A Mother's Promise

by Dilly Court

  ‘Now hold on a moment, mate,’ George said, taking a step towards him. ‘I’ve got a legal document to prove that Miss Huggins and me are the lessees of the premises in Artillery Lane.’

  Maitland glowered at him. ‘I think you’ll find, if you take the trouble to read the small print, that no alterations are to be made to the internal structure of the building without the consent of the owner.’

  Hetty pushed past George; she could see that anger and outraged innocence were not going to get them very far. She managed a tight little smile. ‘Mr Maitland, I intend to turn the premises into a coffee shop, and this means that I need a counter, but that is all. We wasn’t knocking holes in the walls or anything.’

  The senior constable cleared his throat. ‘Do you wish to make formal charges, sir? If not, I suggest you continue this discussion elsewhere.’

  For a moment Maitland looked unsure of himself. ‘I – well, I need to consult the owner of the premises.’

  ‘Did you plan all this with that snivelling little bastard Clench?’ George demanded in a voice that throbbed with suppressed anger.

  Maitland backed away from him. ‘Certainly not! Mr Clench is a junior member of staff, although he did impart some interesting information which convinced me that my decision to reject your request for a bank loan was the correct one.’

  ‘You might have said that you knew about the shop in Artillery Lane,’ Hetty protested. ‘I call that underhand, mister.’

  The constable cleared his throat noisily. ‘Now then, that’s enough of that talk, miss.’

  ‘I am acting on behalf of a client.’ Maitland said stiffly. ‘You will hear from their solicitors, but in the meantime you must cease work on the premises.’ He made for the door, but George was quicker on his feet and he barred the way.

  ‘Then tell us who that person is and we’ll go and speak to him direct. We’ve invested time and money in this project, Mr Maitland, and Miss Huggins and me ain’t going to give up so easily.’

  The constable stepped in between them. ‘If I may make a suggestion, Mr Maitland? Perhaps it would serve best if you were to allow the owner of the premises to speak for himself?’

  ‘Yes,’ Hetty said eagerly. ‘You’ve been fed a lot of lies about me and George, mister. Let me speak to the cove who owns the shop. I’m sure I can talk him round.’

  Maitland frowned. ‘Very well then. I’m late for church as it is, but if you want to waste your time you are welcome to try to see the owner, although I must warn you that it is highly unlikely. Miss Tryphena Heathcote is a recluse, and she does not welcome visitors.’ Maitland took a silver case from his pocket, and taking out a calling card he scribbled something on the back and gave it to Hetty. ‘The matter is out of my hands now. I want nothing more to do with either of you.’ He stalked out of the police station, and stepped into his waiting carriage. Through its window, Hetty caught sight of a pale-faced woman wearing a feathered hat and an angry expression. That must be Maitland’s wife; no doubt she would make his life a misery for keeping her waiting. Serve the old bugger right!

  ‘There, now I hope that’s the last we’ll see of you too,’ the constable said, holding the door open. ‘But you’d best see the owner of the shop and get her permission to continue, or I’ll be forced to arrest you both.’

  Outside on the pavement, standing ankle deep in mud and slush, Hetty stared at Maitland’s spidery scrawl. ‘Berkeley Square, George. That’s up West where the toffs live, isn’t it?’

  George hailed a passing hansom cab. ‘Berkeley Square, please, cabby.’

  ‘We can’t afford this,’ Hetty whispered as George helped her into the cab.

  ‘We can’t afford not to, ducks. Just you watch the old charmer at work. I’ll soon have the lady in question eating out of my hand.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but Miss Heathcote is not at home to anyone today.’ The butler looked down his long pointed nose at George and Hetty as they stood on the steps beneath the portico of Miss Heathcote’s impressive mansion in Berkeley Square. He was about to close the door, but Hetty moved quickly to put her foot over the doorsill.

  ‘Please, mister. This is a matter of life and death. Mr Maitland, the manager of Tipton’s Bank, sent us. He said that the lady was very gracious and if we asked nicely she might give us a couple of minutes of her time.’

  A flicker of something akin to amusement crossed the butler’s well-schooled features. ‘Miss Heathcote sees no one, miss.’

