The Forgotten Children

by Anita Davison

  Sally only just made it onto the pavement before the driver pulled smartly away.

  ‘Charming,’ she said with a sniff. ‘Good job we didn’t ask him ter hang about.’

  ‘Which wasn’t at all likely to happen,’ Lydia said, setting off away from the clamour of the main road and down a narrow side street lined with high red-brick walls darkened to a sooty black, the street lamps non-existent.

  Flora had imagined rows of neat cottages separated by low stone walls, shabby and utilitarian, but cosy. Instead, she was faced with a double row of tall, depressing tenement buildings blocking out the sky on either side of a dirt road filled with stinking rubbish. Between them ran rows of back-to-back houses that resembled crooked paperboard boxes, the streets little more than dirt alleys.

  Women stood around in groups with an occasional grubby child at their legs, their shawls clutched over creased, patched skirts, glaring at the small party who passed in morose silence.

  ‘I’m beginning to feel conspicuous,’ Flora complained, accustomed to her own neighbourhood. Her gaze remained averted but for a brief acknowledging nod or a raised hat. Instead of stepping aside to let her pass with a polite bow, the women squared their shoulders and stood their ground, or simply glared as she passed; their bold, impertinent stares making her uncomfortable.

  ‘Whatever you do, keep walking,’ Lydia whispered. ‘Or you’ll be missing your bag and probably a pair of gloves before you can turn around.’

  ‘It’s that bad?’ Flora grimaced with distaste as she skirted a pile of horse droppings that looked so old, even the flies had lost interest.

  ‘Maybe I’m exaggerating, but it pays to be on your guard. Oh, and the discharge from the factories causes that grittiness in the air. Your eyes will be sore after a while.’

  ‘I appreciate the warning.’ Flora blinked, though more from anticipation than real discomfort. ‘Do most people here work in the factories?’ she asked as they moved along a row of scruffy houses, each of three storeys with one level half-below ground.

  ‘Some do. Others try to make a living by casual work on the docks or the railway. Secure work around here is hard to find.’

  ‘The houses aren’t very well maintained,’ Flora whispered, indicating the paint that peeled from window frames, broken railings and doors that hung lopsidedly from rusted hinges.’

  ‘The landlords don’t care, that’s why,’ Lydia snorted. ‘As long as their rent comes in why should they spend money on paint and window glass?’ Her voice took on a cynical edge. ‘Those fortunate enough to qualify for rooms in The Peabody Buildings have a better life.’

  ‘Peabody what?’ Flora picked her way over a pile of debris from discarded packing crates that threatened to twist an ankle. She cast a look behind her to ensure Sally and Abel were keeping pace, the pair engaged in conversation. Abel’s loping stride made Sally almost skip along beside him to keep up.

  ‘Blocks of flats built by some American philanthropist about thirty years ago.’ Lydia eased round a deep puddle in the cracked and uneven pavement. ‘If you have a secure job, are of good character, you could qualify to rent rooms there. Better than many of the private landlords. Oh, yes and you have to be able to prove you’re married to the partner you want to live with. Don’t look so shocked, Miss Prim. You’d be surprised how many couples here aren’t legally spliced.’

  ‘You’re right, I probably would be. What are the Peabody Buildings like?’ Flora couldn’t imagine they would be worse than the crumbling, shabby buildings she had seen that morning.

  Lydia shrugged. ‘Fairly basic, though at least they have indoor plumbing, even if it is a communal standpipe in the hall. Most people rent two rooms, but four is not unheard of, though when they were first built two or even three families had to share a sink on the landing. Changes have been made since those days, with proper kitchens being installed in many of them. You have to abide by the rules though. For instance you cannot nail anything to the walls, even pictures, and if a tenant is ever found to be drunk, he’s out. The superintendent keeps an eye on everyone and is quick to report rule-breakers. Oh, and no wallpaper as it might harbour vermin.’

  ‘Which sounds sensible.’ Flora wondered briefly how Lydia knew so much about them.

  ‘Sensible? Have you got vermin in your wallpaper at Eaton Place?’ Lydia shot her a hard look.

  ‘I very much doubt it – oh yes I see what you mean.’ Flora swallowed aware she had insulted Lydia in some way.

