by Mez Blume
He nodded knowingly. “Far from ‘ome, eh?”
“She’s staying with me. Now what did you want to say to us?” Imogen snapped.
“Oh, nuffink. Just, I couldn’t ‘elp noticing that the pair of you seems, well, out of place, shall we say. So I says to meself, ‘Dobbs,’ I says, ‘what could two innocents like them be doing in this part of town without a chaperone on a Christmas Eve night?’ Then I reckons to meself, ‘they looks as though they could do with an ‘elping hand.’ And as it just so ‘appens, mine is the most ‘elpful hand a body could wish for. An’ as it’s Christmas an’ all, I reckoned as I’d offer it to you. So, what’s your predicament? Lost? Runaways? Criminals?”
“I don’t see how it’s any of your business,” Imogen answered in her haughtiest tone.
“We need a place to stay,” I said. I felt as wary as she did about giving away too much information to this strange boy; but we were in no state to pass up an offer of help. It might just be the only one we got.
Arty Dobbs sat back with an appraising look. “’Aven’t you got a gov’nor or gov’ness? You’re dressed strange enough, but never ‘ave I met a street urchin wot looks like the two o’ you.”
“We’re not urchins,” Imogen retorted. “My father is a very important financier.”
“Why ain’t he lookin’ after you, then?” Dobbs didn’t miss a beat.
Imogen faltered a moment before replying haughtily, “He’s away on business. As is my mother. We need a place to stay for the night, and that’s all you need to know.”
He bit his dirty fingernails in thought, then snapped his fingers. “I know just the place. Could take you there too… for a small token of… gratitude.”
“You heard the bartender,” Imogen snapped. “We don’t have any real money, if that’s what you mean.”
“Thought you said your pa was an important financier.”
Imogen shot him her iciest glare.
“Never mind,” I said, pushing myself up from my rickety chair. “Come on, Im. We’ll just find someone else to help us.”
“Hold your ‘orses.” The boy put his hand out to stop us. “What about that?”
His eyes fixed on Ramona’s sketchbook pressed tightly under my arm. While waiting at the bar, I’d slipped it out of my satchel to make sure the ape man’s head hadn’t done any damage to it.
“Looks like genuine leather. Book like that could fetch an ‘efty price at the pawn shop.”
I stuffed the sketchbook down into my bag, feeling fiercely protective. “This is not for sale. Let’s go, Imogen.”
We elbowed our way through the tavern and out onto the street. No sooner had we braced ourselves to face the snow flurries than the boy and his dog flew out in front of us, he blocking our way with his outstretched arms. “A’right, a’right. No need to get saucy. I’ll tell you wot. I ‘elp you now in the spirit o’ Christmas ‘n’ all, and we agree on a suitable token of thanks later.”
Imogen looked hotly sceptical.
“And what exactly is this place you intend to take us to?” I demanded, trying to sound tougher than I felt in that moment, shivering from a blast of cold wind and desperate for a hot drink and warm bed.
The boy crossed his arms over his chest with a smug expression. “A charity lodging for girls. ‘S not far from ‘ere. Run by a couple of spinsters, the Misses Turvey. I’ll escort you there meself now and make introductions, ‘ow’s that?”
I could tell Imogen didn’t trust this boy Dobbs, but, like me, was battling a desperate desire to believe there really was a safe, warm room awaiting us out there in the unwelcoming night. On the other hand, there was definitely something fishy about his over-eagerness to help… I felt certain he wouldn’t be going out of his way unless he expected to get something out of the bargain. What if he really intended to lead us right into a den of criminals? From the looks of him, he was more likely to keep sewer rats for company than charitable spinsters.
After a moment’s hesitation, Dobbs shrugged. “Unless you’ve got a superior offer…” He doffed his hat, bowed low so the shoulders of his oversized coat slid right up around his ears, then straightened up and, returning the hat, turned as if to walk away into the night.
At the very same moment, a shadowy figure appeared beneath the stone archway to the pub’s entrance. A hulking, ape-like figure, breathing quick, raspy breaths like a rabid animal.
“Katie,” Imogen breathed in terror, “Is that…?”
Two bloodshot eyes glowed in the lamplight.
“Wait!” I lunged for the boy and clasped his shoulder. He stopped and turned his impish, grinning face to me.
“Dobbs, right? We’ve decided to take you up on your offer after all.”
