Suddenly aware of her cement-coated teeth, she didn’t dare smile. Hearing Mary calling for her, she turned briefly, then turned back to say goodbye, but Sydney had already been swallowed up by the fog.
‘I can’t stop long, Floss. I have to see my mam,’ Jessie said, looking flustered and red in the face, having run all the way up Burch Road.
It had been three weeks since the drownings and they’d hardly seen each other, which made Jessie even keener to find out about Sydney Gibbons. Clutching each other’s hands in expectation, the girls ran quickly to a seat outside The Elephant’s Head where they knew they wouldn’t be disturbed. Flossie composed herself as her friend got her breath back.
‘He knows such a lot of interesting things, Jess. I can’t begin to tell you all of what he’s told me.’
‘Wonder why he chose you as his confidante?’ Jessie responded.
‘It seems he finds it hard to make friends of his own kind,’ Flossie continued, ignoring her friend’s condescending tone. ‘He’s got a sister, Esther, who’s a year older but looks much younger. He brought her to the slipway when we watched the ship finally go.’
‘What ship?’
‘You know, the one the drowned men came from. It took Tom and the others days to find the bodies.’
‘I can’t believe I missed all that, what with having to work on Christmas Day. Would you like a toffee apple?’
Jessie had spotted a young boy pushing a cart full of tempting treats. Flossie nodded and soon the two of them were tucking into sweet, sticky, golden delicacies.
‘Well I never, fancy you meeting a gentleman in the making,’ Jess teased as she prised lumps of hardened toffee from her teeth. ‘The upper-crusts living in my house rarely give me a second glance, let alone talk to me. I have to “know my place”, the cook says. Even the lady’s maid is stuck-up. Anyway, tell me more.’
‘He seems pleasant enough, and is devoted to his sister,’ Flossie said, blushing slightly. ‘He’s studying to be a land surveyor, the teacher comes to the house especially. They have a governess, a cook, a housemaid and a nursemaid to look after Thomas, the baby.’
‘Very grand,’ Jessie said with a note of sarcasm in her voice. ‘My pa’s often talked about Mr Gibbons at the factory. Not sure he likes him much. Says he might be the manager of Robins, but he’s full of his own importance. Still, perhaps his son is different. Look, I’d better be going now. Same time next week?’
Flossie nodded and smiled as she watched her friend throwing her rotten apple into the gutter. Food purchased from street sellers often held hidden surprises. What she hadn’t mentioned was that Sydney and Esther were going to meet her on this very seat later that afternoon.
‘He’s very good,’ Sydney said as the trio sat in the sunshine watching a strange little man performing a clog dance on the pub’s cellar flaps beside them. ‘Who is he?’
‘That’s Harry Relph,’ Flossie replied. ‘He’s often here on a Saturday when the crowds are queuing for the gardens.’
‘He looks very queer. How old is he?’ Esther asked. ‘Maybe we should put a penny in his pot.’
‘A bit older than us, I think, but it’s hard to tell.’ Flossie was fascinated with Harry Relph, having often watched him perform. On one occasion Henry Luck had pushed Albert Bull forward to ask why he always wore white gloves. The boy said it was because he had five fingers and a thumb on each hand and six toes on each foot. That, along with being only four foot six inches tall, made him something of a spectacle, but it was his exceptional dance routines that stopped the passing crowds in their tracks.
When the ale keeper of The Elephant’s Head left a glass of ginger ale by the pub door, ‘The Young Tichborne’, as the audiences had nicknamed the portly thirteen-year-old, took a grateful break. Slipping out of his heavy footwear, he reached for his much-needed drink and slumped against the wall. The name ‘Tichborne’ had become synonymous with being overweight thanks to an infamous twenty-five-stone fraudster, Arthur Orton – otherwise known as the Tichborne Claimant. Playing on the hopes of Lady Tichborne, who could not accept that her son had drowned as a child, he materialised in Wagga Wagga, Australia, pretending to be the said son and heir. In truth, he was nothing more than a Wapping butcher’s son. Thankfully the family was not taken in and Orton was sentenced to fourteen years’ penal servitude.