  A group of ragged children stood at the corner, huddled around what at first glance Flora took to be a man slumped in a wooden crate. On closer inspection, she realized it was a pair of trousers and a torn jacket stuffed with rags and straw. The head was a stuffed sack with a face drawn shakily on it, two bushy eyebrows and eyes fixed on a remote point and strands of brown wool arranged to look like hair sticking out from beneath a faded flat cap.

  ‘Penny fer the Guy, miss?’ a child with a dirty face pleaded.

  ‘This is a tradition I do know something about,’ Flora whispered, delving into a pocket of her coat where she had placed several threepenny pieces and a few sixpences for just such an occasion. ‘Where do they burn the Guys, not in the streets surely?’ She glanced round at the narrow streets with their dilapidated houses, brick walls and cobbled alleys full of rubbish.

  ‘They’ll find a patch of waste ground somewhere to build their bonfire.’

  ‘’S’only a penny, miss,’ the smallest of the group said. ‘Don’t need no discussion ’bout it.’

  ‘Don’t you go cheeking the lady,’ Sally snapped, sending him back a pace.

  ‘It’s all right, Sally.’ Flora couldn’t help admiring the boy’s confidence. ‘Here.’

  His eyes followed the course of the dull brass-coloured coin as it spun in the air towards the hat, his mouth breaking into a wide smile.

  ‘Cor thanks, missus!’ He pushed up the brim of his hat and gave her a triumphant smile.

  ‘You’re too soft, Flora.’ Lydia tucked her arm through hers and pulled her away. ‘You’ll see a lot of begging before the morning is over. Don’t be too free with your generosity, or you’ll run out of coins in no time.’

  ‘It’s a tradition, and besides, I don’t regard a penny for the Guy as begging,’ Flora said.

  ‘I suppose you’re right, and I used to do it myself when I was young. We put potatoes into the base of the bonfire before it was lit, so by the time the flames burned down, they were cooked to perfection.’ Lydia brightened a little at the memory. ‘I still don’t think baked potatoes without that hint of ash taste quite the same.’

  The row of terraced houses on the next street was in a far worse state of repair than the ones they had just left. The plaster had broken away in places, leaving patches of lathe showing through. Windows grimy with dirt made them almost impossible to see through and some had no glass at all, only a sheet of sacking fixed with nails to split and rotting frames. Lopsided steps led to cracked and split wooden front doors offering little or no protection from intruders. Shabby, faded clothes in dull colours hung from lengths of string slung between windows.

  The slippery ground underfoot dipped in the middle, where rainwater and rubbish had accumulated and spread. The smell of damp wood, ordure and boiled cabbage dominated, overlaid with more earthy, feral smells that made her eyes water.

  Flora’s foot slipped in a pool of greasy water and she stumbled, steadying herself with a hand on the nearest wall. Something small and brown scurried out from a hole in a nearby wall and ran close to her foot.

  ‘Is that a rat?’ Flora gasped, pointing, though whatever it was had gone.

  ‘Possibly,’ Lydia said, cheerfully.

  ‘Have you hurt yourself, miss?’ Abel sprang forward, a frown of concern in his brown eyes.

  ‘A minor slip that is all, but thank you.’ She waved him away, watching as he dropped back to walk with Sally, her face turned up to him in infatuation. ‘I cannot wait to get home and have a hot bath.’ Flo
ra shuddered as she picked her way across a dirty puddle. Not a blade of grass or even a weed broke the flat grey buildings. A tree would suffocate among these streets where so many were forced to live in such depressing surroundings.

  ‘A luxury most people down here don’t enjoy.’ Lydia’s voice took on a sharp edge. ‘Have you any idea how much it costs to heat coal for hot water? Let alone the price of soap in relation to an ordinary family’s weekly income?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to suggest anything.’ Flora slowed her steps, startled by Lydia’s tone.

  ‘This is the first address on your list.’ Either Lydia didn’t appear to notice Flora’s surprise, or chose not to as she pushed open a lopsided gate with its middle spars missing.

  The house was narrow, little more than the width of a door and a small window, set between two waist-high walls forming barriers between neighbours. The bowed step bore the indentation of many feet, and in the absence of a door knocker, Lydia rapped her fist hard on the split wood.

  ‘It’s very quiet.’ Flora looked up at the blank windows, sensing silent watchers on the other side. ‘Sinister almost.’