4
A Book by its Cover
London was silent except for the echoing sound of Dobbs whistling ‘Good King Wenceslas’ merrily to himself as he led us down Fleet Street. Eventually, the dingy, overhanging buildings gave way to well-kept, stately brick ones. Up ahead, an enormous castle-like building rose up against the night sky like something from a fairy tale, and, in the middle of the wide road, an iron dragon perched on top of a tall pedestal as if guarding the way from enemy intruders.
“What is this place?” I whispered to Imogen as we passed under the dragon’s shadow.
She peered up from the dragon to the castle. “Oh, I recognise this.”
“I thought you said you was from London, Miss?” Dobbs said over his shoulder. “To be sure you must know the Royal Courts. All the fancy folk came out for to see the new statue put up for the Queen some years ago.” He nodded towards the dragon statue.
I moved to get a closer look at the pedestal and noticed the carved figure of a crowned lady holding a sceptre. “Is that Queen Victoria?” I asked.
Dobbs stopped in his tracks. Now it was his turn to look sceptical. “’Course, it’s Queen Victoria. Who else? The Queen o’ Sheba?”
Ignoring his sarcasm, I crossed over the road and began searching the pedestal up and down until I found what I was looking for. The letters MDCCCLXXX. I’d studied Latin numbers just last term at school and quickly worked it out. It was the date, the year 1880.
“I don’t suppose you remember exactly how many years ago this statue went up?” I asked Dobbs.
He wiped his nose with his dirty fingers. “Matter o’ fact, I do. Was the same year as me mum died o’ the pox. I was seven then, ‘n’ I’m a man o’ twelve now. You can do the sums for yerself.”
“Five years ago,” I said, then added with a meaningful glare at Imogen. “In the year eighteen-eighty.”
She caught the look and her eyes grew wide. “Oh. You mean… it’s eighteen-eighty-five?”
I nodded, then quickly smiled at a confused Dobbs. “Thanks, Dobbs. That’s all I wanted to know. And I’m really sorry about your mum.”
Dobbs shrugged. “S’a’right. She’s better off in ‘eaven than in the slums, like before. An’ anyway, I’m better off than most o’ the London Arabs who ain’t got no parents, ‘cause I got Betsy, ‘n’ Betsy ‘n’ me, we’re as thick as thieves ‘n’ all.”
“Did you say Arabs?” Imogen questioned.
“’S right. Street Arabs. You can’t live in London ‘n’ not know ‘bout us Arabs?”
“Well apparently you can,” Imogen retorted.
Dobbs cast an incredulous look over his shoulder. “But there must be ‘undreds, maybe thousands of us. Mind you, we stay ‘idden well enough when we wants to, but still, you can’t miss us. We Arabs is everywhere. Why, we own this city!”
“By Arabs, do you possibly mean… street children?” Imogen asked in a somewhat softer tone.
“If you like.” Dobbs answered, walking along in the same confident gait. “Personally, I prefer Arabs, bedouins or the monkey tribe of the metropolis. You can take your pick.”
Imogen and I shared a look of amazement. “Do you mean,” I asked, “that you and these other Arabs don’t have a home at all? But where do you sleep at
night?”
“Wot, me?” Dobbs puffed his chest out. “We sleep wherever we please. Haycarts, railway carriages, rooftops when the sky’s clear…” He talked as if these arrangements were a great luxury. “It’s the rambling life for us, ain’t it Bess?”
The bulldog bucked her enormous head and snorted in agreement.
I didn’t know what to say. Dobbs was the same age as me, a boy of twelve, and hadn’t a soul in the world to care for him, not even a place to call home, just like poor Oliver Twist. I thought all of that was just in books, but here was living proof that such sad things actually happened to children in London once.
We walked along silently for a bit, then Imogen tried to change the subject. “Your dog looks like she’s seen better days. What happened to her?”
“’S the other way ‘round, Miss,” Dobbs replied with conviction. “Old Bess ‘as seen worse days, ‘n’ plenty of ‘em. She was bred for the fightin’ pit, see. When she lost a fight, her old master left her in the pit to die. I found her nigh ready to give up the ghost ‘n’ managed to nurse her back to ‘ealth, ‘n’, well, she’s my dog now ‘n’ the best, most loyal dog as a body could wish for.” He stopped long enough to bend down and plant a kiss on the scar-faced bulldog’s slobbery cheek.
