by Dilly Court
‘Sure, you look as though you need feeding up, young miss,’ Connor said, winking. ‘It’s Ned’s job in life to see that people get fed, so don’t you go spoiling his day.’
Before Clemency could answer, Edith raised herself up on her elbow. ‘Where are we? I could murder a drop of gin.’
‘A cup of tea will do you more good, Ma,’ Jack said, placing his arm around her shoulders. ‘And something to eat.’
‘Look at me, Jack. I’m shaking all over. Nothing but a drop of tiddley will stop the shakes.’
Ned came over to them carrying two thick china mugs filled with tea. He handed one to Clemency and the other to Jack. ‘Is she all right?’
‘Young man, for the love of God, get me a drink.’ Edith held her hands out to him, her face crumpled like a wet rag.
Clemency tried to give her the mug of tea, but Edith knocked it from her hand with a loud screech that was not quite drowned by the thunder of a steam engine as it roared out of the station. The mug shattered into shards on the pavement, and hot tea trickled into the gutter. She stared at it in horror – now Ned would have to pay for the breakage – and passers-by were staring at the madwoman struggling to get off the handcart.
Connor stepped forward and lifted Edith up as easily as if she had been a toddler. ‘Now, missis. Don’t take on. Connor will sort you out.’ Supporting her with his arm around her waist, he turned to Clemency and Jack. ‘It’s a drop of the hard stuff she needs. Leave it to me.’ Without waiting for an answer, he helped Edith across the street and they disappeared through a pub door.
Clemency glanced anxiously at Ned. ‘She’s not always like this. It’s the move upsetting her.’
Jack pulled a face. ‘Don’t, Clemmie. He can see she’s a hopeless case, and so can Connor.’
‘It happens. I see it every day.’
‘You’re a good fellow, Ned,’ Jack said. ‘I can’t thank you enough for what you’re doing for me and Clemmie.’
Ned blushed to the roots of his mouse-brown hair. ‘Think nothing of it. I’m glad to help.’
Clemency’s heart swelled with gratitude and she threw her arms around his neck, kissing him on the cheek. ‘You’ve saved our lives and I’ll never ever forget it.’
She felt a tremor run through him, and there was a startled look in his eyes that was replaced almost instantly with puzzlement; he was staring at her as if he had seen her for the first time. She pulled away, wondering if she had offended him somehow.
‘Three teas and five bacon sandwiches.’ The vendor’s voice boomed out from the stall.
Ned jumped visibly, and he strode off to collect the food.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ Clemency turned to Jack for an explanation. ‘What did I do to upset him?’
Chapter Four
When Jack merely shrugged his shoulders, Clemency was even more baffled. She did not pursue the topic as Ned was making his way back to them with the tea and sandwiches. She went to help him, and was relieved when he smiled at her. She decided that she must have been imagining things, and sank her teeth into the twin doorsteps of bread that encased two rashers of crisp bacon. She chewed, savoured and swallowed; this was food heaven. Surely the old queen herself could not have enjoyed a more delicious breakfast? She sat down on the pavement, resting her back against the cold brick wall behind her, and in between mouthfuls of the sandwich, she sipped the hot, sweet tea. Those leaves were freshly brewed, if she was not mistaken. She glanced up at Jack, seated like a king on the cart, and she could tell from his expression that he too was enjoying every mouthful.
When every last crumb was eaten and she had drained the mug of tea, she licked her fingers and wiped them on her skirt. She jumped to her feet as her flagging energy was revived by a full stomach. She could conquer the world after a breakfast like that. Connor and Edith had emerged from the pub and were crossing the street arm in arm. To her surprise, Clemency saw that Ma was laughing at something that he had said and, if she was not actually walking straight, she was not staggering like a drunken crab. Connor lifted her onto the barrow next to Jack. It seemed to Clemency, in that moment, that a miracle had happened. There were spots of colour in Ma’s cheeks and her eyes sparkled. She was laughing and the careworn lines on her face seemed to have been erased. She looked ten years younger, and almost pretty.
‘That was fine fun,’ Connor said, biting a chunk from his sandwich. ‘But we must get on or I’ll not get me day’s stock of fresh fish from the market.’
