by Nancy Carson
At about half past twelve she heard the sound outside of carriage wheels and the clip-clop of horses’ hoofs, followed by hurried footsteps echoing through the entry. The undertaker. She opened the door in readiness.
To her alarm, she was grabbed by a man and hustled down the entry. Although severely shaken, she protested volubly, asking why she was being treated thus, but it made no difference. In the street three more men were standing in the rain, huddling inside their coats to protect them from the blustery wind. To her horror, she saw that one of them was Lawson; his face was a stranger’s. The man who was holding her by the arms marched her in front of Lawson as if she were a criminal brought before a judge.
‘These men are my bailiffs,’ he said stiffly. His look was cold, resentful. ‘Since you have not complied with my notice to quit, you are being evicted.’
‘Now?’ she shrieked, incredulous, the rain slapping her face like an unforgiving schoolmarm.
‘Yes, now. You have had ample warning. You had till noon today …’ He turned to the man who was hurting her wrists. ‘All right, let go of her and get back inside …’
‘What right have you got to evict us?’
‘Non-payment of rent. I have every right.’
‘But we have a baby dead in the house, and two invalids who are incapable of walking!’ she yelled angrily. Rain was soaking into her dress and through her hair, her skirt was billowing in the wind. ‘You never wanted any rent. You agreed they could live here rent-free.’
He laughed derisively. ‘You’ll have a hard job proving any such nonsense. Landlords don’t provide houses rent-free. We’re not charities.’
‘Nor are you charitable, Lawson Maddox. I’ll pay the rent. You know I will. How much is owed?’
‘You can pay the rent if you like but it won’t make any difference. It’s too late. I’ve got folk who’ll pay good money to live here. Folk who won’t default. I can’t afford to house you and your pitiful family any longer. Already I’ve been too tolerant, lost too much revenue.’
‘I can’t believe you’re doing this,’ she hissed. ‘Just what do you think you can do?’
‘Turn round and see.’
She turned around. Her father was being carried out by two burly men, still in his chair. They set him awkwardly on the pavement in the pouring rain while he protested, feebly flailing his arms and cringing at the massive pain that was suddenly afflicting his blighted foot. As she moved to help her father Lawson grabbed her and held her back.
‘You absolute swine,’ she screeched, flailing her arms. ‘You could stop this. It’s cruel – brutal. Have you no pity? Can’t you see he’s a sick man? Sarah’s no better either. Are you so vindictive that you can show no mercy? Your quarrel is with me – not them. Leave them be. You can have your rent.’
‘Their well-being is nothing to do with me,’ he said disdainfully, his face like frozen marble, his voice as sharp as a splinter of broken glass. ‘They are not my concern.’
‘Let me help my father,’ she pleaded, changing tack as she struggled to break free. ‘For God’s sake, let me put a coat over his shoulders. Let go of me …’
She began kicking and he slapped her face.
‘Calm down, you damned harridan. I am only taking back what is rightfully mine.’
Daisy was momentarily stunned into silence. She put up her hands to ward off further blows, but none came. The unexpected fear she felt at the first blow receded.
But she knew she was beaten.
Nothing that she could say or do now would save them from Lawson’s vindictiveness.
It had not been a good morning and the rest of the day promised to be even worse. Sarah was brought out, but at least the bailiffs had allowed her to put on her dressing gown. She stood for a few seconds but had to sit down and there was nowhere else but the ground with its rain-stippled puddles. The cold and wet seeped through her clothes to her skin and she shuddered. She looked as though she was about to protest, to take issue with Lawson, but the words failed to come out of her tightly drawn lips. Another man followed bearing the crib, still with the dead child in it. He thrust it heavily onto the uneven pavement, jarring the lifeless infant.
‘Have you no respect?’ Daisy said to the man.
Lawson peered at the dead child with a curiosity that to Daisy appeared compulsive, then turned away with deliberate disinterest. She was sceptical of his reaction, wondering what his thoughts were at that precise moment. What did he know about this child? She would love to know.