“Will she let me stroke her?” I asked.
“‘Course!” He laughed. “She’s gentle as a dove to friendly sorts.”
I bent down and stroked back the bumpy folds on Betsy’s forehead. She was pitiful to look at, but as her doggy eyes, so full of gratitude and contentment, met mine, I felt a lump rise in my throat. All in an instant, my distrust of Dobbs melted away. I straightened up, prepared to follow our guide in full faith. His heroic rescue of Betsy proved him trustworthy in my book.
The rest of the journey passed in no time with Dobbs telling tales of how he escaped from the workhouse and “took to a company of sailors” who taught him cards and magic tricks, and about the time he hung off the back of an omnibus all the way to the town of St. Albans before the driver noticed him and made him walk the whole way back to London. Only he didn’t. He caught on to the first carriage that passed and rode into town “like the gentleman I am,” as he put it. I forgot all about my numb, wet feet listening to his tales of cunning and adventure, and was just considering whether the life of an Arab was perhaps not so pitiable after all, when we turned a corner and Imogen exclaimed, “It’s Covent Garden! Oh my gosh, I love this place. Mum takes me to the Royal Ballet just up there,” she said, pointing.
Dobbs crossed his arms over his chequered chest. “I said I’d ‘elp you, no questions asked. But if you don’t mind my askin’, I still can’t see as ‘ow you’re in need o’ charitable lodgings when you’re a regular of the Royal Ballet? ‘Aven’t you got a fine ‘ome of your own to go to on Christmas?” Dobbs wasn’t giving up until he got some answers.
Imogen sighed, then replied coolly, “Fine. I’ll tell you. My parents went abroad for Christmas and left my cousin and me with our horrible old aunt who beats us. So we ran away to find lodgings until they return. That’s all,” she added with a toss of her hair as if her far-fetched story were perfectly every-day.
Dobbs accepted the story without the least hesitation. “Glad as ‘eck I ‘aven’t got an aunt like that. Come on then. Place is just around the corner, up ‘ere on Long Acre.”
“I’ve never seen Covent Garden this quiet,” Imogen observed as we passed the columns and frosted glass of the market pavilion. The wind rattled the panes of glass and howled down the long, empty arcades like a ghost engine pulling into an abandoned train station.
Dobbs whistled. “Won’t be quiet come mornin’. Christmas Day ‘n’ all, this place’ll be positively ‘eaving with business.”
I’d almost forgotten! Tomorrow was Christmas. Our adventure to survive the night had driven all the festivity out of my mind. Normally I’d be bubbling over with excitement and unable to sleep on Christmas Eve, but at this point, all I wanted was a bed to fall into.
“’Ere we are!” He threw out his arms like he’d just performed a conjurer’s trick. “Your lodgings, me ladies.”
It was a tall, absurdly narrow brick building sandwiched between two larger buildings like a dill pickle between two buns. A sign hung over the front door, in bad need of fresh paint but still legible. Imogen read out the words – The Misses Turveys’ Hostel for Girls of Good Character – then turned to Dobbs and asked, “Are you sure this is the right place?”
“Wot? You are of good character, ain’t ya? Don’t go tellin’ me after we’ve come all this way that you’re a couple o’ she-pirates.” He looked hopeful.
“Don’t worry,” I assured him. “We’ll make sure the Misses Turvey don’t find out.”
Dobbs pulled a string on the chipped red door and a bell jingled inside. When a moment passed and nothing happened, Dobbs reached up to pull the bell again. Just as he did so, the door creaked slowly open and two very different faces peeped out at us, each topped with a frilly night cap.
A pinch-faced lady squinted doubtfully at us. “What is it? What do you mean by disturbing us at this hour, and on Christmas?”
“Oh Agatha,” the other, a soft, smiling lady, said. “They’re only poor children.”
Dobbs doffed his top hat and made a sweeping bow. “A Merry Christmas, Miss Turvey. Miss Turvey. Arty Dobbs at your service.” He stepped aside and gestured to the pair of us. “I’ve brought a couple o’ girls o’ the very best character wot as find themselves in need of lodgings. Might you ‘ave any place for ‘em?”