Dawn was just breaking when they finally arrived in Flower and Dean Street. The sky above Brick Lane had faded from ash-grey to the delicate blue-green of a duck egg, and particles of frost glittered on the paving stones. The street was quiet in contrast to the early morning bustle of the Commercial Road, but Clemency knew they were dangerously close to Hanbury Street, where Jack the Ripper had attacked, killed and mutilated the prostitute, Annie Chapman. That terrible crime had happened just a few months ago, in September, and there had been two more murders in the same month; one in Berner Street and the other in Mitre Square. They were in Ripper territory and Clemency couldn’t help looking over her shoulder, half afraid that the shadowy figure was going to leap out from a doorway, or suddenly appear at the top of an area steps.
‘This looks like it. Number twenty-one, wasn’t it, Clemency?’ Ned looked up at a tall, narrow house in the middle of the grim, smoke-blackened terrace. ‘This ain’t much of a place, if you ask me.’
‘It’s the address he give me,’ Clemency said, trying to sound positive, when all she really wanted to do was run away. She could not help wondering whether she had done the right thing in coming here. Flower and Dean Street, Spitalfields. It had sounded wonderful when she had spelt out the address on Throop’s card, and in her mind’s eye she had pictured a country field spiked with scarlet poppies and white daisies, but the reality was starkly different. If the financial heart of the City was getting ready to begin a new day’s trading, it was just the opposite here, where it was still the depth of night. At intervals along the street there were bodies slumped in doorways, either dead or sleeping, no one seemed to care which. Feral cats were out hunting the rats that scavenged amongst the heaps of rotting rubbish. A little way down the street, women who were probably no better than they should be were staggering up the steps into cheap lodging houses, looking very much the worse for wear. This was indeed a terrible place, but she would not let Ned or Jack see how it depressed her. She managed a smile. ‘I’m sure Mr Throop wouldn’t have chosen to live here if the house weren’t clean and respectable.’
‘Sure, I’ve been in worse places,’ Connor said, helping Edith from the handcart.
‘I don’t like leaving you here.’ Ned laid his hand on Clemency’s arm, his face puckered with concern. ‘If I’d realised it was so close to Hanbury Street, where the Ripper done in that Chapman woman, I’d never have agreed to bring you here.’
Edith gave a low moan. ‘What have you brought us to, Clemmie? We’d be better off with Hardiman than the Ripper.’
‘The police will catch them both,’ Jack said stoutly, working his way to the edge of the cart. ‘They ain’t got nothing on Hardiman yet, but it’s only a matter of time afore the mad bugger beats some poor woman’s brains out.’
‘Jack’s right, Ma,’ Clemency said, making an effort to sound cheerful. ‘We’re here now, so let’s make the best of it.’ She turned to Ned and Connor. ‘I dunno what else to say but ta, ever so.’
Ned shifted from one foot to the other, a dull flush rising from his neck to his cheeks. ‘I ain’t sure we’ve done you a favour, bringing you to this place.’
‘Don’t worry about us. We’ll be fine.’ Clemency shook his hand, not wanting to embarrass him with a kiss. She held her hand out to Connor. ‘I won’t forget what you done for us, Mr Connor.’
‘Nor I,’ Edith said, slanting a look at him beneath her eyelashes.
Connor took off his cap and held it to his chest. ‘It’s Michael, so it is. Mi
ckey to me friends. I’ll be off now, but don’t be surprised to see me turn up again one of these days, Edie.’
Jack gave a polite cough. ‘Help me down, Ned, there’s a good fellow. Before the mad Irishman takes me back to Billingsgate and I end up under a pile of wet herrings.’
‘Well, it would give me an excuse to come back, now wouldn’t it?’ Connor winked at Edith and, as Ned lifted Jack to the pavement, he grabbed the handles and spun the cart round to face the Commercial Road. He rammed his cap on his head. ‘Are you coming, Ned?’
‘I’m coming.’ Ned grasped Clemency’s hands. He squeezed her fingers, looking earnestly into her eyes. ‘If you need help you know where to come.’
She smiled. ‘You’re a pal and no mistake.’
‘You will take care of yourself, won’t you? Whatever you do, don’t go out alone at night.’
‘I won’t.’ She pulled her hands free, pointing down the street. ‘You’d best run or you’ll not catch the Irishman.’