The men started bringing out the furniture. To Daisy’s surprise, they began loading it up onto the cart. At first, she believed it was so that they could move it elsewhere for them, until she realised that Lawson was not nearly so charitable.
‘Where are you taking that?’ she asked him.
‘It’s going to be sold, to recoup some of my losses. Not that it’s worth a fat lot. Look at it, for Christ’s sake. Have you ever seen such tat?’
‘If it’s worth so little why don’t you leave it?’
‘I want it out of my property. What would you do with it anyway? Would you walk around with it on your back like a packhorse while you found somewhere else to live? They won’t want it in the workhouse, because that’s where you’re going to end up.’
‘Never,’ she said defiantly.
More and more things found their way onto the cart. One of the men was tying it all on, oblivious to the driving rain. Titus was shivering on the chair they had allowed him to remain on, and Sarah was weeping uncontrollably on the ground, her thin, helpless figure pathetic in the dressing gown that was absorbing water like a sponge. Her hair was bedraggled, the rain dripping though it and mingling with her futile tears.
Daisy shivered in the cold. ‘Now that you’ve taken all our furniture, will you at least allow me to go back inside to get our clothes?’
‘All right,’ he said. ‘But I’ll go with you.’
She went upstairs and from under her bed withdrew the suitcase she had brought with her from Italy. While Lawson inspected the paintwork, the walls and the ceilings of his precious property she stuffed as many clothes and shoes as she could into the case. She went into Sarah’s room and collected up her meagre belongings, then her father’s bits and pieces, which didn’t amount to much either. Her mother’s things she would have to leave; there was no way of lugging them about as well. As she struggled to shut the case she could sense Lawson, like the hunted senses the hunter.
‘Well?’ he said, filling the door frame.
‘Would you help me by shutting this case, please? Then I’ll be out of your house forever.’
He stooped down beside her, pressed on the lid and snapped it shut. As he flipped the catches on he turned to her. ‘You could have prevented all this.’
‘Ah! So it’s my fault.’
‘Of course it’s your fault.’
‘Naturally … It’s funny how you can never be blamed for anything. Whatever happens, whatever goes wrong, it’s always somebody else’s fault. Never yours. You really are quite a remarkable man never to be at fault.’
She stood up and then reached down to pick up the case. She thought he might have the courtesy to carry it for her, but courtesy was not his strong point where she was concerned. So she lifted it by herself with great difficulty and grappled with it down the stairs, Lawson behind her. It crossed her mind that he might shove her down the stairs, so she held tightly to the handrail with her free hand till she reached the bottom.
Outside in the rain, the men had finished loading the cart and one of the bailiffs asked permission to haul it away. Lawson gave it and Daisy, Sarah and Titus watched the furniture that had served them so well disappear up the hill. Lawson gave the instruction to one of them to change the locks then mockingly touched his hat, stepped up onto his cabriolet and flicked the reins.
‘Good riddance,’ Daisy muttered under her breath. She turned to Sarah. ‘Decent chap isn’t he, eh, Sarah? Exactly the sort every girl should aspire
to marry.’
‘What are we going to do now?’ Sarah asked, shivering with cold.
‘Well, we can’t stay here. I’ll hurry to the station and find a hansom. We’ll have to stay the night in a hotel till we can get settled.’
‘We’ll have to take the baby with us, won’t we?’
‘Yes, unless the undertaker comes before I get back. I’ll try not to be long.’
Before she went, she asked Titus to stand for a second or two while she shifted the chair that Lawson had allowed him into the shelter of the entry. Then, she carefully manoeuvred him onto it.
‘I won’t be long, Father. I’m going to get a hansom to take us to a nice warm hotel.’
