‘May I choose another doll instead?’
‘But they are my two finest. Perhaps they’re not quite as grand as the French beauties in Cremer’s window in Bond Street, but they’re just as good as any of the German china dolls,’ said Mr Dolly.
‘Yes, I know, and they’re much more beautiful than the French dolls,’ I said, though I had never been to Cremer’s – or indeed Bond Street. ‘But could I perhaps have one of your wooden dolls – quite a small one, though not the tiny ones that live in a doll’s house? Could I have . . . Anne Boleyn?’
‘Of course you can,’ said Mr Dolly, ‘if you’re really sure she’s the one you want the most.’
‘I’m certain sure,’ I said.
Mr Dolly went into the back room and came out with Anne Boleyn, newly attired in a jade print dress to match her green eyes and a red cloak the colour of her glossy cheeks. He pressed her into my hands. I held her close, and one of her small wooden hands touched my wrist as if she were stroking it.
‘Keep safe, Clover dear,’ said Mr Dolly.
‘I will – of course I will. You mustn’t worry about me.’ I held Anne Boleyn in my right hand, slung my sack of provisions over my shoulder, gave Mr Dolly a quick kiss on the cheek and then walked to the door. I opened it cautiously, looking for Mildred, but there was no sign of her.
‘Goodbye!’ I said, and then ran off quickly.
The sack was a little cumbersome and the ginger beer bottle banged uncomfortably against my back. I held Anne Boleyn with a stiff wrist, as if carrying a fragrant bouquet, because I knew her small wooden limbs were fragile and I didn’t want to crush her clothes. I certainly couldn’t run easily now, and after ten minutes I had to resort to an ungainly hobble.
I looked for the hansom cab stand but couldn’t see one. I had clearly failed to follow Mr Dolly’s directions. Had he said go up the street or down? Turn left or right? It had seemed so simple at the time but now I couldn’t remember.
I stood there dithering, starting to panic. How could I be lost in such a short space of time? I held Anne Boleyn tight and told myself to calm down. I didn’t really need a cab, did I? I could walk to the Strand easily enough. I peered down at my boots and raised each foot in turn to examine the soles. They still seemed sturdy. Yes, I would walk to Miss Smith’s establishment and save all the money in the purse for my future needs.
I stopped the first kindly-looking woman I saw, timidly plucking at her skirts. ‘Excuse me, ma’am, but could you possibly give me directions to the Strand?’ I asked, trying to speak as correctly as possible.
She laughed at my little speech. ‘You what, love? The Strand? What, where all the theatres are? Well, I see you’re in your best bib and tucker. What show are you going to see?’
‘I’m not going to see a show. I’m looking for a certain lady who advises young girls,’ I said with all the dignity I could muster, because I knew she was teasing me.
‘Oh, bless the child! Wouldn’t you like me to give you some advice? That would be to run along home to your mother!’ The woman laughed at her own joke.
‘I would if I could, but sadly my mother is in her grave, and my little sister too,’ I said.
She suddenly realized the significance of my black outfit. ‘Oh my dear, I’m so sorry. There’s me having my little carry-on, and there’s you with a breaking heart, mourning your loved ones! So, you need to go to the Strand, dear? Well, I don’t rightly know the way, because I have to admit I’ve never been there myself, only heard of it, but it’s up west, isn’t it? Stands to reason, because Hoxton’s east, right? So go that-a-ways,’ she said, pointing. ‘Make for Clerkenwell – then, when you reach . . . Bloomsbury, is it? . . . then it’s a little bit south, as far as I can make out. Yes, we’re east, so go west, and then south. Just don’t go north and you should be fine,’ she said. ‘God bless you, child. I’m sorry for the loss of your dear ones.’
I thanked her and set off again. I walked a very long way along dreary roads that seemed to stretch out for ever, but at least I knew I was in Clerkenwell, because that was the name of the road. I certainly wasn’t up west yet because the folk in the street looked ordinary enough. I was expecting silks and satins for the ladies and top hats for the toff gents in the Strand. I was worried that I might be chased away the moment I got there, but glancing in the windows at my reflection I saw that in Mr Dolly’s outfit I looked positively genteel, and my hair shone in the sunshine.
