leans against it. Leaves whisper in the slight breeze and she wonders if she can hear the trickle of a stream not too far away. A low rustle in the undergrowth nearby reaches her ears, too bold, too light, to be from a person. Perhaps a hedgehog, or even a fox. Her eyes search out what they can in the darkness. A thick canopy of foliage blocks most of the moonlight and she can just discern the silvery night sky through the skeletal silhouette of branches. She thinks her shoes lie near where she fell, perhaps three metres away, but she’s too sore, too exhausted to crawl across the scrubby forest floor to check. She leans her head back against the tree and closes her eyes.