Ned opened his mouth as if to say something, but he closed it again, shaking his head, and hurried off after Connor.
Clemency held up a warning hand as Edith tried to follow her up the steps. ‘No, Ma. I dunno if the geezer was serious about taking me on. You two wait here while I go in and have a word.’
‘This place is the devil’s midden. We’d have been better off staying in Stew Lane.’ Reluctantly, Edith went to sit on the bottom step next to Jack. ‘Don’t take too long, or we’ll freeze to death out here.’
Clemency rattled the doorknocker. She could hear brisk footsteps clattering on a tiled floor. The door opened and she was faced with a tall, middle-aged woman who was all points and angles. Her grey hair was caught up in a tight bun on the top of her head, emphasising her pointed chin, and a triangle of a nose that would not have looked out of place on the wooden face of a puppet. She stood, arms akimbo, staring at Clemency over the top of steel-rimmed spectacles. ‘What sort of hour do you call this to knock on the door of a respectable lodging house?’
‘I – I come to see Mr Augustus Throop.’ Clemency pulled his card from her pocket and held it out for inspection.
‘Come inside. Stand on the mat. Don’t move from that spot.’
Clemency did as she was told. She stood on the doormat and watched the angular woman march away into the unlit part of the house. The flickering gas mantle gave off a yellowish light and the distinctive odour of coal gas. Clemency shivered. It was as cold inside as it was outside, and just as cheerless. She could just make out a steep flight of stairs rising into blackness, but there were no signs of life, and it seemed that the occupants of the house must still be asleep. After a minute or two the silence was broken by the sound of heavy footsteps. Augustus Throop came steaming towards her with his nightcap askew on his head, and his dressing gown flying open to reveal a long nightshirt.
‘Who wakes me at this godforsaken hour?’ He stopped in front of her, staring through half-closed eyes as he knotted the tasselled cord of his robe. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m the girl what sung for you last evening in Knightrider Street. You give me your card. Remember?’
Augustus scratched his head. ‘Can’t say that I do. However, at this early hour of the morning, I can barely remember my own name, let alone a face in the crowd.’
‘But mister, you said I could join your troupe. I got the voice of a nightingale, you said as much.’
‘Nightingale, blackbird, crow – it’s all the same to me until I’ve had my first cup of coffee. Follow me, young lady. We’ll prevail on the good Mrs Blunt to let us partake of her excellent brew.’ Augustus swept off with a theatrical flourish, beckoning to Clemency as he headed off into the gloom.
She followed him along the passage and down a flight of stairs into the basement kitchen. The aroma of hot coffee and baking bread sent signals to her stomach, whetting her appetite, despite the bacon sandwich that she had enjoyed less than an hour ago.
‘My dear Mrs Blunt.’ Augustus held out his arms. ‘What a perfect sight with which to begin a new day. Behold, Miss – er …’
‘Clemency Skinner.’
‘Miss Skinner, behold this woman, our esteemed landlady – the veritable epitome of womanhood, encompassed in one lissom body.’
Mrs Blunt took off her specs, huffed on them and wiped the lenses on her starched apron. ‘Piffle, sir. Twaddle! And I’ll thank you not to mention me body, it ain’t seemly, especially in front of a young girl.’
‘I humbly beg your pardon, ma’am. I was merely praising your housekeeping and wondering if there might be a cup of coffee for a thirsty thespian and his young visitor.’
‘You theatricals is all the same. Words, words and more words.’ Mrs Blunt sniffed, and the pointed end of her nose quivered. She turned to a girl who was sweeping the floor with a besom. ‘Fancy, two cups of coffee.’
Fancy dropped the broom and hurried to the range where she picked up a large earthenware jug, which she set on the scrubbed deal table while she bustled over to the dresser to fetch the cups. Augustus sat on one of the forms set on either side of the table, and motioned to Clemency to take a seat.
‘Breakfast ain’t until seven o’clock,’ Mrs Blunt informed them as she headed towards the staircase. ‘And if she’s looking for a room, you can tell the young person, Mr Throop, that I don’t encourage unattached females to take a room in my establishment. This is a respectable house and I’ll thank you to remember that.’ She swept up the stairs with a swish of starched petticoats.