Despite my smart outward appearance I was feeling weary now, worn down by worries far heavier than my sack. I’d stopped looking for Mildred over my shoulder every minute, but now that fear had eased a little I kept thinking of Megs. Try as I might, I could not picture Mother under the earth, reaching out her arms and drawing Megs to her bosom. Megs would be so lonely lying there. I wondered if I should go back home after all, take my punishment from Mildred, start the daily drudgery of factory work, suffer anything at all so long as I could go to that churchyard every day and whisper reassuringly to my poor sister.
And what about Jenny and Richie and Pete and Mary and Bert? My little Bert, who might be crying for me this very instant. What of all my friends in the alley? What about Jimmy? And what about dear Mr Dolly? How could I bear not to see him any more?
I turned round more than once, but after a few paces turned resolutely westwards again, knowing that I had to take this new opportunity. It was surely long past lunch time now, so I stopped in a big green square, sat on a bench and munched on my cheese and plum cake. I started off thinking I would nibble a quarter of each and prudently save the rest for later, but I found I was so ravenously hungry from grief and exercise that I ate the lot, and drained my bottle of ginger beer.
‘My, that went down quick,’ said a gaunt-looking man with thinning grey hair. He was sitting on the other end of the bench, writing in a small notebook. I’d been so intent on my own thoughts that I’d scarcely noticed him. He was wearing a shabby jacket and the fine cord of his trousers was rubbed pale, especially at the knees, and though his boots were of good quality they were unpolished and down at heel. He spoke in a gentlemanly manner, but he looked poor. Perhaps he was hungry too. Maybe he’d been hoping that I might offer him a few crumbs of cake or a morsel of cheese.
‘I’m so sorry, sir, I’ve eaten everything. But perhaps you’d like to lick up the crumbs . . .’ I said, offering him the paper wrapping. My brothers and sisters always fought over the last crumbs of any meal we were sharing.
However, the man seemed taken aback. He laughed uncertainly. ‘I’m peckish, child, but not that hungry,’ he said. His pale face coloured. ‘Did you think I was a beggar?’
‘No, of course not,’ I said hastily, though I had wondered.
‘Oh dear, oh dear, you did! No, child, I’m just a poor poet, starving in my garret – well, not literally, but pretty near. I don’t suppose you care for poetry . . .’ He didn’t look as if he expected me to say yes.
‘Oh, I do!’ I assured him. I was very impressed. I’d never met a poet before. Mr Dolly spoke of all the writers of his volumes in awed tones, as if they were gods. He worshipped poets most of all and told me tales about them. They lived in exotic places amongst mountains and lakes, or even abroad in Italy, though Mr Dolly’s favourite poet came from London. He knew some of his poetry by heart, and often recited a very long Ode to a Nightingale. I didn’t really understand it. There seemed to be very little about nightingales – just some man feeling sad and rather wishing he were dead. I remembered the worrying part about men having sparse grey hair and being spectre-thin. I suddenly blinked at the poet.
‘I’m glad you like poetry,’ he said, holding out his hand to the sparrows fluttering all around us. ‘Why don’t you give the birds a little feast of your crumbs?’
I scattered the crumbs and they pounced on them, jostling for morsels.
‘You like birds, sir?’ I said.
‘Yes, I do. There’s nothing as determined and lively as a London sparrow,’ he replied.
/> ‘And I expect you like nightingales too.’
‘Well, yes,’ he said, surprised. ‘Though doesn’t everyone marvel at a nightingale’s song? Especially when it “singest of summer in full-throated ease”.’
I knew that phrase!
‘I know which poet you are, sir!’ I said triumphantly.
‘I rather doubt that. I am scarcely published,’ he said.
‘But I know a gentleman who knows lots of your poetry by heart and it means a great deal to him,’ I said.
‘Really?’ said the gentleman eagerly.
‘You’re Mr Keats!’
He stared at me. ‘Mr Keats?’ he echoed.
‘Yes, and you’re very romantic, Mr Dolly says, and you write about Nature. That’s the countryside.’ I paused. The poet was choking with laughter.
