The Cockney Sparrow

by Dilly Court

  Their eyes met and Fancy’s lips quivered into a grimace that was half laughing, half crying. Clemency felt a gurgle of near hysterical laughter rising in her throat. Before she knew it, they were hanging on each other’s shoulders, laughing helplessly.

  ‘I hate you, Clemency Skinner,’ Fancy giggled.

  ‘Fains I, Fancy Friday.’ Clemency wiped her eyes on her skirt. ‘Looks like we’re stuck with each other.’

  ‘Fains!’ Fancy held her stomach. ‘I got bellyache from laughing so much.’

  ‘They’ll think we’ve gone barking mad,’ Clemency said, hiccuping. ‘Let’s be sensible for once, Fancy. What do we need the most?’

  Fancy shuddered. ‘A mop and bucket.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And some bedding, I ain’t sleeping on the floor again. Not never.’

  ‘Right. We’ll get some money from Augustus and you and me will go out to the nearest popshop and get what we need.’

  Augustus knew of a pawnshop in Bleeding Heart Court. He gave them some money, and Ronnie came with them to help carry things. The old man in the pawnshop could have been Minski’s brother, although Clemency knew that he was not. Minski had come to England on his own, lived on his own, and was far too mean to spend money on a wife and family. When the pawnbroker in Bleeding Heart Court discovered they had money to spend, his surly attitude melted into one of fawning helpfulness. He even produced a little spirit stove from somewhere in the back of his dingy shop, and threw in a can of paraffin at no extra cost. They purchased blankets, pillows, tin plates and mugs, a kettle that was only slightly dented, and two enamel chamber pots. Ronnie was rapidly disappearing beneath a mountain of items and his knees buckled.

  ‘We’ll have to do a couple of trips,’ Fancy said, scratching her head. ‘And we need candles, matches and tea.’

  ‘Wait.’ The pawnbroker disappeared into the back of the shop once again. They heard him scrabbling about, shifting things, swearing a lot in a foreign tongue: it was funny, Clemency thought, her mind oddly detached from their plight – you could always recognise swear words, whatever the language spoken. Then, with a triumphant cry, he reappeared through the tattered curtain, pushing a dilapidated bath chair. ‘I knew I had this somewhere amongst me stock. I’ll only charge you threepence for the hire, providing you bring it back today.’

  A bath chair with a hood – just what they needed! Clemency tried not to look too enthusiastic. ‘It’s got a wonky wheel,’ she said, kicking it with her foot. ‘And it’s moth-eaten. Look at the hood, it’s rotten and the whole thing is dangerous. I don’t suppose it’ll get us a hundred yards without collapsing.’

  Fancy nudged her in the ribs. ‘We need this, Clem.’

  Ronnie twirled his moustache and he looked thoughtful. ‘It is a bit of a mess, guv. Why, that contraption ought to have been chucked on the scrap heap years ago.’

  ‘I’m only asking threepence for its hire. I ain’t trying to sell it to you.’ Minski’s double wrung his mittened hands. ‘Be fair.’

  ‘It is a wreck,’ Clemency said, taking her cue from Ronnie. ‘I doubt it will make the return journey. Seems to me we’d be doing you a favour if we just dumped it in the Thames.’

  ‘No, young shaver. Have a heart.’

  ‘Well, then. What’s your best price? Although really you should be paying us to take it away.’

  ‘Half a crown.’

  Clemency examined the change in her hand. ‘Too dear. I’ll give you a shilling and that’s me final offer.’

  His eyes gleamed. ‘One and six.’

  Clemency counted out a one-shilling piece and three pennies. ‘One and three.’

  ‘You’re robbing an honest man, sonny.’ He held out his hand. ‘But I’ll take it.’

  That night, Jack rode to the theatre in his bath chair. At first he complained that it made him look like a gout-ridden old man, but Fancy sent him off with a kiss and a promise of long walks by the river in the spring sunshine. By the end of the evening, he seemed to have come to terms with his new mode of transport, and even joked about it with Ronnie as they made their way home after the performance. When they arrived back at the church they found that Fancy had been busy. She had cleaned the vestry so that it sparkled in the candlelight, and the smell of carbolic soap and Lysol had replaced the former musty odour.

