by Maggie Ford
At least he wasn’t eating. He’d lost all appetite, shuddering under the covers, trying to sleep off aching limbs and pounding head. With no handy coins to feed the gas meter and one candle left, he lay with only the distant street lamp to see by.
The wood for a fire was running out too, and if he were not to end up dead from cold or starvation, he’d have to shift himself soon. He thought the flu pains were not quite so bad as they had been yesterday and perhaps if he wrapped up well and went out, he might feel better. Once on his feet …
Forcing himself up, still dressed in his top clothes for extra warmth, he took his coat off the bed and put it on. Something made him pick the instrument up from the table. The touch of it against his hands seemed to bring back a little strength. Tentatively trying the handle that turned the carborundum wheel against the strings, he gently pressed the keys, played a bar or two. Yes, he could do it, he’d go out.
There came an instant thumping on the floor above his head, a faint but furious voice demanding, ‘Shut up that bloody row!’
He ceased instantly; with a rueful smile replaced the instrument. Taking a sip of water from a chipped mug, he reached for his bowler and his muffler. He had no incentive to shave, he who had once been so meticulous about his appearance. The muffler would hide the stubble as well as the scar. He grimaced as he thought of the scar.
The wind caught him a mighty swipe as he stepped out into the street, making him gasp. But it had its compensation in that it would help to clear his muzzy head. He’d take up that pitch outside the Swan. It wasn’t too far, just a few hundred yards from here. He’d stay there just long enough to feel better with himself.
The Swan was all bright and welcoming after her short but cold traipse. As she neared, Emma caught the familiar thrum of the hurdy-gurdy and felt her heart race. Strange, why it should. Taking control of the feelings the sound prompted, she turned into the noisy pub without looking in the direction of the music. She was getting Ben his beer. That was all. Yet there were things she’d have liked to know about the hurdy-gurdy man: why he struck her as being different from the usual run of street musicians, why he behaved as though used to being obeyed. People in his station were never commanding, bullying maybe, shouting and hollering, but this quiet authority wasn’t what she was used to. She yearned to find out more, but this wasn’t what she was here for, she told herself as she carried on into the pub without looking his way.
Neither the public nor the private bar was crowded, and outside only two or three people had paused to hear what the street musician was playing, but mostly heads were bent against the stiff wind, eager only to seek the warmth inside. No children danced this evening, though three or four ill-clad urchins stood huddled against the pub porch out of the wind, grateful for any warm air issuing from the opening and closing of the swing doors as customers went in or out. Should an urchin be foolhardy enough to seek the warmth of the pub’s brightly lit entrance, he’d be sworn at and cuffed aside.
Her jug full, Emma could no longer resist crossing the few feet of uneven pavement to where the player stood in the kerb. He looked chilled to the bone. His muffler was wound about his ears to come well up over his nose, so that only his eyes were visible beneath the worn bowler. It was the eyes that arrested her attention and took the smile from her lips, replacing it with a look of concern.
She too had her ears covered against the raking cold, but even that knitted shawl couldn’t quite combat the December weather. The man was shivering. He looked ill. Emma was instantly full of concern.
‘You shouldn’t be out in this weather,’ she blurted.
‘Go away, child. Mind your own business,’ came the deep growl, the voice cultured despite its irascibility and being smothered by the muffler.
She ignored the reprimand. ‘You ought ter go ’ome. Yer look ill.’
She glanced down at the cloth bag at his feet. In it were two pennies, a couple of ha’pennies and a button. How long had he been here in order to reap threepence and a contemptuously thrown coat button? For some time, by the looks of him. The tips of his fingers protruding from a cut-down pair of once fine leather gloves to leave them free to manipulate the hurdy-gurdy’s keys were blue. He was shivering and his eyes were inflamed and puffy.
He had ceased playing though no one now was even bothering to listen. He seemed near to collapse.
‘Please go home,’ she begged, but his only response was to order her to leave him alone, that he could look after himself well enough.