‘I’m not John Keats, you silly girl! How could I be? He died many years ago, for a start. Plus he was an undoubted genius and I’m beginning to think I’m just a wretched hack who can only write doggerel,’ he said, sobering.
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’ He clearly thought me very ignorant, which was humiliating. I was used to knowing more than anyone else, but perhaps I didn’t know very much at all compared to other folk. I’d been longing to go to Miss Smith’s institution to show off my reading and writing skills. What was I going to do if all the girls there were cleverer than me?
‘I’m sorry too,’ he said. ‘Sorry that I can’t make a decent living for myself, let alone my poor wife and daughter. Still, I couldn’t betray my artistic spirit. Never do that, child, do you hear?’
I didn’t properly understand – he was talking in a very grand way, clutching his heart and gesturing wildly. But I nodded all the same. ‘I won’t, sir. Definitely.’
‘So what is your most heartfelt desire for the future?’ he asked.
I tried hard to manufacture some sort of answer. Until recently I’d been so busy living in the present I hadn’t even thought of the future. ‘I’m not quite sure . . .’ Did I have an artistic spirit? I was certain I wasn’t a poet. I didn’t know enough grand words and I couldn’t make them fit neatly together, line after matching line. But perhaps I was a little artistic . . . I’d been surprised by how easy it was to chalk little pictures on the pavement. ‘I think I want to be an artist,’ I said grandly. I certainly knew I wanted to be an artist more than a factory girl.
‘Another noble creative profession,’ the poet said approvingly. ‘Have you had any instruction, child?’
‘Not yet, but maybe Miss Sarah Smith will instruct me,’ I said. ‘I’d better be on my way. Do you think I’m anywhere near Bloomsbury, sir?’
‘Near it? You’re in it!’
‘Then which way is south?’ I said, standing up and shouldering my sack. I wiped my hand on it before picking up Anne Boleyn, not wanting to get any cake crumbs on her.
The poet stood up too, and spun round. ‘Devil if I know,’ he said. ‘I’ve no sense of direction.’
‘I’m looking for the Strand.’
‘Ah. I can help you there.’ He spun me round too. ‘That way, through St Giles. Keep going and you’ll find you’re there,’ he said.
He didn’t seem to make much sense, but I hoped he was at least sure of the direction. We waved goodbye to each other and I set off, refreshed. The soles of my feet were starting to burn a little because there was very little padding in the felt boots, but they looked so attractive I didn’t mind. The sack was much lighter now I’d consumed my cheese and cake and discarded the ginger beer bottle. Anne Boleyn bounced along in my hand, looking about her with her bright green eyes.
‘We’re really up west with all the fine folk now,’ I told her.
But the folk didn’t look especially fine – bent-over office clerks and errand boys and milliner girls carrying great round hatboxes. I walked on, and the streets got smaller and darker and much more crowded, and the folk were just like the ones in our alley, only poorer still, in really ragged clothes, and most of the children went barefoot. I held Anne Boleyn tightly, feeling bewildered.
I found myself in a street of second-hand clothes shops, with ancient greatcoats and limp christening robes and faded satin dresses and patched calico nightgowns all hung higgledy-piggledy from the door frames, and old women and little children sitting on stools outside their shops, busily sewing and patching. I shrank back, terrified that one of these limp garments might have fever lurking in its folds.
‘Don’t look so feared, dearie,’ said one ancient old crone, smiling at me toothlessly. ‘Nice bit of material on your back, I see. I’ll give you a sixpence for your cap and a whole shilling for that coat. Can’t say fairer than that. Come on, it’s nearly summer – you won’t be needing them no more.’ She stood up and hobbled towards me, actually putting her misshapen old hands on my lapels.
‘Get off me! My clothes aren’t for sale,’ I insisted, prising her fingers off.
I hurried along the street, walking in the middle so that none of the stallholders could touch me. Several children ran after me, mimicking me and calling me names – but I could handle little kids. I turned round suddenly, pulling a terrible face and waving my hands in their faces, and they shrieked and shrank back.