  Hetty was not going to give in so easily. ‘Be so good as to tell Miss Heathcote that Miss Hester Huggins of Princelet Street, Spitalfields, begs a few minutes of her time. Tell the lady that it will be very much to her advantage. And I ain’t budging from this doorway until you let me in, so there.’

  For a moment she thought that he was going to refuse, call for a constable, or even slam the door on her foot, but he did none of these things. After a moment’s consideration he nodded his head. ‘Very well, miss. I’ll pass the message on, but only if you will remove your foot and allow me to close the door.’

  ‘Not on your life, mate. Do you think I come down in the last shower of rain?’

  ‘Perhaps it would be better if you waited in the vestibule, miss.’ He opened the door just far enough for Hetty to step inside. ‘And you, sir, can wait outside. Miss Heathcote does not like gentlemen.’

  Hetty was not going to argue. She stepped into the marble-tiled vestibule, which opened out into an entrance hall that was big enough to house most of the stalls in Spitalfields Market. Hetty gazed round in awe. Everything, from the tall columns that supported the high ceiling to the tiled floor and grand staircase, was carved out of pink and white marble. It was, Hetty thought, just like standing on a huge iced cake. Gilded cherubs carrying lyres and cornucopias overflowing with fruit smiled down at her from the intricate plaster cornices. Others plucked at stringed instruments with such lifelike fingers that Hetty could imagine the strains of heavenly music floating down to them from heaven above. The staircase rose from the centre of all this grandeur and silver-scrolled banisters curved out into galleries on several floors until they ended in a glass-roofed cupola. It was just as Hetty had imagined the interior of St Paul’s Cathedral might look, although she had only seen that building from the outside. She had to suppress a sudden urge to call out, just to hear her voice echoing back to her in this beautiful but ice-cold palace.

  ‘Wait here, miss.’ The butler made a stately progress up the stairs, his black patent-leather shoes making tip-tapping sounds on the marble treads and fading out altogether as he reached the first landing. Hetty held her breath. She could hardly believe that one lady owned all this. She couldn’t imagine that the Queen herself lived in more regal surroundings. After what seemed like an eternity, the butler re-appeared at the top of the staircase. ‘Miss Heathcote will see you, miss. Step this way, please.’

  Walking as if she were in a trance, Hetty negotiated the stairs and followed him along a high-ceilinged passage, her feet sinking into the thick pile of the carpet. Hothouse flowers spilled out of porcelain vases set on spindly side tables, their brilliant blooms reflecting in gilt-framed wall mirrors on either side of the wide corridor. The heady scent of the blooms filled the air, and as Hetty breathed in their intoxicating fragrance she felt as though she had entered another world.

  The butler ushered her into a large room, elegantly furnished with Regency style sofas and chairs upholstered in blue and silver damask. Windows reaching from floor to ceiling allowed in the cold white light that came just before a fresh fall of snow. An involuntary shiver ran down Hetty’s spine; it was almost as chilly inside as outside, even though a coal fire blazed up the chimney. Seated in a wingback chair by the fire, Hetty could just make out a tiny figure, huddled beneath a fur rug.

  ‘You may leave us, Hicks.’ A surprisingly strident voice emanated from the frail personage seated in the chair, and a tiny, childlike hand beckoned to Hetty. ‘Come here, girl. I can’t see you clearly from that distance
.’

  Hicks bowed to his mistress and left the room, closing the door behind him. Hetty swallowed hard, feeling suddenly nervous and wishing that George were here to charm this irate person, who did not look to be a very friendly lady. ‘Well?’ Miss Heathcote glared suspiciously at Hetty. ‘What do you want? Did Maitland send you?’

  As she drew closer Hetty couldn’t take her eyes off Miss Heathcote’s face. She was not as elderly as Hetty had at first thought. Despite her silver-white hair, Miss Heathcote could have been any age from forty to sixty. She was glaring at Hetty with eyes that were such a pale shade of grey they were almost colourless, and this odd appearance was emphasised by a frosting of silver eyelashes. Hetty dropped her gaze. ‘Er, not exactly, ma’am.’