The pinch-faced Miss Turvey stuck her candlestick through the crack in the door to light up our faces, then dropped the light to look at our clothes. Her eyes widened behind her half-moon spectacles. “From whence, may I ask, do these girls come?”
Dobbs stepped in and explained the sad story of our abusive aunt. “Won’t be but a few days afore this one’s parents return to London, an’ ‘er pa will be that grateful to you. ‘E’s an important… uh… wot was it, Miss? A fine-nan-seer?”
“He’s a financier,” Imogen corrected. “And I’m sure he’ll be very happy to pay you for our time here when he returns.”
Inwardly I cringed, knowing the payment would never come. But from the changed expression on the lady’s face, Imogen’s assurances had done the trick.
“Oh, well. In that case.” She opened the door and said in a much more genteel tone, “Do come inside, my dears.”
On the threshold, I stopped and turned back to Dobbs. “But where will you go?” I asked. “You can’t sleep outside in this weather. Couldn’t we ask if you can stay here too?”
Dobbs looked scandalised. “I can’t stay ‘ere. It’s for girls!” He gestured to the sign as if I were thick. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, Miss. There’s a shed for livestock just the other side of the market–”
“Livestock?”
“Ya know wot livestock is, don’t ya? ‘Orses, goats, pigs, sheep…”
“I know what livestock is,” I interrupted. “But what’s that got to do with anything?”
“Ah, well, I was gettin’ to that, wasn’t I? Samson – ‘e’s a cart mule wot’s kept in that shed – not treated too well, mind, so ‘e’s always ‘appy to see Bess ‘n’ me.” He scratched his head. “Not that ‘e can see very well. Only got one eye, see?”
I shook my head. “Wait. So you’re spending the night with a one-eyed cart mule?”
“’Course!” he said. “Bess ‘n’ me’ll sleep like roy’lty in all that hay.” Before I could say another word, he tipped his hat and leapt down the steps two at a time with Betsy lumbering after him.
I watched the pair of them disappear into the shadows to the whistled tune of ‘Good King Wenceslas’ and felt a swell of gratitude mixed with amusement. Dobbs had been true to his word. He had helped us without another mention of the ‘token’ for his trouble.
In the future, Katie, I scolded myself, don’t be so quick to judge a book by its cover.
5
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The Misses Turveys’ Hostel for Girls of Good Character
“Come in. Come in. Let us get you out of that snow!” It was the other Turvey sister who now bundled me through the door, throwing her own shawl over my shoulders. We stood just inside the door in a dark, poky hallway at the foot of a dark, narrow staircase.
The Turvey sisters’ up-lit faces seemed to hover in the darkness, eyeing us. I thought again that the two could not have been more different. The one was long and thin, like stretched taffy. Her large watery eyes blinked at us behind her spectacles as she dabbed her long nostrils with a handkerchief. Her grey hair was pulled so tightly beneath her nightcap that it gave her an even more stretched, dismayed expression.
The other Turvey sister looked as soft and plump as a peach. Her head hardly reached her sister’s bony shoulder, but her full, round face, framed in little white curls, smiled adoringly up at us. It was she who spoke first.
“I’m Effie Turvey and this is my sister Agatha, and you are very welcome to our home.” She smiled all the time she spoke. “The house was left to us by our late father, the Reverend Aldous Turvey,” – as if on cue, she raised her candle to light up a portrait on the wall of a sombre-looking man with bushy lambchop sideburns – “who devoted his life to bringing the Good News to the people of China.” Lowering the candle to her rosy face, she continued, “We have dedicated this house to helping poor and needy girls in honour of his memory.” She finished the speech with a little curtsey. “And what might your names be?”
“I’m Katie,” I answered, and this is my cousin –” Imogen’s stomach gave a magnificent growl.
“Imogen,” she finished sheepishly.
With a gasp, Effie took Imogen’s and my hand in each of hers. “Poor lambs! Bless my soul but they look half frozen, do they not, sister?”
“I’m sure they do, sister,” Agatha croaked, grasping the banister post with one hand and laying the other, which clung to a frilly handkerchief, against her forehead. “I could hardly be expected to notice, my nerves are so very rattled. Of course, I wouldn’t dream of complaining about being woken from a sound sleep in the middle of the night, and at my fragile age. ‘Tis our charitable duty to suffer like the martyrs of old, and,” her watery eyes turned dramatically towards the ceiling, “I count myself a martyr.”