One bigger lad was bolder, and actually pulled my beret right off my head, twirling it round his forefinger while the others laughed. I knew how to deal with big lads too. I pretended to cry, distracting him, and then whipped my foot out and kicked him hard where I knew it would hurt. I only had felt boots on, but he still doubled up and lost his grip on my hat. It went flying through the air, and I caught it neatly, returned it to my head and marched on.
I went up and down a maze of lanes, all such dirty dwelling places that our alley seemed palatial by comparison. I twice saw girls empty chamber pots and buckets out of the window straight into the street. After that I kept looking up fearfully. There was one man lying motionless in all the mire. I don’t know if he was dead or simply dead drunk. No one seemed to care, simply skirting round him, and a gang of half-naked urchins kept galloping over him as if they were horses and he a fence.
I felt sure I must have mistaken my way. This hellhole couldn’t be the West End. Miss Sarah Smith couldn’t possibly run a respectable home for girls anywhere near here. I tried to retrace my steps, but it seemed I was in a filthy maze, destined to wander round and round until I dropped.
I clutched Anne Boleyn so tightly it was a good job she was made of sturdy wood. If she were wax she would have melted. I was aware of a distant cheeping sound, as if a vast flock of birds were flying overhead, though the sky was empty. Then I turned another corner and understood.
I was standing in a great street market of caged songbirds, all clustered together and stacked one above the other, singing out in sorrow at their captivity. I knew which were starlings and recognized the bright yellow of canaries, but couldn’t tell a lark from a finch. One man had a long cage strapped round his neck, with four birds on perches that he’d somehow trained to dip their beaks into their bird-feeders simultaneously, like comical toys.
There were larger birds in bigger cages – hens attempting to peck any passer-by and great hissing geese. I skirted my way round these, and nearly stumbled into a bran tub of mealworms, still alive and writhing horribly. There were cages chock-a-block with rats, all scrambling over each other, while fierce terriers barked at them hysterically, eyes bulging.
I dodged past them all, shivering in disgust. It was better at the end, where there were more dogs in cages. I saw perky mongrels of varying shapes and sizes, funny lap dogs with little button noses, and large dogs with soft fur and soulful eyes. They were too big to be caged, and were kept tied to railings. Some stood abjectly, heads drooping, and some barked incessantly, but one big golden dog snuffled when he saw me, and ambled over to sniff me.
I put Anne Boleyn in my sack, worried he might bite off her little stick hands or feet, but the dog was docile, rubbing his large head against my coat, leaving a pattern of golden hairs
behind.
‘He’s taken a fancy to you, miss, and that’s for sure,’ said the dog-seller, a man with a large cap and a very ruddy face. ‘Be your friend for life, that one.’
‘And I’d be his friend,’ I said.
I’d never been a particular friend of any dog before. There were often strays haring up and down the alley, ready to make a nuisance of themselves, and Peg-leg Jack had his noisy terrier, but there were no calm gentle beauties like this golden boy.
‘What’s his name?’ I asked, scratching his ears, which he seemed to enjoy tremendously.
‘His name, miss? Why, he’s . . . Brutus,’ said the dog-seller.
He’d probably made the name up on the spot. It seemed a harsh one for such a sweet-natured animal.
‘Hello, Brutus,’ I said nevertheless, and the dog pressed against me, seemingly delighted that we were on first-name terms.
I stopped feeling quite so scared and lonely. I knelt down and laid my head against his back, putting my arms right round him.
‘There, what a picture! It’s as if you were soul mates already. Take him home with you, miss. It’d break my heart and his if you didn’t take him away with you,’ said the dog-seller, and he nodded and winked towards several of his mates, encouraging them to agree with him.
I knew he was simply trying to sell his dog but I went on hugging Brutus, wondering if I could possibly keep him as a companion. It would be so marvellous to have a dear friend with me. I could share my food and bed with him and he would be my devoted companion. Whenever the ache for Megs got too much to bear, Brutus would be there to hug and hold for comfort.
Would Miss Sarah Smith object if I brought a dog with me? I was sure I could train him to lie by my feet during lessons. The other girls would probably be delighted. He would act as a guard dog too, protecting us all from danger.
Clover Moon Page 13