Chapter 29
They took lodgings at the Castle Hotel in the town, but for how long Daisy did not know. What money she had would not last indefinitely. There was a funeral to pay for next week, no doubt her father would require Dr McCaskie to call after the nightmare of eviction, and perhaps even Sarah … On their way to the hotel in the hansom they detoured to deliver the dead baby at the undertaker’s in Hall Street; had they taken the body with them, as to hold on to it would have precluded them acquiring rooms. The landlord was inclined to refuse them anyway at the sight of Sarah in her dripping wet dressing gown and Titus having to be supported as he walked, both seemingly at death’s door. Only Daisy’s poignant supplication and her earnest appeal to his commercial nature, ensuring that he had sight of several gold sovereigns in her hand, swayed him. At once Titus took to his bed, glad of clean, dry sheets, blankets and a warm eiderdown, relieved to be out of the bitter March wind and the rain. The ordeal had been more than he could take.
Daisy’s priority was to find a furnished house she could rent. Meanwhile, at least they were warm. She bought a copy of the Dudley Herald and scoured it for available accommodation, but few properties were being offered furnished. One, however, looked promising. It was in Bond Street, just around the corner from Campbell Street where they had lived before. Next morning, she made her way to the address to which she had to apply and presented herself to the landlord, a Mr Willetts. He escorted her to Bond Street, ranged on each side with a long row of terraced houses with smoking chimneys lined up like sentries. He showed her around the house. The rooms needed wallpapering, the scullery needed a coat of whitewash, there were damp patches on the ceiling in two of the three bedrooms and the fire grate was none too special, but it would do. It was certainly no worse than the house in Paradise. The furnishings were not exceptional either, but she hadn’t expected them to be. Just so long as they could live there till Sarah was better, without the expense of spending more money. She paid a deposit and took the key.
On the Sunday, she went to the house to light fires to air the place; a little coal remained in the cellar from the previous occupant. Fortunately, clean bed linen was supplied, which she took from the cupboard Mr Willetts had shown her, and made up the three beds. She cleaned the windows and polished the front step and looked forward to some peace at last, some respite from Lawson Maddox’s vengeful antics.
Suddenly, like a bolt of lightning, it struck her that she would not be able to retrieve John’s letters when they arrived. She must write to Concetta at once to let her know this new address. Maybe then she would resume contact with the man she earnestly loved and missed so much. She longed to be free of the pain of emptiness and longing and grieving for his absent love.
It occurred to her that if any letters arrived at Paradise meanwhile, Lawson would collect them; he would realise who they were from and destroy them … But an even more terrifying thought struck her – he was evil enough to reply to John. He was malicious enough to write saying she had no further need of him since she’d returned to the sanctity of her marital home. A lump came to her throat. Would he really stoop so low?
It was precisely the jolt she needed. As soon as she returned to the Castle Hotel, she wrote a quick note to Concetta, unsure of the spelling of any of the Italian words. It might be a couple of weeks before she got a response; another couple of weeks wondering and worrying. Worrying not just for herself but for John as well. He must be at his wit’s end for want of a letter.
All this anxiety was taking its toll. What with the death of the baby, the obvious deterioration in her father and Sarah’s distressing ups and downs, she was feeling peculiar herself, sometimes. It was a real effort to get up of a morning. Even after a good night’s sleep she felt tired and drained. Nor was it lack of food; she was eating well. Maybe it was to be expected; it was hard work looking after her invalids.
Monday arrived. She put on her hat and coat and slipped out to post her letter. The March wind was boisterous, biting as it seared through Dudley market place. Smoke from the chimneys twisted one way then another. She walked down Wolverhampton Street, with its exotic furniture stores, jewellery shops and public houses, to the post office on the corner of Priory Street. Inside, she handed over her letter and paid for the stamp.
‘How long does it take to get to Italy?’ she enquired anxiously, recalling how long it had taken her and John to travel there.
‘Five or six working days at least,’ the assistant told her.
A week, in anybody’s language.