As she disappeared through the baize door at the top of the stairs, Clemency uttered a sigh of relief. It seemed as though she had been holding her breath ever since she first clapped eyes on the angular Mrs Blunt. She sat down opposite Augustus. ‘I got a good voice, you said so yourself. And I wouldn’t want much in the way of pay, just me room and board, until I proved meself, like.’
‘My daughter Lucilla is my little canary; she has the face of an angel and the temperament of a prima donna.’
‘But you said I got the voice of a nightingale. You did, mister.’
Fancy placed two cups of coffee on the table in front of Augustus. She did not resume her work immediately, but stood with her head angled, staring at Clemency.
‘What are you staring at?’ Clemency demanded.
‘Nightingale, huh!’ Fancy tossed her head. ‘Blooming cockney sparrow, more like.’
‘You take that back.’
‘Shan’t.’
‘Cockney sparrow,’ Augustus said, rolling the words round in his mouth as if they were made of chocolate. ‘I like it. Maybe I could use you, Miss Skinner.’
Clemency stuck her tongue out at Fancy. She knew it was childish, but she couldn’t resist the temptation. Fancy turned away with a disgusted snort. She picked up the broom and went about the floor whisking dust out of sight beneath the dresser.
Augustus rose to his feet and struck a pose. ‘It might make a striking contrast – the street urchin, a cockney sparrow – singing a duet with my fragile flower.’
‘Fragile flower, my eye,’ Fancy muttered beneath her breath.
Clemency couldn’t help agreeing with her. From what she had seen of Miss Lucilla, fragile and flower-like were not the words she would have used to describe the spoilt little barrel of lard. But she would work with the devil himself if it gave them a roof over their head. She eyed Augustus cautiously. ‘So you’ll take me on then?’
‘A trial period of one week should be ample time to see if our takings increase.’
‘And I gets board and lodging?’
‘You may share a room with Lucilla, although you will have to sleep on the floor.’
Fancy sniggered and then turned it into a cough. Clemency ignored her. She stood up, clasping her hands in front of her. ‘I needs a room of me own, Mr Throop, sir.’
‘Impossible.’
‘But – but I snore something terrible, sir.’ Clemency shot a warning look at Fancy, who turned away with her shoulders shakin
g silently. ‘I couldn’t deprive the young lady of her sleep, now could I?’
Augustus stroked his chin, frowning. ‘I can hardly put you in with the men – that wouldn’t be seemly, as Mrs Blunt so aptly puts it.’ He turned his head to stare thoughtfully at Fancy. ‘I don’t suppose …’
‘Don’t look at me. I’d sooner share with a pig,’ Fancy said, waving the besom at him. ‘Anyhow, I’m just a skivvy. I sleeps on a mat by the fire, in case you hadn’t noticed, guv.’
‘A room of me own, sir,’ Clemency repeated. ‘Or I shall have to take up the offer of the other lot what offered me a job.’ She had no idea if there were any more bands of street entertainers, but it was worth a try.
Augustus stared at her in horror. ‘They made you an offer? They were trespassing on my territory?’
Clemency nodded.
‘A room you shall have. I’ll go and find Mrs Blunt and arrange it right away.’
The room that Mrs Blunt allocated to Clemency was little more than a large cupboard at the rear of the kitchen. A small window set high in the wall, with a pigeon’s-eye view of the area steps, allowed in just enough light to reveal the outline of objects stacked against the brick walls, and a half-glassed door led out into the area. The floor space had been used to store mops and brooms, buckets and articles that were disused, but might come in useful later, together with sacks of flour and potatoes. Rats and mice had obviously been nibbling at the hessian, creating gaping holes and leaving telltale paw prints in the dust. Clemency’s heart sank as she gazed round the room; it looked like a junkyard. The air was thick with dust and the putrid smell of rotten potatoes, but it was not as damp as the basement room in Stew Lane, and was free from the stench of rising sewage. It would have to do until she could find better accommodation.
Mrs Blunt ordered Fancy to seek alternative cupboard space for the useful articles, and to sweep up the mouse droppings and the dried carapaces of dead cockroaches. Fancy obliged, grumbling all the while beneath her breath, and making it clear whom she blamed for causing her the extra work. Clemency was left to heft the sacks into the kitchen, which Mrs Blunt said would be a better storage place anyway, as it would be more difficult for the rats and mice to get at them.