  ‘Most people will be at work at this time of day,’ Lydia said, when the front door remained stubbornly closed against her onslaught, its peeling paint showed it had once been a darker colour. ‘Those who have jobs that is. Women and children too.’

  ‘I feel it’s wrong that such young children should have to work so hard.’

  ‘Children to us, maybe, but to the factory owners, a nine-year-old is perfectly capable of working a ten-hour day at the ovens.’

  ‘I thought the 1880 Education Act put them in school where they belong at that age?’ Flora worried her bottom lip with her teeth as guilt made her question why she had not given the matter more thought until now.

  ‘Legally, yes. But plenty are forced to earn a living to help support their families. It’s the way of the world.’ Lydia heaved a sigh. ‘Of this one anyway. It’s a different country down here.’

  ‘You appear to know a great deal about life here.’ Flora stole a glance at her friend’s impassive profile, intrigued, but before she could question her more the door squeaked open on rusty hinges revealing a man in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, his eyes narrowed at them in suspicion.

  ‘What do ye want? Me rent’s paid up till the end of the week.’

  ‘It’s not about your rent, Mr Fletcher, I assure you.’ Flora pretended to consult the list Miss Finch had given her, although she had memorized it. ‘Is this where Albert Fletcher lives?’

  ‘Bertie is me sister’s boy. She passed away three years ago, may she rest in peace.’ The scepticism in his voice suggested this was in debate. ‘I’m Joe Briggs.’

  ‘My apologies, Mr Briggs.’ Flora summoned her most winning smile. ‘I was given this address by St Philomena’s Hospital. We believe Albert recently suffered a bad case of bronchitis.’

  ‘He did that, but they fixed him up at the ’orspital. What do you want wiv ’im?’

  ‘I’m glad to hear your nephew is better, Mr Briggs.’ At her signal, Abel handed her the basket. ‘We brought some food to expedite his recovery.’

  ‘Ye’d best come in.’ He cast a swift glance at the alley over their heads before he stepped back and nodded them inside.

  Sally and Abel remained outside, though even with the three of them the tiny front parlour still felt cramped. The house appeared to consist of one room with a door in the rear left open to reveal a tiny scullery with a cracked porcelain sink beneath a grimy one-paned window. A step in one corner with a rickety wooden door that only just covered the opening led to a narrow staircase that wound sharply upwards. Flora speculated that there was no more than one room above and, apart from the scullery, only an outside privy in a paved rear yard.

  A set of uneven shelves had been nailed to the wall above a scarred dresser containing a meagre collection of miscellaneous pots and a pair of dull pewter candlesticks with snubs of burned-down candles. The walls had been papered sometime in the distant past, the ghost of a pattern still visible in the corners.

  A scratched wooden table and three mismatched chairs sat under the front window, a home-made rag rug before a tiny grate, now empty. Though the autumn day was mild, damp still leached from the walls to make the room smell musty.

  ‘Take a weight off.’ Mr Briggs cocked his chin in the direction of two wheel back chairs in need of some beeswax polish. ‘I’d offer yer tea, but this ain’t the Savoy.’

  ‘We don’t expect it, Mr Briggs.’ Flora licked her lips to play for time as she debated how to begin.

  ‘The matron at the hospital told us Bertie had missed his clinic appointment,’ Lydia said, displaying no such reticence. ‘We trust he hasn’t suffered a relapse?’

  ‘He din’t need no appointment. Not now he’s better and the cough has gone. He didn’t go cos I don’t have time to tek ’im. I ’as to work ya knows.’

  ‘Of course, although you’re not at work now.’ Lydia nodded pointedly at an enamel-faced clock that sat on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Nay, well me shift don’t start till three.’ His bland expression gave no indication he had just fallen into his own trap. Clinic appointments were always in the mornings, so he could easily have accompanied Albert.

  Flora plucked a wood-framed sepia photograph from the tiny dresser; the room so compact, she only had to reach a hand to touch virtually everything in it. ‘What a handsome boy?’ She studied a fair-haired child of about ten with large eyes and an unsmiling, full mouth. ‘Is this your nephew, Mr Briggs?’

  ‘Aye.’ His eyes narrowed again, the fingers of one hand flexing as if he would snatch it away from her. ‘Everyone says he’s a good-looking lad. Most people thought he were a girl until he were five.’