‘No yer can’t,’ she said as she saw him stagger slightly. Perhaps she was sticking her nose in but it was all too obvious that he needed help despite what he’d said. ‘I think you should go home. I’ll help you.’
Almost aggressively the arm she offered was shrugged off. ‘I need no one’s help. I have never needed …’
His voice died away and for a moment he gazed at her, then slowly inclined his head. It was all she needed.
‘Come on!’ she ordered, picking up the bag with its pitiful contents and stuffing it into his coat pocket.
While he clung to his hurdy-gurdy and she to the pole and her full jug of beer, she held his arm as best she could. No one appeared even to have noticed them leaving, everyone too cold to care, they too looking for warmth somewhere, either at home or in the pub. The urchins huddled by its door shivered on – no one to see them home, if indeed they had a home.
Emma asked where he lived, in sudden dismay that it could be miles away. She was relieved to find it was only a step. Of course, he couldn’t have come any distance in this weather. Even so, he moved so slowly, so painfully that it took a while, the wind whistling through the arch under the railway, before they reached one of several creosoted doors in an alley, one that connected Three Colts Street to her own street. In fact, her friend Lizzie lived just round the corner in Grenade Street. Quite fortunate, came the thought. Perhaps she could look in on him tomorrow on her way to Lizzy’s and see how he was. The way he looked he’d not be going far.
What Emma hadn’t realised was that someone leaving the pub had seen her leading the musician away. He stood for a moment, then dashed back into the pub where he’d left his mate, Ben Beech, to say what he had seen.
‘Thought I ought ter tell yer,’ he gabbled excitedly. ‘Clinging to ’is arm, she was, like they was lovers. Street musician, he was, twice ’er age.’
Ben glared. ‘What makes yer think it was ’er?’ Moments after Emma left for the pub, Ben had gone too, preferring to drink with mates. Seeing her waiting for her jug to be filled, he’d crept by to sit in a corner until she’d gone, then went over to some faces he knew at the bar. He’d been surprised to see Reg, who had just departed, come rushing back, full of what he’d apparently witnessed.
‘I’d know yer sister’s flaming ’air anywhere, even with an ’at and scarf on.’
Em had lots of lads lusting after her looks and the way she had of carrying herself. Lots would have liked to know her better, but always fussy, she never let them get far. But Reg had said this bloke looked twice her age, and a street player at that. ‘You sure it was ’er?’ he pushed.
The smaller man nodded. ‘Sure as I’m standing ’ere. I just thought you ought ter know.’
Yes, of course. He was the only one in the family left to protect her. His face twisted suddenly. He glowered at his informant. ‘If yer right, I’ll ’ave ’is guts fer garters. If yer wrong, I’ll ’ave yours!’
Reg paled. ‘I’m tellin’ yer the truth. I saw ’em, wiv me own eyes.’
Ben’s half-empty tankard was slammed down on the wet counter, and with heavy shoulders hunched and big fists clenched, Ben made for the door, thrusting aside groups of drinkers as he went. Even so, by the time he got outside there was no sign of her or the man Reg had been so sure he’d seen her with.
Chapter Four
Reaching his door, Barrington shakily turned his key in the lock before glancing at Emma. ‘Thank you for your help, my dear. I can manage now.’
She would have let it go at that except that she could feel his arm shaking beneath her hand. The fact that he’d gone out on such a night in his state convinced her that he probably had little or nothing to eat or any warmth. Neglected, he could so easily go down with pneumonia.
‘I really ought to ’elp yer indoors,’ she offered. ‘Make yer a cup of tea or something. To warm you up.’ He looked to be on the point of collapse and before he could make any objection she had guided him inside, away from the bitter cold.
‘Where d’yer keep yer matches?’ she enquired, needing to light the gas mantle on the wall. She was told there was no gas but there was a candle. In the feeble light as the wick spluttered then strengthened, she bit her lip at seeing the state of the place.
