Make More Noise!

by Emma Carroll

  What? No!

  I spotted a flash of bare feet disappear behind the cart and round a corner. That cabbage was mine! I saw it first! I picked up my skirt and gave chase. But it was like everyone in Covent Garden was on the thief’s side – the barrow boys, the housekeepers, the nannies, even the horses were against me. They closed round behind him, moved in front of me, wheeled their prams and barrows into me. I slumped against a pillar. I didn’t have enough food in me to keep running. My sides felt like they’d been kicked by one of those carthorses. My breath sounded like it was whistling a tune. My breath? No, that wasn’t me. Someone was blasting on a penny whistle. And I could hear a trumpet too.

  The musicians were by the church railings. There were two girls. The one playing the trumpet was about my age. The younger one was blowing the penny whistle like an angry policeman. A small boy was sitting cross-legged at their feet, one arm waving the cap at passers-by, the other wrapped around a cabbage like it was his favourite toy. My cabbage.

  A flower seller was slumped against the railings next to them, her bonnet drooped over her face, her basket of blooms wilting like she’d begged the broken ones from the stallholders and had tried to tie them together with string. There was a baby on her lap. It was wrapped in an old shawl, sucking its finger. For a second I thought of our little brother, still and silent in the bed beside Mama until Nanna wrapped him in a blanket and took him away.

  The cabbage-thief glanced at me, then looked back, eyes wide. We stared at each other.

  A woman stooped to drop a few coins in the cap. Suddenly the flower girl sprung to life as if there was a ghost behind the railings tugging her strings.

  “Miss! Miss!” She held up some lily of the valley, the blossoms drooping like they were still asleep. “Miss!”

  The woman glanced down, gave a little smile and walked on.

  “Miss!” The flower girl was on her feet, the baby still in her arms as if it was glued there. She grabbed the basket of flowers. “Miss! Please buy some! They’re half price! My baby’s sick! Miss!”

  The woman glanced back. She mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”

  But I didn’t care about her words. It was her face. It looked like mine. Not the way that Angel’s was like mine. She couldn’t be my sister. But her skin was light brown and she had dark, dark hair swept beneath a plain grey bonnet. For a moment our eyes met, then the flower seller caught up with her. And she was hurrying off, the flower girl keeping pace by her side.

  A woman. Who looked like me. A woman in clean clothes that fit her properly, who wasn’t pushing strangers’ washing around a metal tub. She wasn’t sweeping sawdust around the table legs and chair backs or walking backwards out of the butcher’s shop because she didn’t want to feel the shame burning into her back. A woman. Who looked like me.

  I breathed in. I felt like my tiredness had been swept away with the swish of her skirt. A horse clopped by, its cart full of bulging sacks of vegetables. A porter strode past, a stack of flower boxes balanced on his head. There was laughter behind me. A little boy and his sister were playing hide and seek in the cemetery. My pockets were still empty, but they didn’t have to be.

  I walked over to the musicians. The child’s eyes widened and he grabbed the cabbage so hard it jerked out of his hands and rolled across the cobbles. He lunged for it, but I got there first. I picked it up. The trumpet player stopped.

  “Don’t you go near him!”

  I dropped the cabbage back in his lap. “I wasn’t going to.”

  “Well, clear off then.”

  “I want to sing with you.”

  “You what?”

  “I can sing!”

  The girl with the whistle scowled. “You can’t.” She turned to the trumpet player. “She can’t, can she, Enid?”

  Enid shook her head. “We’re not splitting four ways.”

  I glanced at the empty cap. “You can’t split nothing four ways. Just let me try.”

  Before they could say anything else, I took a deep breath in, opened my mouth and let my voice curl round the tune. All Things Bright and Beautiful.

  Ding! It was five o’clock! Dong! But Enid wanted me to stay for one more tune. Ding! I had to get home for Angel! Dong! The cap was heavy with coins but the posh opera folk would make it heavier. Ding! But Bernard… Dong! Bernard.

  I promised Enid I’d be back the next day, shoved my share of money in my pockets and ran.