Keen to impress her new friends, Flossie plucked up courage and went over to talk to Harry. It was perfect timing as he was only too happy to share some good news.
‘It’s paid off. I’ve been spotted by the manager,’ he said, nodding in the direction of the Rosherville Gardens. ‘I’m joining a troupe of blacked-up minstrels. All the fashion now. You do it with burnt cork. I’m to dance and play a penny whistle and if it goes well, I’ll get a regular booking. With any luck I won’t have to go back to lathering for a livin’.’
The sixteenth and final child of seventy-seven-year-old publican Richard Relph, Harry had moved to Gravesend at the age of eight. His schoolmaster had recommended him for a watchmaking apprenticeship, but his father ignored the advice and had him taken on as a lather boy in a Gravesend barber’s shop. Taking advantage of his celebrity status as a local freak, he found he could earn extra income busking to day trippers, theatre queues and outside public houses, where he devised his eccentric dances.
‘This is just the start. Got my eye on Barnard’s Music Hall in Chatham,’ he continued. ‘Top-of-the-bill acts earn thirty-five shillings a week there.’ Wiping his mouth with the back of his glove, he winked at Flossie, ambled over to his spot and, with a cherubic smile, burst into song.
Waving goodbye, Flossie, Sydney and Esther left the crowds behind and made their way home past Thomas Bevan’s posh house with his initials in the railings. Convincing her friends to take a short cut down Hive Lane, they were forced to hold their noses on account of the stench. The lane was used as a public convenience by many a man on his way to work, and Flossie began to regret her hasty decision, especially when halfway down she sensed that they were being followed. As they started to walk faster, out of the shadows two oafs emerged and within seconds one of them had pinned Sydney to the wall, knocking his glasses into the scrub, while the other loomed over Esther menacingly and pointed to some pretty trinkets she was wearing.
‘I’ll have some of them fine things o’ yourn,’ he laughed roughly. ‘Make ’em over sharp.’
Esther was so terrified she started to shake.
‘You see this?’ he spat, waving a stick in front of their faces. ‘It’ll be best for all of you if you do what I say.’
Flossie watched in horror as Esther handed over her bracelet and fumbled with the clasp of her brooch while the boy grabbed the gold chain attached to a watch hanging from her waist. Stuffing the jewellery into his pockets, he then made off. His accomplice deftly punched Sydney in the ribs, rendering him incapable of giving chase, and then strolled off as if nothing had happened.
The girls rushed to Sydney’s aid. Though winded, he soon recovered and took charge of the situation.
‘We need to find a policeman. There’s no time to lose,’ he said, brushing the cement dust off his cap.
As they made for the London Road, Sydney stopped under a street light and turned to Flossie.
‘You should go straight home,’ he said, freeing his sister’s hand from hers. ‘I think it will be for the best if you don’t come with us. The police may well think you were in on it. You could have lured us down that unpleasant lane and given the robbers a sign to follow. It is likely that the authorities will be suspicious of you.’
Taken aback at being thought an accomplice to the attack, she flashed him a disdainful look and, lifting her skirt away from her knees, ran off down the lanes, not slowing down until she caught sight of the flaming kilns of The Creek.
John O’Connell let her in. ‘Your mam’s been looking for you,’ he said reproachful
ly. ‘She’s gone along the Undershore to get our meal, not best pleased that you weren’t here to go. So be warned.’
Flossie shrugged her shoulders. Glancing around the kitchen, it was obvious that her father wasn’t home. Without him to give the orders, the lodgers hadn’t washed, and powder from their caps and clothes was falling off them like snow. The three of them were sitting with their feet up on the table. Things had become very lackadaisical of late.
This was payday, but without her husband’s earnings Mary had to shop with no more than a tanner and a few farthings. Pluck would be the best she’d get, and sheep’s lungs needed a long time cooking. Better hope for some broken fish if she didn’t stop off at The Staff of Life on the way. Lottie had done her best with what was left in the pantry and the lodgers were picking at some dry bread and wilted watercress while they waited.