  Augustus had imbibed several tots of brandy in the theatre bar, and he boasted that Horace had given him a Havana cigar to smoke, which just showed in what high esteem the theatre manager held him. He seemed to have put Lucilla out of his mind, at least for the time being, and, in a haze of goodwill, he sent Ronnie out to the nearest pub to fetch a jug of ale and some hot pies for their supper. They ate their meal seated in the choir stalls. The alcohol had gone straight to Clemency’s head, and she was exhausted after a long and emotionally trying day. She barely noticed the cold striking up through the flagstone floor of the vestry as she lay down on a coarse blanket. They all huddled together for warmth, and with Fancy on one side of her and Augustus on the other, she closed her eyes and drifted off into a deep sleep.

  Although it seemed sacrilegious to heat a kettle on the spirit stove in the chancel, Jack said he thought that the Lord would not mind them boiling water for a brew of tea next morning. After all they had eaten pies and drunk ale in the choir stalls in full view of the altar, so it did not seem any worse to fill the old stone font with water from the pump at the corner of Broken Wharf, which they could use for making tea and washing. Ronnie went out first thing and returned with a brown paper bag filled with hot bread rolls for their breakfast. From the capacious pocket in his overcoat, he produced a pot of marmalade and a pat of butter wrapped in a piece of muslin. ‘My treat,’ he said, beaming. ‘There’s nothing like a taste of marmalade to start the day off right.’

  Clemency ate, but with little appetite. She was worried about Ma and had made up her mind to go to the Crown and Anchor as soon as she could get away. She was telling Jack when Augustus overheard.

  ‘My dear Clem. Do you think it’s wise to go about in broad daylight? I mean, you’ve got two desperate characters looking for you, so wouldn’t it be more prudent to visit your dear mama after dark?’

  ‘I need to make sure she’s all right now, Augustus. She’s not young and she ain’t strong like me. I need to be certain that she’s not taken a turn for the worse.’

  ‘I’d go if I could,’ Jack said, frowning. ‘But I’d only draw attention to meself in the bath chair. I can’t hardly go in disguise looking like I do.’

  ‘No, but I can.’ Clemency patted his shoulder. ‘I’m getting used to dressing like a boy, and even though Hardiman might see through it, his mates wouldn’t. I’ll just go and make sure she’s all right and I’ll come straight back.’

  ‘Make sure you do,’ Fancy said, tossing her head. ‘You come back and do your share of the cleaning. I ain’t a skivvy now. I’m as good as the rest of you.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Clem,’ Ronnie said. ‘I can handle a broom with the best of ’em. You go and see Edith and give her my best regards. Tell her Ronnie is thinking of her and wishing her well.’

  Clemency reached up and kissed his cheek. ‘I will, Ronnie. I’ll tell her that.’

  ‘And Clem.’ Ronnie grasped her hand. ‘Tell that young man of yours not to let Edith near the drink. We don’t want her falling back into her bad old ways, especially after what she’s been through.’

  Clemency looked into his earnest brown eyes, realising with a sense of shock that Ronnie cared deeply for her mother. Dear, kind Ronnie, who never had a bad word to say of anyone, was in love with Ma, who had never given him a second glance. She squeezed his stubby fingers. ‘I’ll give her your message and I’ll warn Ned not to let her anywhere near the booze.’

  ‘Just thought I’d mention it. You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Of course not, Ronnie. You’re just like one of the family.’

  *

  She made it to the pub without attracting any particular
attention. No one seemed to take much notice of a skinny boy dressed in shabby clothes. She was just one of the many who roamed the streets, most of them on the dip, and a few on genuine errands for their masters. There was, she decided, a definite advantage to being a male in a predominantly male world. Theirs was a freedom denied to mere females. They could come and go as they pleased; they could toy with women’s emotions and then abandon them, just as Mickey Connor had left Ma to take the consequences of their brief affair. She went into the pub kitchen and was met by a surly remark from Annie.

  ‘You can shut up,’ Clemency said crossly. ‘I ain’t in the mood for any of your sauce.’ She went into the parlour, looking for Nell, but the room was empty. She went through to the bar, where she found Ned pulling pints of beer. His smile of welcome was sincere enough and it gratified her. She had a warm feeling for Ned, and despite his bossy and proprietorial manner, she knew that he meant well.