  Miss Heathcote’s thin fingers fluttered to pat her hair, which was scraped back from her face and confined by a snood. ‘Speak up, girl. I hate people who mumble. And for heaven’s sake sit down. Looking up at you is making my neck ache.’

  Hetty looked around for a chair, but they were all placed in intimate groups around small tables, as if unseen guests had been sitting and chatting amicably over afternoon tea. Hetty did not like to disturb them and she knelt on the carpet in front of Miss Heathcote. ‘If you please, miss.’

  ‘Oh, get on with it. Say what you have to say and then leave me alone. My head is beginning to throb with pain.’

  Hetty’s patience was at an end, and she was overcome with nervous frustration. Her future now depended on the caprice of a spoilt old woman who obviously had more money than sense. Keeping her back very straight and holding her head high, she met the old lady’s pale eyes, stare for stare. ‘All right, Miss Heathcote. I’ll say what I come to say straight out. My partner Mr George Cooper and me have rented a property in Artillery Lane that belongs to you. Even though the premises ain’t fit for a pig to live in at present, I want to do it up nice, so that I can run a respectable coffee shop there.’

  ‘What does this have to do with me? I pay people to look after my business interests. Take the matter up with them.’

  Hetty sat back on her haunches. ‘Is that all you got to say to me, when it cost me an arm and a leg to come all the way from the East End in a hansom cab especially to see you?’

  A glimmer of what might have been interest lit Miss Heathcote’s eyes. ‘So why did you make this long and expensive trek to see me?’

  ‘Because your Mr Maitland, the manager of Tipton’s Bank in Bishopsgate, had us arrested and accused of doing things to the building against the terms of the lease. I come to speak to the organ grinder, not the monkey.’

  ‘So, I’m the organ grinder, am I?’ Miss Heathcote said with a hint of a smile. ‘I’ve never been called that before.’

  ‘This might be a laughing matter to you, miss, but it ain’t funny to me. This is my life and the lives of me family that you’re playing with. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been poor or hungry, but we’ve known want and we’ve had to struggle hard to get where we are now. I ain’t about to be put off by a spoilt old woman who shuts herself away in an ice palace like she was an exhibit in a museum.’ Hetty stopped, clamping her hand over her mouth. She had gone too far and she knew it. Now she would never get permission to renovate the rotten shop. She waited for Miss Heathcote’s wrath to explode about her head.

  ‘You have passion, young woman,’ Miss Heathcote said, leaning forward and fixing Hetty with a piercing stare. ‘All this for a mere coffee shop?’

  Hetty scrambled to her feet. ‘I used to make matchboxes twelve hours a day with me sister and little brothers. The strike put an end to that and I started working the streets selling hot taters. Then I got a barrow and sold ham sandwiches and coffee. I done well enough to rent a market stall, and now I want to open a coffee shop where respectable folk, like young lady office workers, can go and have their dinner in a clean and pleasant place. And I don’t intend to stop there neither. When I’m finished I’ll have a coffee shop in all the main thoroughfares of the East End and up West too. And if you won’t alter the terms of the lease, then I’ll blooming well find another shop to rent. Nothing and no one is going to stop me.’ Hetty clasped her hands to her chest as she struggled for breath. The words had tumbled from her lips and she had heard her voice break with emotion, but she had said her piece. When Miss Heathcote remained silent, Hetty took this as her dismissal and she made a move towards the door. ‘Well, I’m sorry if I’ve given offence, miss. I’ll go now and I won’t trouble you again.’

  ‘Stop! I haven’t finished with you yet.’

  Hetty glanced over her shoulder. ‘I’ve said I’m sorry for any offence caused. What more do you want?’

  Miss Heathcote flung off the fur robe and rose slowly to her feet. Hetty couldn’t help staring at her tiny misshapen figure. A pair of crutches rested at the far side of her chair and Miss Heathcote picked them up, leaning her weight on them as she limped towards Hetty. ‘So you see me now as I am – a pitiful hunch-back – a figure of fun from the Punch and Judy shows that so delight the ignorant masses. I was born to great wealth but it couldn’t buy me a straight back or make my weak limbs strong.’