  The clock at Liverpool Street Station said five to six. My heart felt like it was going to jump out of my mouth and run down the road by itself. I hurled myself through our front door, pulled myself up the stairs and stopped. A blanket had been nailed across the door space. And there were voices coming from the other side.

  I slid down the wall on to the dirty floor. Bernard had done it. He’d thrown Angel out on to the street and given our room to someone else.

  “When Victoria comes…”

  I sat up straight. Victoria. Did they mean me? No, I knew about five other Victorias. But the voice – that sounded like Angel. Not the tough, loud Angel I knew before, but definitely Angel!

  I forced myself to stand up. I pushed the blanket aside. My sister was sitting at the table with a bowl of steaming soup in front of her. Soup?

  A woman I’d never seen before was sitting next to her. She turned to look at me. Her face was kind and open. A man was standing by the fireplace. He was short and thin. It looked like his jacket could go round him twice. He was frowning.

  I ran to my sister, the coins knocking together in my pocket.

  She smiled. “I told them you’d come, Vicky.”

  She picked up a spoonful of soup and offered it to me. I shook my head and it sloshed back into the bowl, the spoon clanking against the enamel.

  “I tried to get her to eat.” The woman put an arm round Angel’s shoulder. “You have to eat, love.”

  “My soup,” the man muttered. “That’s my good soup the girl’s got.”

  The woman twisted round and glared at him. “Stop it, George. You’ve had yours already and there’s more in the pot.”

  “Even so, Lou. She’s taking food right out of our own children’s mouths.”

  The dirt-smeared windows let in so little light, I hadn’t noticed the children huddled on our bed. Two of them must have been twins, with another smaller one between them. None of them could have been more than five.

  Footsteps. Workboots slamming down on wooden stairs. Lou shoved herself away from the table and went and crouched by her children, arms around them. Her husband, George, turned towards the cold fireplace.

  Angel opened her mouth. “Bernard.”

  “It’s all right,” I whispered. “I have the money.”

  The blanket was yanked from the doorframe, threads left dangling down from the nails. A pale fist, knuckles cracking. Angel huddled against me.

  I took her hand. Her fingers were as light as a ghost’s. I couldn’t see Bernard’s face, but I could smell him. Blood and smoke and street dirt.

  Lou’s voice from the corner. “You’ve no right to come in here. We’ve paid. Tell him, George!”

  George didn’t turn round.

  In the room above, I could hear Mrs Sweeting dragging her tub across the floor. Her baby was crying. One of Lou’s children whimpered.

  Lou’s voice had shrunk, but I heard her. “George? Please.”

  George clutched his jacket around himself, then turned to face us. “We paid you a week upfront, Mr Vickery.”

  Bernard snorted. “You paid for your family. Not for these two. That’s extra.”

  I said, “I have money.”

  I dug in my pocket, pulled out the coins and held them in my palm. Three heavy footsteps. My head filled up with Bernard’s stink. I could hear Angel’s breath, in and out, quick, like she wanted to speak but had lost her words. I closed my eyes. The coins were swept from my hand and the footsteps headed away. They stopped.

  “You’ve bought one more night.”

 
; My eyes snapped open. “Another night? That’s enough for a week!”

  A laugh from the staircase. “Didn’t your new friends tell you? Rent’s gone up.”

  George rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “It seems like we’re stuck with you.”

  “George!” Lou stood up, hands on her hips. “That’s uncharitable. And they paid, you saw them!”

  “None of that money’s going into our pockets, Lou. Are they getting breakfast on the house too?”

  “Stop!” Lou stepped towards him. The twin was crying louder now, sobs that made the heavy air shake.

  I stood up. “He’s right. You’re under no obligation to us.”

  Angel’s fingers scrabbled against my shoulder. “Let me go to Mama. Please.”

  I kissed her cheek. My lips were damp from her crying. “No, Angelica. You have to stay here. Lou? Please can you look after my sister?”

  “No,” Angel said. “Just let me go.”

  “Lou,” I said. “Can you?”

  Lou nodded. “But you don’t have to go.”

  But I did. Other than our globe and Nanna’s bonnet, Angel and I had nothing left in the world. Even if we had somewhere to stay tonight, what would happen tomorrow?