  He passed the pint tankards over the bar into eager hands. He took the money and handed out the change. ‘Edith’s not too well. Ma’s with her now.’ He put the coins in the till. ‘She’s in the room at the top of the stairs.’

  Clemency made her way along the narrow passage that led to a flight of stairs. Her heart was pounding inside her chest, and she had a strong sense of unease as she went up to the bedroom. The door was ajar, and she almost collided with Nell who was on her way out, carrying a pail filled with bloodstained rags.

  Clemency could just make out Ma’s shape on the bed beneath a white counterpane. ‘H-how is she?’

  Nell shook her head and her bottom lip quivered. ‘Not very well, ducks. She’s had a bad night. I called the doctor early this morning but there weren’t much he could do. He gave me a bottle of laudanum and she’s had a couple of doses, so she’s sleeping now.’

  ‘Can I see her?’

  ‘Of course you can, love. But let her rest. The doctor said that’s all we can do for her, keep her warm and quiet.’

  ‘But – but she won’t die, will she, Nell?’

  ‘I can’t say, ducks. I wish I could tell you that she’ll pull through, but it’s in God’s hands now. We done all we can.’ Nell bustled out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  Clemency went to sit at the bedside. She stared down at Ma’s prostrate body, looking so small and frail beneath the spotless white coverlet, which was only a shade lighter than her pale face. Her hair spilled over the pillow in a wild tangle, its vibrant copper colour in stark contrast to her pallid complexion. Her breathing was even but shallow. Clemency laid her hand over Ma’s as it rested on the counterpane; it felt cold and bony, like the claw of a dead chicken. She shuddered and bit back tears. Suddenly she was a small child again, sitting beside her mother after a beating from Hardiman had left her unconscious. She was afraid, so afraid. She curled her fingers around Ma’s hand, willing some of her own body heat to warm the cold flesh, and desperately hoping to transfer some of her own vitality to Ma’s enfeebled body. She did not realise that Nell had returned, and was standing behind her, until she felt a warm hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Don’t take on so. You won’t help Edie by getting yourself in a state.’ Nell gave her a handkerchief. ‘She’s sleeping peacefully. Best leave her be.’

  Clemency mopped her eyes and blew her nose. ‘She looks so ill.’

  ‘At least she’s alive. We just got to wait and pray. You’ve got to be strong for her, Clemmie. Come downstairs, ducks. A cup of tea will make you feel better.’

  Reluctantly, Clemency left Edith’s side. She followed Nell downstairs into the parlour where a tray of tea had been set out on the table. Nell sat down and cut a large slice of currant cake, which she put on a plate and handed to Clemency.

  ‘Sit down and have a nice cup of tea and a slice of cake. I made it myself, though I don’t get much time for baking these days. I’d hoped to train that silly girl to cook, but she’s as thick as a suet pudding, and next to useless.’

  Clemency slid onto a chair, drained of emotion. The room was warm and the hot tea warmed her stomach. She nibbled a slice of cake and smiled. ‘Ma used to make cake like this in the old days.’

  ‘When was that, ducks?’

  ‘We lived in a pub down Wapping way. Me dad run off when I was just a nipper and then Ma met Hardiman and we moved to Stew Lane.’

  ‘I thought you told me that your dad was dead.’

  ‘Dead to us, I meant. I don’t like to talk about it.’

  Nell heaved a deep sigh. ‘I know what you mean, dear. When my old man cleared off, I was left to run this place all on me own.’

  ‘But you did it.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I managed somehow. I hired a barman and I took in gentlemen lodgers until Ned was old enough to help out. He’s a good boy, Clemmie. And he’s very fond of you.’

  ‘I know,’ Clemency said, toying with the crumbs on her plate. ‘But I’m steering clear of all men. They’re nothing but trouble, in my opinion.’

  ‘Some of them are, dear. And some of them aren’t. You just got to pick a good ’un, if you can. Although, I have to say it, us women always seems to fall for the bad boys. Me and your mum have got a lot in common. I’ll do me very best to look after her, and you must try not to worry. If she takes a turn for the worse, I’ll send Ned to fetch you, night or day.’