  Hetty swallowed hard. ‘As to that, miss. I can’t say, never having had much money, but I would have thought you might have managed to be a bit more cheerful in the circumstances, even if you are a bit on the lame side.’ For a moment it seemed that she had really gone too far this time, as Miss Heathcote’s wizened features twisted into a grimace.

  ‘Would you indeed, Miss Huggins? So you think I ought to ignore my wretched, crippled body and enjoy life, do you?’

  ‘I daresay you could have a good try, miss. I mean, I seen far worse off than you in Bow and Bethnal Green. I seen men and women who have to shuffle along the ground on their bums so that they can sit on street corners and beg for money just to keep body and soul together. I seen blind children scavenging in the gutters for scraps of food and little girls sold to bad men by their own parents in order to keep the rest of the family from starving to death. At least you don’t have to do that.’

  ‘No, I don’t have to beg for my food, that is true.’ Miss Heathcote made her way awkwardly back to her chair by the fire and lowered herself down onto the seat. ‘But my life is just as blighted as that of those poor creatures you mention.’

  ‘Then I’m very sorry for you, miss. Can I go now?’

  ‘No. Come over here and tell me exactly what you plan for this coffee shop of yours.’

  Hetty hesitated. ‘My partner, Mr Cooper, is standing outside your house in the snow, miss. Would you allow him to come inside?’

  ‘Ring for Hicks. Your friend may wait in the vestibule, but I don’t like men, Miss Huggins. I never have and I never will. They are a beastly breed and not to be trusted. You would do better to manage your business on your own, but that is just my opinion. I doubt if a pretty young woman like you will take any notice of a sour old spinster like me. Now, pull up a chair and tell me exactly what a coffee shop is, for I have never been in one.’

  When Hetty and George alighted from the hansom cab outside the shop in Artillery Lane, they were surrounded by their friends clamouring to know what had happened.

  ‘We thought they must have locked you up in jail,’ Brush said, slapping George on the back. ‘We was getting really worried, mate.’

  Jane pushed past him to give Hetty a hug. ‘What happened? Why have you been so long?’

  It was snowing in earnest now. Large flakes settled quickly on their hair and clothes and everyone hurried back into the comparative warmth of the shop. Sammy and Eddie jumped up from the floor where they had been amusing Natalia by building off-cuts of wood into piles and then knocking them down. ‘Have you been in prison, Hetty?’ Sammy asked, clinging to her hand. ‘Jane was certain something bad had happened to you.’

  ‘No, we’re all right,’ Hetty said, gently caressing his cheek with the tips of her fingers. ‘In fact, we’re back in business, everybody. It’s a long story, but we’ve got permission fro
m the owner to do whatever is necessary to the inside of the shop, and what’s more, as it’s improving her property, she’s going to pay for materials.’

  ‘Let’s get back to work,’ George said, shrugging off his jacket. ‘There’s a pint in it for everyone if we can get this finished today.’

  Floppy Flora raised her considerable bulk from the one and only stool in the room. ‘Ta, George. Make that a hot rum punch and I’ll clean the windows inside and out.’

  ‘You’re on.’ George hooked his arm around Hetty’s shoulders. ‘It looks like you’ll soon be in business, girl.’

  Hetty shook her head. ‘The shop will be ready, and we can get the tables and chairs from a second-hand shop in Brushfield Street, but there’s still the crockery to be bought, not to mention cutlery and table-cloths. I’ve got some stuff I bought cheap stored in Nora’s attic room, but there won’t be enough.’

  Ginger Turner cleared his throat. ‘Er, I couldn’t help overhearing, Hetty. I can let you have the tablecloths at cost, and I got a mate down Wapping way who might be able to do you a good deal on china and spoons. He owes me a favour or two.’

  ‘Would you, Ginger? I’d be ever so grateful,’ Hetty said, smiling.

  George slapped Ginger on the back. ‘Ta, cully. I won’t forget this.’

  ‘You been good to me in the past, George,’ Ginger replied, blushing to the roots of his copper-coloured hair. ‘I ain’t forgotten how you give me and the missis free fruit and vegetables for a month when I was laid up with a broken ankle.’ He cleared his throat noisily and sniffed. ‘Must get on. Standing about chatting won’t get the walls painted.’