  London night. Light and shadows. The moon was hidden behind the clouds. The street lamps had been lit, but voices called from dark corners. This time I was lucky. I crept on to an omnibus at Old Street and the conductor let me stay.

  Covent Garden Market was closed but it still felt like the whole of London was there. Ladies in fur jackets and heavy, sweeping skirts strolled arm in arm with gentlemen. Flower girls sat by every lamppost calling out their wares, their baskets of blooms by their sides. A barrow boy pushed past me yelling out, “Fried eels.” My stomach tightened.

  Enid, please still be here! I weaved my way through the crowd towards the church. Please, Enid! Please!

  But an organ grinder had taken their place. He had a little monkey on a leash dressed in a tiny jacket and trilby. He was pulling on the leash trying to make the monkey dance, but it was fighting to get away.

  “Sir!” A woman bent over the monkey, trying to untangle the lead from around its neck. “This is needless cruelty.”

  The monkey shot forward, teeth bared. The woman jumped back.

  The organ grinder smirked. “It’s a cruel beast, madam.”

  The woman straightened up. It was her! The one who’d walked off across the square with the flower girl pleading at her heels. The one with skin the same colour as mine.

  “A cruel beast indeed,” she said. “But I’m not talking about the monkey.”

  She managed to unloop the lead and headed away. I ran after her.

  “Miss!” Her dark-blue dress wove between the opera suits and lush silks and velvets. “Miss!”

  I hadn’t noticed the puddle of water and wet leaves. A flower girl must have emptied out her bucket. I slipped and flew forward, grabbing a handful of the woman’s jacket.

  She spun round. “Thief!”

  “No! I’m not a thief!” I glanced around, in case a policeman had heard her. Luckily I didn’t see any. I let the soft fabric fall through my fingers. “I just … I just need to talk to you.”

  Her face softened. “Have we met before?”

  She remembered me! “This afternoon. Right here, by the musicians.”

  “Oh, yes.” She sighed. “Are you here by yourself? You look so young. What do you want from me?”

  “I … I want…” But what did I want? She didn’t look rich. What could she do for us? “It’s just me and my sister. We’ve got nowhere to go. Angel’s been sick since our grandma died and we’re going to end up in the workhouse.”

  She gave me a little smile. “Is that so bad?”

  My breath stopped. Didn’t she know? DIDN’T SHE KNOW? I swung round and walked away. I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  “Sorry. I’m not from London. I don’t always understand. Is the workhouse really so bad? I don’t know. I’ve never had the misfortune to have to enter one.”

  Her eyes were shaded by her broad hat. Her face was hard to read.

  “Yes,” I said. “It is. They don’t really want to help us so they make it as bad as possible. Me and Angel, we’d be split up. I’m strong, but Angel – she isn’t. I don’t know what to do.”

  “I don’t know what I can do. I have so little money.”

  “Mrs Vickery’s our landlady. Her son, Bernard, took all my money. Maybe you can talk to her.”

  “I don’t know. Why me?”

  I touched her hand, the same light brown as me and Angel, then touched mine. “Please?”

  “I’ll try,” she said. “That’s all I can promise. What’s your name?”

  “I’m Victoria.”

  “Hello, Victoria. I’m Miss Malvery. Olive Malvery.”

  We took a cab back east. Miss Malvery bought some bread, hot pies and apples to bring with us. The driver dropped us by Liverpool Street Station and Miss Malvery followed me through the dark narrow streets to our home.

  I pushed open the front door but Miss Malvery let it swing shut. We were in darkness. She breathed in sharply. I reached behind and offered her my hand. She took it, holding it tight. I knew every groan and dip of those rotting steps.

  The blanket had been nailed back over the door. I pulled it aside. George stepped forward towards us.

  He glanced at Miss Malvery, then at me.

  “She’s gone,” he said.

  Gone? Who?

  I looked round the room. Lou was sitting on a stool by a small fire. The children were top-and-toe in bed. The table had been cleared. Angel’s chair was empty. My heart felt like it was punching itself.

  “Where is she?”