  There was nothing more that Clemency could do, and she left the pub feeling even more despondent than she had when she first arrived. Despite encouraging remarks from Ned, and Nell’s steadfast promise to do everything in her power to make Edith better, she could not quite believe that Ma would pull through. She might once have been a strong and healthy woman, but her constitution had been weakened by years of near starvation and terrible living conditions. Hardiman had abused her physically, and her refuge in strong drink had only served to make matters worse.

  Clemency couldn’t face going back to the church. She couldn’t bear to see Jack’s face when she told him that Ma was hovering between life and death. She set off to walk to the theatre, where she could escape into the life of another character. She felt safe amongst the theatrical folk who had quickly become her friends. Her heart always lifted as she entered through the stage door. She left Clemency Skinner outside on the street and lost herself in a magical world of colour, light and music. She became La Moineau, which might be French for sparrow, but sounded so much more exotic.

  The sky above was a peerless blue and small white clouds floated about like puffy meringues. By the time Clemency arrived at the theatre the hint of spring in the air had lifted her spirits, and she was feeling a little more optimistic. At least they had escaped from Hardiman; he would never find them in Upper Thames Street. If only Ma would make a speedy recovery, then perhaps things weren’t so bad after all. She entered the foyer and was met by Horace, who leapt out of the box office, making her jump.

  ‘Ah! Clem, you’re early. That’s what I like to see in my performers – enthusiasm.’

  Clemency smiled and nodded. She was about to walk on when he caught her by the arm.

  ‘You have a visitor, my dear. A young lady who was most insistent that she wait for you, even though I told her you were not expected in the theatre until later.’

  ‘A young lady?’

  ‘A very well-dressed young person. If I didn’t know better I would have assumed she was a young lady of quality, but she assured me that she was a friend of yours. She’s in your dressing room.’

  Mystified, Clemency hurried through to the theatre. The door to her dressing room was ajar and she went inside, filled with curiosity as well as a feeling of apprehension. A tall, slender young woman stood by the make-up table. Clemency tried not to stare, but she could hardly take her eyes off the confection of feathers and ribbons that formed the smartest little hat she had ever seen. She knew, from watching the wealthy patrons of the theatre, that the lavishly trimmed lilac-silk gown was in the very latest fashion: hoops were definitely out and bustles very much in vogue. She would have given her eye tee
th for an outfit like that.

  ‘I am waiting for Miss Skinner, boy.’

  She knew that voice; she had heard it once before. It was the young woman who had accompanied Jared Stone to the theatre. Clemency tugged off her cap, shaking her head to allow her hair to fall about her shoulders. ‘I am Clemency Skinner. Who are you?’

  ‘Oh!’ Her eyes widened in surprise. ‘I’m sorry. I mistook you for a boy. I am Isobel Stone.’

  So she was his wife. Clemency stared back into the cool blue gaze of the self-assured young woman. ‘What do you want with me?’

  Isobel’s confidence appeared to waver for a moment. She looked away, apparently studying a spider hanging from the ceiling by a silken thread. ‘I believe Jared made you an offer.’

  Clemency shut the door, leaning against it, studying Isobel’s delicate profile. ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘You turned him down. Why?’

  ‘Like I said, what has it got to do with you? I don’t want nothing to do with a crook like him, nor his dirty dealings.’

  ‘How dare you speak of Jared like that? If I were a man I’d knock you down.’

  Clemency folded her arms across her chest, angling her head. ‘If I was a bloke, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Get off your high horse, lady. I ain’t impressed, and the answer is still no.’

  ‘You would rather stay here?’ Isobel’s gesture took in the spiders’ webs, the dingy paintwork, the fly-spotted mirror and the dressing table littered with half used sticks of greasepaint. ‘You would choose the life of a cheap chanteuse rather than help a noble man to further his charitable cause?’

  Now she knew that the woman was completely mad. Clemency blinked hard, wondering if she had heard correctly. But Isobel was obviously working herself up into a state of distress. Her china-doll complexion had paled alarmingly, her breathing was quick and shallow and, to Clemency’s amazement, tears sparkled on the tips of her eyelashes. She bit back a caustic comment as to Jared Stone’s integrity; the poor girl was obviously besotted with him, and labouring under the illusion that he was a decent man. It would be best to humour her, or she might turn hysterical. ‘Look, lady, I mean, Isobel. We got off on the wrong foot. I don’t think you quite understand the job that Mr Stone offered me.’