This room was what he called home? Where she lived was poor, with its flaking and smoke-darkened ceiling and plaster, but Mum had made it into a home, with a welcoming if small fire; sweeping, scrubbing the floors, fighting the bugs that crept from behind peeling and discoloured wallpaper. With no money for luxuries like new wallpaper and paint, she at least tried to cheer it up with pictures cut from old magazines she found. But this place was sheer squalor, no fight put up against a landlord’s neglect, no care to improve on what it was. How could anyone live in such a place?
Emma glanced at the cardboard boxes stacked up against one wall, leaving hardly space for the narrow bed, a chair and small table on which stood a tin kettle, a mug and an open tin of condensed milk. She looked back at the boxes. What on earth did he want all those for?
She lifted the kettle and heard the water slop inside it. ‘’Ave yer got any tea?’ she queried. ‘They do say tea’s a medicine, yer know.’
‘There is nothing I need.’ The cultured voice, vying strangely with its surroundings, was terse. ‘Thank you for your help. Now you must go.’
Despite the weary tone, it was a command. Command or not, he was in no state to be left. Emma stood her ground.
‘Let me light a fire for yer before I go. It’s freezing in ’ere. Yer too ill ter be …’
‘I said leave me alone. Please.’ The sudden strength in his voice startled her. But he could die if left to his own devices.
‘I’m lighting a fire,’ she said firmly, ‘and making you a cup of tea before I go, if I can find it.’
‘There is none left. There is nothing.’
His earlier commanding tone had deserted him, and for a moment she stared at him. This was the sound of a man defeated, who’d lost heart and was about to give up. Illness did that to a person already at rock bottom, hope of any future allowed to die. Perhaps he too preferred to die, have whatever had brought him to this depart with him.
It seemed to her such a terrible end, all alone on a wretched bed in a freezing room surrounded by all these cardboard boxes. What were they for? He could have used them to keep himself warm at least. But a man without a woman to care for him, be she mother, sister or wife, was a lost soul. A woman with the natural instinct for self-preservation made the home, caring for her man, seeing his children fed. Likewise a woman should have a man to fend for her. Even if he beat her or drank away his wages, it was better than being at the mercy of an unkind world. Emma felt a cynical smile touch her lips. She and her mother might as well be alone against that world for all the help and protection they got from Ben.
Pushing the thought aside, she glanced again at the boxes, each held together with string. ‘Yer could make a nice warm fire with them.’
He shot to his feet. ‘Leave them alone! Go home! I can … can see to myself …’
The effort must have drained him and he sank back on to the edge of the bed, his back to the tiny, dusty, bare window with its surrounding wall of broken plaster. All he could manage was, ‘They are all I have.’
Emma remained glaring at him. ‘What’s in them?’ She wanted to add, ‘that’s so precious,’ but thought better of it.
‘My work,’ came the reply. ‘My lifeline. Were I to sell what they contain, I might as well expire.’
‘Yer might well expire if yer don’t get something warm inside yer,’ she warned. Already she had reached out and was ripping the top off one of the smaller boxes while her patient sank back, too weak to resist.
It ripped easily, being damp from the air of the room. Would it burn? There were some sticks of wood beside the grate. Quickly she laid the bits of cardboard in the rusty grate, laying the sticks crisscross on top. Not much of a fire, but certainly better than nothing.
There was probably a kitchen at the back of this house, and a tap where she could fill his kettle. What about tea? He said he had none. There came another thought. The beer she’d bought. She had put the jug down on the table. Beer was food as well as drink.
The contents of the small box, exposed when she’d torn off the top, now halted her as she reached for the jug. Inside the box were several packs of brand new cards. Questions immediately began to race through her head. A gambler. Had he gambled all his money away, reducing him, an obviously cultured man, to penury?
There were also a lot of coloured handkerchiefs. They looked like silk. A red one was wrapped around a metal box. But she was here to help, not pry. Emma poured some of the beer into a mug she found on the table. Ben would be furious finding a half-empty jug. She wouldn’t think about Ben just now. But she would have to leave soon or he’d be doubly furious.
As she handed the mug to her charge, her elbow caught the edge of the box, knocking it to the floor. The metal one tumbled out, the lid popping open, strewing silver coins across the floorboards.