  Lou half rose. “We tried to stop her, Victoria. We really did.”

  “Did she say where she was going?”

  Lou and George swapped a look.

  “To find your mother,” Lou said.

  Each beat of my heart, a thud of pain.

  “Is your mother far away?” Miss Malvery asked.

  I tried to say the words but my mouth felt too heavy to move.

  She was still holding my hand. She squeezed it. “Would you like me to come with you?”

  I nodded.

  There weren’t so many street lights near our home. The gas lighters didn’t like coming here in case they got robbed. But the public houses were well lit and candles flickered in the windows of the houses. We passed the men queuing for the lodging house and the old women dressed in tattered black who always sat on the benches in Itchy Park. Miss Malvery wanted to know where they slept. I knew that some of them lived in the broken-down sheds crammed between the privies in the back yards. Others slept on the benches in the day and walked the street at night. We walked past the building where Mama used to work. There was just one small window in that room where she and five others made artificial flowers for rich ladies’ hats. She had to work quickly as she was only paid for each flower. But each one had to be perfect or else she wouldn’t get any money for it. She’d been sent away when the gossip reached the supervisor that Mama was expecting a child. That was my poor little brother who never opened his eyes.

  I was the first to see Angel, on the corner of Vallance Road and Fournier Street, leaning against Whitechapel Union Infirmary wall. She was wearing Nanna’s bonnet. It was light grey in the gloom, but on bright days the colours seemed to glow, especially the blue flowers Mama made specially to decorate it.

  I ran up to Angel and wrapped her in my arms. She was only wearing a thin dress.

  “Here.” Miss Malvery draped her own shawl around Angel’s shoulders. I pulled it tight and pinned it in place.

  “Angel?” I didn’t want to say the words that were bubbling up through me. “Mama’s not here any more. Nanna told us. Do you remember?”

  The shawl hadn’t made much difference. Angel was shivering so hard I thought she’d fall apart.

  “We need to get her into the warmth,”
Miss Malvery said. “Would you like some hot chocolate, Angelica?”

  “Our brother died.” Angel’s voice almost faded into the night. “Mama said she still saw him when she was sleeping. He’d be alive and smiling at her. She said she just wanted to carry on sleeping. She wouldn’t…”

  “She wouldn’t eat or drink,” I said. “She wouldn’t talk to us.”

  She’d just lain in bed with her face turned to the wall, her cheeks powdery from the dried tears. In the end, Nanna had brought her here hoping the doctors could help her. She’d died two weeks later.

  “Sorry,” Angel whispered. “I should be helping you, but sometimes everything seems so hard. If I wasn’t around, it would be easier for you.”

  “How can you say that? You’re my sister! I love you more than the world.”

  Suddenly her arms were around me too, her face in my hair, like the times we used to snuggle up under the blankets while Mama sang to us.

  Miss Malvery’s arms circled both of us. “I’m sorry too.” She held us closer. “So sorry that you were left alone and had nowhere to go. I’ve rented a room in Covent Garden, next to Enid and her family. Though it’s not much better than your home now.”

  There’d be no Bernard. And we’d have Miss Malvery.

  “If you stay with me tonight,” she said, “we can try and find you somewhere more suitable tomorrow.”

  I whispered, “What do you think, Angel?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Please.”

  “Good.” Miss Malvery steered us away from the infirmary. “Enid said you sing well, Victoria. I’m a music teacher. Did you know that?”

  “No, Miss Malvery.”

  She sighed. “There’s no reason why you should know.” She wiped her eyes. “There are so many things that I don’t know too.” She glanced back at the infirmary. “But I think that now is the time for me to find out.”

  Olive Christian Malvery (1877–1914) was born in Lahore, now in Pakistan. Her parents were English and Indian. She came to London when she was twenty-three and was shocked by the way poorer women were treated. She made friends with the women, living in the same run-down rooms, working in the same jobs as them and pretending to be homeless so she could experience the workhouse conditions. She wrote about the experience in magazines and books, and campaigned on behalf of the women all her life. When she married, she invited costermongers from Hoxton to be her bridesmaids and a thousand working women as her guests.