by Dilly Court
‘I only came here yesterday,’ Charity said through chattering teeth. ‘I’m working for Mr Dawkins in the bookshop.’
Violet pulled a face. ‘Not him? The monster, we calls him. He’s ugly enough to scare the bogeyman.’
‘That’s not fair. He can’t help the way he looks.’
‘He’s a miserable geezer.’ Violet shuffled on a couple of paces as a man emerged from the privy, shrugging on his jacket and pulling his cap down over his eyes. ‘That’s me dad. He’s a drayman at Reid’s.’ Violet turned away as her father strode past them and he ignored her, which Charity thought odd, but maybe there had been a falling out in the family.
‘Hurry up in there.’ A woman’s voice rang out across the yard, echoing off the high walls. ‘Some of us ain’t got all day.’
‘That’s Mary Spinks. She lives on the second floor too, and she’s a cook at the workhouse. Keep out of her way. She’s got a fearsome temper and she’ll clock you one as soon as look at you if the mood takes her, but her daughter Maisie is a good laugh if you keep on her right side.’
‘Isn’t there anyone it’s safe to talk too?’
Violet smiled sweetly. ‘There’s always me, Charity. I could do with a friend.’
‘And so could I,’ Charity said wholeheartedly. ‘I lost me grandad the day afore yesterday. He’s to be buried in a pauper’s grave and I won’t be able to find him, even if I saves up enough of me wages to go to Brookwood. It was the drink that did for him in the end.’
Violet slipped her arm around Charity’s shoulders and gave her a hug. ‘You poor thing. I know how you feel. There’s three of my baby brothers and sisters buried in unmarked graves. It’s only the toffs what can afford headstones and horses with plumes.’
Charity was about to answer when she heard a shuffling noise behind her. She turned to see Jethro skidding across the ice. ‘Look out,’ he shouted. ‘I can’t stop once I get going.’
‘It’s always like that.’ Violet leapt out of the way and the line of people parted as Jethro careered along towards the privy, almost knocking down the startled man who was coming out, doing up his trousers. Jethro plunged into the brick building and the door slammed shut.
Charity felt embarrassed for him and also for herself as all eyes turned upon her.
‘Are you really going to work for him?’ Violet stared at her in disbelief.
Chapter Four
CHARITY WAS IN the shop alone. Jethro had gone to an antiquarian book sale in Aldgate and left her in charge. During the six months she had been working for him they had come to an uneasy truce. He was still suspicious and his temper was easily roused, but although getting money out of him for necessities was still an uphill struggle, he was not as parsimonious as he had been in the beginning. Charity felt sorry for him, and she had been quick to realise just how difficult life was for a man with disabilities that left him in constant pain. She had discovered early on that he relied on laudanum to help him sleep, and she had learned to keep out of his way when he was having a particularly bad day.
She could not say that she liked him or that he was a kindly employer, and she still slept under the counter in the shop, although Jethro had given her the money to buy a flock-filled mattress, which made sleeping easier. The cockroaches had seemingly left the building or had made the journey to the upper floors due to Charity’s obsession with cleanliness. She swept and scrubbed the floors daily, and there was not a speck of dust or dirt to be seen in the living accommodation or on the shop floor. The bookshelves were immaculate and she had begun to catalogue the volumes on sale. She took pride in window dressing and many more customers came through the door as a result. Jethro was slow to praise but Charity had the satisfaction of seeing the takings increase, and it was largely due to her efforts.
The weather was hot and oppressive at the approach of autumn. She had wedged the shop door open in an attempt to cool the air, but had been forced to close it in order to shut out the smell of seething sewers, horse dung and the fumes from the brewery. Trade was slow due to the fact that the students and their professors would not return to the university until the autumn term. She undid the top button of her cotton print frock, which she had recently purchased from the dolly shop in Gray’s Inn Road, and went to sit on the high stool behind the counter, picking up a copy of A Thousand Miles Up the Nile by Amelia Edwards. She was already halfway through the fascinating account of the intrepid lady’s travels in Egypt, and it had fired her with a desire to see such wonders for herself. Of course that was an impossibility, but it was wonderful to dream of an exotic country with fascinating glimpses into a past civilisation. She was so intent on reading that she only realised that the door had opened when the bell jangled noisily on its spring. She closed the book with a snap and sat upright. ‘Good morning, sir. May I be . . .’ She stopped midsentence, staring at the elder of two gentlemen who had entered the shop. ‘Mr Barton?’ she said tentatively. ‘Is it you, sir?’