As it turned out, Mary didn’t make it to the shops, nor did she get home until after the girls had gone to bed. When she eventually rolled in, well after closing time, she crashed around the kitchen for another hour. Luckily Lottie didn’t wake.
Flossie, on the other hand, couldn’t sleep. The events of that afternoon were weighing heavily on her mind and she felt responsible for putting Sydney and Esther in danger. There were always pickpockets outside the gardens and gangs of local youths often obstructed the footpaths. If arrested by the police, they usually got fined a shilling and were named in the local paper. She should have known better than to leave the main road, and sighed on remembering what Sydney had said to her. Though his motive for sending her away may have been to protect her, perhaps he really did believe she was in on it? Whichever way it was, she doubted she’d ever see him again. Maybe Jessie was right: the upper-crusts keep themselves to themselves.
A few weeks later the Grant girls were at a fancy bazaar when Flossie caught sight of the Reporter’s headline: Two boys commit wilful murder stealing pocket watch. A chill ran down her spine. Moving closer to read the story while Lottie was choosing a penny pipe for Sam, it stated that the victim was Thomas Eves, proprietor of the Pavilion Theatre. Named simply as Clarke and Henderson, both aged ten and Eves’ employees, the killers had apparently beaten him with sticks until he died. According to the police, Clarke had treated the situation with great indifference. When they admitted to further violent crimes, including one involving the son and daughter of Mr Robert Gibbons, cement manufacturer, the judge had no hesitation in meting out a sentence of penal servitude.
The lodgers were full of the story come the evening. Flossie kept quiet, only too aware that she’d had a lucky escape.
‘Wake up, girls, and get dressed.’
It seemed like the middle of the night and Flossie tried desperately to stay asleep despite being shaken by her mother. Lottie inevitably started crying.
‘Hush, girl,’ Mary whispered. ‘We’re going on a trip. Now hurry up, the pair of you.’
Confused, Flossie rubbed her eyes, braved putting her bare feet on the cold floor and went over to the window. It was pitch-black outside. Fumbling around, she eventually found and lit her bedside candle and started to do as her mother said.
‘Where are we going?’ Lottie whined.
‘Don’t know yet,’ Flossie replied, trying her best to calm her younger sister. ‘Best do as she says. Happen it’ll be a pleasing day.’ It was too dark for Lottie to see the worried look on her sister’s face.
There was something different about Mary that spring morning. It was only five o’clock, yet she was dressed, with tidy, straightened hair. There was no evidence of a hangover and she wasn’t slurring her words. Barely ten minutes had passed before she returned and placed a carpet bag, not seen since the day they first arrived in The Creek, on Flossie’s bed.
‘We’ll be gone for a while, so pack all your clothes,’ she instructed. ‘I’ve made you both a drink of warm cocoa before we leave. Now be quick, we have a train to catch.’
Suddenly excited at the prospect of an adventure, Lottie started dancing round the room. ‘Maybe it’s to celebrate your birthday,’ she squealed, trying to make her sister join in. Flossie resisted, continuing to pack. Birthdays usually came and went without any fuss, she thought.
Peeking into the other bedroom while her mother was downstairs, Flossie saw that her father was not there. An early start, even for him, she thought. Yet the room seemed strangely empty with Mary’s bag, coat and best bonnet neatly laid out on top of the tidy bed. Flossie couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen it that way.
Dawn was breaking as they walked down the London Road to the Town Pier and the ferry to Tilbury. Mary walked with purpose, one bag balancing in each hand. She looked taller, somehow. Lottie was jabbering happily, which thankfully made up for Flossie’s silence. There was a light mist on the river as the small steamer Cato came alongside. The girls buttoned up their coats for the short, but damp, ferry ride to the opposite side in Essex. The vessel filled up quickly with construction labourers heading for the new docks. Everyone jostled for position on the cramped deck and there was much pushing and shoving. A man who looked like he hadn’t washed in a week of Sundays leered at Mary, and got so close that Flossie could feel his hot breath on her face. Thankfully someone else elbowed him out of the way to give the girls some space. Flossie tried to concentrate on the shimmering lights reflecting on the water.