  ‘May we see Bertie?’ Flora asked, though she could detect no sounds that a ten-year-old boy occupied the tiny house.

  ‘Nah, he ain’t ’ere. He’s gorn to stay with me sister.’ At Flora’s enquiring look he checked himself. ‘I mean, me other sister.’

  ‘How nice for him.’ She replaced the photograph gently. ‘And where does she live?’

  ‘Sussex.’ He shifted his feet as if the subject made him uncomfortable. ‘I thought the air would do ’im good.’

  ‘That’s very considerate of you. And your sister.’ Lydia glared at him, suspicion clear in every plane of her face. ‘I know that county intimately. Whereabouts in Sussex?’

  ‘Uh, well.’ He performed an awkward twist of his mouth, accompanied by a quick jerk of one shoulder. ‘By the seaside it is. He’ll get some clean air and be right as rain when he gets back.’

  ‘I’m sure he will.’ Flora softened her tone so as to counter Lydia’s harsh one. ‘When are you expecting him home?’

  ‘I dunno. When me sister sends him, I expect.’ He advanced on the basket Flora had set on a shaky table, its surface marked by years of use. ‘So, what ye got there?’

  ‘Since Albert, I mean Bertie, isn’t here, we might as well go.’ Lydia hooked the handle over one arm. ‘Good day to you, Mr Briggs.’

  The man’s face fell and Flora’s conscience got the better of her. She halted Lydia on her way to the door, withdrew a brown paper wrapped packet from the basket and held it out. ‘Take this anyway, Mr Briggs. And I’m sorry we missed Bertie.’

  His expression softened and he muttered his thanks as he shut the door on them.

  ‘Sussex my hat,’ Lydia grumbled once they had gained the street. ‘I doubt that man has the first idea where the boy is.’ She glared at Flora. ‘Why did you give him the food after he had blatantly lied to us?’

  ‘I felt sorry for him,’ Flora replied, giving the façade of the sad little house a final look. ‘Besides, there’s not a lot of point taking it all home again.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right, and I shouldn’t be ungenerous.’ Lydia set off at a swift pace down the path, her anger implicit in the set of her shoulders.

  Chapter 11

  The next addres
s on Flora’s list was two streets away and even less appealing than the last. The door creaked open on rusty hinges revealing a surly woman who might have been any age between twenty and thirty-five. She smoothed work-reddened hands down a patched skirt gripped firmly by a small child with a face so dirty it was impossible to determine the sex.

  When pressed with a combination of Flora’s persuasion and Lydia’s shortness, she became vociferous in her insistence it was none of their business where her Martha was.

  ‘We were merely enquiring how your daughter fared after she left the hospital,’ Lydia trotted out her standard response to open hostility. ‘I’m sure some nourishing food would aid her recovery.’

  ‘Martha ain’t me daughter. She’s me brother’s girl.’

  ‘Where exactly is your brother?’ Flora asked.

  ‘He went ta find work up north, cos there’s been none here for weeks. Not for him anyways, what with his liking for the beer and the foreman at the docks sayin’ he ain’t reliable. He didn’t send me nothing for Martha’s keep neither.’ She wiped her hands again but it seemed to make no difference to the caked dirt embedded in her ragged fingernails. ‘St Phil’s fixed her up and when she got home a lady called and offered her a place in service, so I let her go.’

  ‘What lady was this?’ Lydia demanded, one brow raised in scepticism.

  ‘I don’t recall what she called herself. She came to the door and said she needed a tweenie.’

  ‘And you let Martha go, just like that?’ Flora said.

  ‘It were a good position.’ She gave the shabby room a cold stare. ‘Better’n she gets here.’

  ‘Where did this woman take her, Mrs—’ Lydia left the sentence hanging.

  ‘Flaherty’s me name. And I dunno do I? Somewhere in the country she said. I’ve never been further than Deptford so it meant nothing ta me.’

  ‘Surely she told you the name of a town or village?’ Flora asked more gently in an effort to dilute Lydia’s confrontational tone.

  ‘Don’t ’ave an address as such, but Martha promised to write when she could. Now, are you going to give us some of what’s in that basket or what? Martha might have fallen on her feet, but I’ve still got three nippers under four ter feed.’