He came closer, staring at her curiously, and then a slow smile spread across his handsome features. ‘It’s Charity, isn’t it? I remember you very well. It was outside the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street that we met, wasn’t it?’
She shook her head. ‘I dunno about any old lady, sir. But it was outside the Bank of England. I knows that for a fact.’
Barton’s companion, a much younger man with a mop of unruly fair hair and hazel eyes, chortled with laughter, but a look from Charity silenced him and he blushed. ‘I beg your pardon, miss. I didn’t mean any offence.’
‘What’s funny?’ she demanded angrily. ‘You shouldn’t mock the way I speak – it ain’t polite.’
‘Quite right.’ Wilmot Barton nodded in agreement. ‘Remember your manners, Daniel my boy.’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘You’ll have to forgive my nephew, Charity. He’s a raw lad up from the country and has yet to learn the ways of polite society.’
Daniel grinned sheepishly. ‘Hold on, Uncle. I haven’t got straw growing out of my ears. Just because I grew up in Devonshire doesn’t mean that I’m a yokel.’
‘Of course not,’ Wilmot said equably, ‘and that’s my point, Dan. Just because Charity lacks a little polish doesn’t mean that she’s a lesser person.’
Charity cleared her throat to remind them of her presence. ‘I ain’t deaf, sir.’
‘And I’m being just as impolite as my young nephew.’ Wilmot treated her to a disarming smile. ‘You didn’t take up my offer. Why was that? Were you afraid that I had ulterior motives?’
‘My grandpa died, sir. I had to find work and a place to live.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ Wilmot eyed her curiously. ‘What was it that brought you here to Dawkins’ bookshop?’
‘Dr Marchant brought me here because I had nowhere else to go. He thought I would suit this type of work.’
Wilmot nodded his head. ‘A wise gentleman indeed.’
‘And he’s very kind and caring. He came here a few days ago making the excuse of ordering a book, but I think he wanted to make sure I was all right. I can’t think of many professional men who’d bother with someone who used to scratch a living by begging on street corners.’
‘I say, did you really?’ Daniel’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. ‘Wasn’t that terribly risky for a girl like you?’
‘I suppose it was, but I learned how to take care of myself.’
‘You look as though a puff of wind would blow you over.’ His cheeks burned with colour. ‘I say, I’m frightfully sorry. I seem to say all the wrong things.’
‘Think nothing of it, sir.’ Charity turned to Wilmot with a polite smile. ‘How may I help you?’
‘I came to browse through Jethro’s collection of antiquarian volumes. Occasionally I find something of interest.’ He gazed round at the neatly labelled shelves. ‘I can see that you’ve been busy.’
Charity accepted the compliment with a nod of her head. ‘I can’t bear a muddle, and books should be treated with r
espect. I just think of the work that someone has had to do putting all those words together and it’s little short of a miracle.’
‘I wish my students were as appreciative as you.’ Wilmot walked over to the stand where Charity had stacked the rarer editions. He paused, turning to his nephew. ‘You might find something on the shelves that will keep you amused while you’re staying with me in Doughty Street, Daniel my boy.’ He chuckled and began to browse.
Daniel shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m more of a doer than someone who is happy to take everything from the pages of a book.’ He picked up the book that Charity had been reading and his eyes lit up with interest. ‘Now this is a good read. Are you interested in Egyptology?’
‘I ain’t sure what that means exactly,’ Charity admitted grudgingly. ‘But if you mean reading about Egypt and Pharaohs and such, then yes I am.’