On her way back from the post office Daisy secured a hansom. She asked the driver to take her to the Castle Hotel and explained that her sister and father, who had to be taken to a house in Bond Street, were both infirm. He was most obliging, assisting Titus and Sarah, whose clothes were several sizes too big for her, into the house. He even helped Titus upstairs and settled him into the clean bed that awaited him, then lugged the heavy suitcase upstairs. He wished them the best of luck as Daisy sent him off with a generous tip.
Sarah said she would sit up a little while. As Daisy unpacked their clothes, Sarah decided to help but was overcome by a feeling that she was going to faint, so lay on her bed and watched, incapable of helping more.
‘You were going to show me that Italian dress you wore,’ Sarah said. ‘Remember?’
Daisy rummaged through the case and found it. Smiling, she held it up. ‘This is the one …’
‘Oh, put it on, our Daisy. I’d love to see what you look like in it.’
Daisy stripped to her underwear and slipped the dress over her head. It was made of linen and a rich crimson in colour, with a rounded neck that swooped tantalisingly close to her cleavage. The sleeves were close fitting and three-quarter length and it was tight at the waist. She shoved her hands into the pockets on either side of the skirt and twirled around.
‘Oh, it’s lovely, our Daisy. It don’t half show your figure up.’
‘It’s an Italian style for Italian women. Italian men like to see their women to best advantage.’
‘But the poor folk you told me about wouldn’t wear a dress like that, would they?’
‘They probably wouldn’t buy one, but maybe they’d make one similar.’
‘Can I try it on, Daisy?’
‘I think it would swamp you at the moment. Let’s wait till we’ve built you up a bit more, eh? Then you’ll look a treat in it.’
Sarah smiled. ‘Yes, I need to fatten up a bit more, don’t I? I’m still too scrawny.’
‘Oh, you’re on the mend. You’ll soon fill out.’
Inside one of the pockets Daisy felt a scrap of folded paper. She withdrew it and looked at it, puzzled. She opened it up. As she read it she felt her insides drop. It was the address in England – in Paradise – that she should have handed to Concetta so that she could divert John’s letters. How on earth had she forgotten to hand over anything so important? No wonder she had received nothing. Concetta wouldn’t know where to send the mail. Yet in another way it was also a blessing; Lawson would pick up none of John’s letters. At least John would be safe from his vindictive fancies.
One of the first things Daisy had to do was buy some provisions. At the market place she stopped to buy vegetables and oranges. She made her way to Devis’s the butchers and bought some liv
er, to Lipton’s for tea, sugar, butter, cheese, lard and a loaf of bread till she could intercept the baker’s van. As she came out of Lipton’s, a wreck of a girl passed in front of her carrying a child. Yet another ailing young mother who had the look about her of being neglected, certainly unmarried. The girl turned and spoke to Daisy.
‘Mrs Maddox … It’s yourself, is it not?’
Daisy looked at the waif horrified; she thought she recognised her. The thin, haunted look had not totally destroyed what had once been a pretty face; the green eyes were still wide and alert. ‘It’s Caitlin, isn’t it? Caitlin O’Flanagan.’
‘That’s right, ma’am. I’m pleased you still recognise me.’
Daisy did not know what to say. Although the girl was carrying a baby it seemed too intrusive to mention it. Odds were that Lawson was the father. But Caitlin was a bag of rags, pale and emaciated. It could have been Sarah she was looking at.
‘I got a baby, ma’am,’ she said, stating the obvious.
Daisy smiled uncertainly. ‘I was just about to ask whether it’s a boy or a girl.’
‘A girl. Seven months old.’
‘She seems quite small for seven months, Caitlin.’
‘Oh, that she is. I didn’t think I was going to rear her. But I was lucky. She pulled through. We both did.’
‘Were you ill as well then?’
‘Oh, you could say that, ma’am. But I’m getting better.’ She smiled affably, putting Daisy at her ease. ‘We both are.’
‘And your husband?’
‘I’m not married, ma’am.’
Daisy was itching to ask whether Lawson was the child’s father but it was too soon, and too personal a question.