Emma stared at them in disbelief. What was there was enough to feed a whole regiment for weeks, or someone like her for months. All sympathy vanished. Here she’d been sacrificing Ben’s beer as well as delaying getting home, and what for?
She frowned at him. ‘What’s these?’
He had slipped his muffler down to drink. The scar no longer alarmed her, but the wealth of stubble on his cheeks and his moustache uncut and ragged only increased her newly found contempt.
‘Well?’ she repeated when he did not reply. ‘There’s me ’elping you ’ome, thinking you was starving, and ’ere is all this money. Who are you?’
His broad mouth beneath the moustache was working as though with indecision as he gazed down at the spilled coins.
‘I suppose I should be honest with you,’ he said at last.
‘So I should think,’ she blazed. ‘There’s me putting meself out for yer, and probably getting meself inter trouble with me brother fer giving you ’is beer. He’s going ter be in a proper rage when he finds ’is jug only ’alf full.’
‘I’m sorry. I’ll pay for the beer,’ he said.
‘And so you ought,’ she snapped, still unforgiving, still stunned by the sight of all those gleaming coins, more than she’d ever earned in her life. Several half-crowns, quite a few florins, a good sprinkling of shilling pieces and even some five-shilling pieces, there had to be at least five or six pounds lying on that floor. It was only right he should pay for the beer. With it she could refill the jug. Ben would be none the wiser.
‘I think you must ’ave a nerve, living in these conditions when you ain’t even poor. And leading me on ter thinking you was.’
That he was far older than her, and as such should be respected by someone her age, didn’t occur to her in the frame of mind she was in. As far as she was concerned, he didn’t deserve her respect. People she knew had to skimp and scrape, clinging to their bit of pride usually by a thread, and here he was, rolling in money, with the cheek to go out begging.
All this she blurted out as with an effort he bent to pick up the fallen coins, slowly and painfully returning them to the tin to put it back into the cardboard box, which he placed beside him on the bed. Emma felt that she could have been talking to herself for all the attention he was paying her and it made her feel even angrier.
‘You ain’t even listening ter me,’ she raged. He looked up at her.
�
��You think me nothing less than a fraud. I have my reasons. Ones you could never comprehend, my dear. You are young, so young. You think you have seen much of life, but you haven’t. Not yet. What is your name, child?’
He seemed to have been unruffled by her outburst, and in fact, it was an effort for him to talk, his breathing so harsh. But the question took her by surprise. After all she’d said to him, he hadn’t even turned a hair.
‘Why should you care?’ she challenged.
‘You have been very kind. I merely feel that I would like to know.’
His continuing mildness mollified her a little. ‘Emma Beech,’ she said in a tone intended to convey that she still hadn’t forgiven him.
‘Emma,’ he repeated slowly. He was wheezing less, the beer probably helping a little. ‘Is that a shortened version of your full name?’ As she stared in confusion, he elucidated. ‘Is it short for Amelia?’
She understood. ‘No, Emily.’
‘Amelia is prettier. Amelia Beech. It has a nice ring to it.’
She didn’t care what sort of ring it had or what he thought pretty. Her name was none of his blessed business anyway.
‘What’s your name, then?’ If her demand was audacious, she wasn’t repentant, but it prompted the hint of a smile that for a moment made him appear younger than she suspected him to be.
‘My name is Theodore Barrington. The Great Theodore. Perhaps you have heard of me.’ When she shook her head, his smile became wry.
‘I was famous, you know. I am … was, a magician. I have appeared before royalty.’ The smile deserted him and his voice became deep and sad. ‘But no more. That was nearly a year ago. Ah, how one’s life can so quickly change!’
‘But you’ve got money,’ she reminded him. ‘So why live like this?’
She swept out an arm to encompass the degradation around him, but his gaze was vacant, as though he were somewhere else.
‘When my wife was killed,’ he murmured, ‘the fine reputation I had so carefully acquired over the years went with her.’