He pulled a face. ‘I apologise again if I offended you.’ He opened the book and flicked through the pages. ‘The study of ancient Egypt interests me too. I’m an archaeology student and I hope one day to visit the Valley of the Kings and see the ancient wonders for myself. Doesn’t Miss Edwards’ account of her experiences make you want to follow in her footsteps too?’
‘I dunno. It never crossed my mind. I’m as likely to fly to the moon as travel abroad.’
He leaned forward, fixing her with an intense gaze. ‘But that’s where you’re wrong. Look at the women who’ve achieved amazing things in science and medicine, and those who campaign for women’s suffrage.’
‘I dunno about all that either. The only women I know have to do what their men tell them or they get a black eye for their trouble.’ Charity had seen the bruises on Mrs Chapman’s face often enough to know that her husband had a violent temper. Maisie Spinks had warned her about his wandering hands and lewd suggestions, and it was obvious that Violet was afraid of her father. There were plenty of men who ruled by the fist, especially when drunk on jigger gin or too many pints of ale.
Daniel ran his finger round the inside of his stiff white collar and looked away. ‘I believe that does occur in some quarters,’ he said slowly. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What for? You done no wrong so far as I can see.’
‘Shall we start again, Charity?’ He held his hand out to her. ‘My name is Daniel Barton and I’m studying archaeology at University College.’
She shook his hand. ‘I’m Charity Crosse and I work for Mr Dawkins. I’m teaching meself, I mean myself, by reading as much as I can. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.’
‘Now we’re friends we can speak freely. What was it my uncle wanted you to do?’ He smiled apologetically. ‘Forgive me for being nosey, but I’m curious.’
‘You mean you can’t think what an educated toff like Mr Barton would want with an ignorant girl like me.’
‘That’s not what I meant. Do you take pleasure in putting me in the wrong?’
She suppressed a giggle. ‘You do that without any help from me.’
‘I’ve never met anyone like you, Charity Crosse. I don’t know whether to be amused or . . .’ he hesitated, ‘or cross.’ His eyes danced with merriment, and Charity found herself laughing with him.
‘I can’t help my name or the way I am.’
‘And I’ve never met a girl who could make me laugh. You’re quite different from the young ladies I meet in the normal course of things.’
‘Are there many girls at the university?’
‘I don’t know the exact numbers, but there are quite a few. You would enjoy attending lectures if you had the chance.’
Charity sighed. ‘That’s not for the likes of me. I’ve got all the learning I need. I know how to cook and clean, and how to keep Mr Dawkins in order.’
‘You know, you should take my uncle up on his offer. I’m assuming it was to do with his work on social anthropology, and he must have thought you could make a valuable contribution. You can trust him.’
‘He might have changed his mind, and anyway I’m very busy with the shop.’
Wilmot, apparently overhearing her last remark, strolled over to the counter with a book in his hand. ‘Of course my offer is still open, although it might not sound as attractive now that you’re settled in work.’ He laid the leather-bound book on the counter. ‘I’ll take this now, please. I’ve another on order so perhaps you might like to deliver it to my lodgings in Doughty Street when it comes in, and we could discuss my project then.’
Aware that Daniel was watching her closely, Charity smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Of course.’ She glanced at the price written on the inside of the front cover. ‘That will be five shillings, please.’ She waited while he counted out the coins. It would take her over a week to earn such a princely sum. Mr Barton must be a rich man to be able to afford such a luxury. She locked the money away in the metal cash box.
‘I look forward to seeing you soon, Charity,’ Wilmot said, doffing his bowler hat. ‘You must come in time for tea. My landlady makes the most delicious muffins and chocolate cake.’
‘I can vouch for that,’ Daniel said enthusiastically. ‘Do come, Charity. She only brings out the cake when someone special comes to tea, and it’s my particular favourite.’
‘I never go out after the shop closes, but I’ll come if Mr Dawkins lets me.’
‘Make sure he does,’ Wilmot said solemnly. ‘Dan will see you safely home.’ He tucked the book under his arm and headed for the door. ‘Come along, old chap. There are other customers waiting.’
Daniel hurried after him and it was only then that Charity realised there were two more people waiting to be served. She turned to the pinch-faced woman who was tapping her foot impatiently on the floorboards. ‘How may I help you, madam?’
After supper that evening when Jethro settled down in his chair to read the newspaper and smoke his briar pipe, Charity stepped outside into the yard to get a breath of air. It was a hot and sultry evening, with the threat of a thunderstorm hanging like a cloud above the steamy city streets. Flies settled in heaving masses on scraps of fat that had been tossed carelessly from upstairs windows, and the stench of the privy was all but masked by the smell of boiling hops and malt from the brewery, but it was marginally cooler outside than in the stuffy confines of the shop and kitchen. Charity leaned against the rough brickwork, marvelling at the tenacity of a dandelion that somehow managed to grow and thrive in nothing but dust. That’s me, she thought dreamily. I’m like the weeds that fight their way through concrete and survive against all odds. She smiled to herself as she realised that her feeling of optimism was due to a chance meeting that morning with Mr Barton and his young nephew. She had not taken to Daniel Barton at first, but there was something about him that made her want to get to know him better, and he had taken the trouble to talk to her. Despite his initial rudeness he had seen her as a person in her own right, unlike the majority of the customers who came into the shop, to whom she was virtually invisible.
‘A penny for ’em.’
Charity turned with a start and saw Violet coming down the stairs. ‘You made me jump.’
‘You was miles away.’ Violet leapt the last three steps, landing cat-like on all fours. She straightened up and wiped her hands on her grubby pinafore. ‘And you was grinning. What’s so funny?’
‘I wasn’t grinning.’
‘Yes you was. I bet it’s a bloke. It always is. I seen it often enough with me eldest sister, Betsy. She used to smile like that after she’d been with the butcher’s boy and he got her in the family way afore she was fifteen. They live in Brixton over the shop and she has three nippers and another on the way.’
‘It’s not like that, Vi. I’m just feeling more cheerful, that’s all.’
Violet sidled up to her. ‘What’s his name then?’
Charity could see that she was not going to be put off no matter what she said. ‘All right, I did chat to a young man this morning. His uncle came in to buy a book.’
Violet squatted down on her haunches, pulling
Charity down beside her. ‘Go on.’
The cobblestones were warm beneath her buttocks and the brick wall released the heat of the sun that it had absorbed during the day, making her feel warm and relaxed. Suddenly she had the need to confide in someone. ‘I met this cove when I was begging on the streets. He said he was a professor of something or other, and he wanted me to go to his lodgings and help him in his work.’
‘Oh yes, we’ve all heard that one.’
‘No, I don’t think he meant it like that. He seems a really nice man and he still wants to see me – just to talk, nothing else.’
‘If you believe that you’ll believe anything. Men are all the same, Charity, love. You can’t trust ’em, and you can’t believe a word they say. Ma’s drummed that into us girls again and again, since Betsy got caught out. Mind you, it don’t always work for the best. Me cousin Sukey’s nearly twenty and she’s said no so often that the fellers have given up. She’ll be an old maid if she ain’t careful.’
Charity scrambled to her feet. ‘There must be more to life than marrying the first bloke who comes along just to keep a roof over your head.’
Violet shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘That’s life, my duck. What choice have we got?’ She stood up and stretched. ‘I’m going to the Jockey Fields with Maisie Spinks. Are you coming?’
‘Not tonight. I’ve got some reading to do.’
‘You won’t get much of a laugh from a dusty old book.’
‘Maybe not, but at least I won’t get into any trouble.’ Charity gave her a cheerful wave as she retraced her steps across the yard.
‘And you won’t have no fun neither,’ Violet called after her as Charity opened the scullery door.
‘I can do without that sort of fun,’ Charity murmured as she went inside.
Jethro was still sitting at the kitchen table but he had abandoned the newspaper and was poring over a ledger. She cleared her throat. ‘Ahem, Mr Dawkins, may I have a word with you?’
He looked up, scowling. ‘What d’you want? Can’t you see I’m busy?’