It was a relief to disembark, but the distasteful experience proved to be just the start of a tortuous journey. Sitting in an icy train carriage, standing on a smelly omnibus and a noisy walk through crowded streets left the girls bewildered and tired. They soon gave up asking where they were going. At one point, with stomachs rumbling, the sound of a nearby street market offered hope of some sustenance. As it grew louder, the hubbub and din of bellowing voices alarmed Lottie.
‘Walnuts, apples, onions, turnips, penny a lot. Herrings, whelks, any of it for a copper…’
Allowing her exhausted girls to rest on a small green, Mary toured the stalls for a cheap meal. Eyes darting everywhere, Flossie realised they were in Barkingside, a place evidently far, far busier than Northfleet. Horses and carts were everywhere and large groups of men jammed the footpaths, talking and smoking pipes, while their women rushed from stall to stall with purchases spilling from their apron pockets. It was not long before the girls were tucking into eel pies so hot that they burnt their mouths, followed by penny licks to cool them down. Try as hard as she might, Flossie couldn’t quell her suspicions over her mother’s sudden generosity. Ice cream was an unheard-of treat.
‘We’re almost there, girls,’ Mary said as they turned a corner. Flossie noted that they were in Tanners Lane, and remembering that her father had given her a silver tanner as a keepsake, she now fondled it in her pocket.
Mary suddenly stopped. They were outside a pair of large metal gates.
‘This is it,’ she said, ringing the bell. ‘Now let me have a look at you both. Got to make sure you look smart.’ Pushing some stray ringlets back under Lottie’s bonnet, Mary proceeded to spit on her handkerchief and wiped some spots of grime off both their faces.
A tall, serious-looking woman opened the gates and ushered them in. Lottie looked up at Mary.
‘What is this place? Tell us now, Mama,’ she pleaded. ‘Are we going to stay in one of those houses?’
Mary remained silent as they crossed a manicured lawn and stopped outside one of a row of thirteen identical cottages all named after plants or flowers. Flossie gasped on reading the plaque on the wall: Dr Barnardo’s Village Home for Destitute Girls.
9
Disputing it didn’t make any difference. The governess was adamant.
‘Your name is Oxer, Florence and Charlotte Oxer. It says it here in clear English.’
Flossie’s head was spinning. She’d been left in a room for more than an hour ‘to calm herself’ before being allowed to see the handing-over papers. Permission to do so had only bee
n granted on the express condition that this must bring an end to her obsession with her surname. Now the proof was in front of her. In faint spidery writing, it read:
I, Mary Ann Oxer, of no fixed abode, do hereby hand over my rightful daughters, Florence and Charlotte Oxer. Cause: destitution due to husband Henry Oxer’s imprisonment in Ipswich, Suffolk, for drunkenness and thievery.
Flossie fell silent. It was no wonder that the governess had grown tired of hearing her yelling that her father, Samuel Grant of The Creek, Northfleet, needed to know where they were so he could come and take them home.
Slamming shut the admissions register, the governess looked stern. Running a bony finger down the perfect creases of her apron, she made it clear: ‘Dr Barnardo forbids his children to speak about their pasts, so that is how it will be from now on. Do you understand?’
Exhausted, Flossie nodded. Drained of emotion, she fixed her gaze on a mass of girls in white pinafores streaming silently past the window.
‘We create an environment here that leads to a pure, purposeful and happy life, and soon you will be taught how to achieve it.’ Seeing that she was losing Flossie’s attention, she rapped her knuckles on the desk. ‘In essence,’ she declared, staring deep into the girl’s eyes, ‘the well-ordered and gentle life of our Village Home casts no backward shadows.’
The rest of the evening was spent in a whirlwind of unfamiliar and disagreeable tasks. Every stage of their initiation caused Lottie to burst into floods of uncontrollable tears. She had to be dragged to have her photograph taken, fearing that it might hurt. Next she was unceremoniously dropped into a steaming bath, where she was convinced she would drown in such deep water. It was a far cry from the second-hand, six inches of tepid water that she was used to. The final straw came when her hair was roughly searched for nits. Too distraught for supper, she was put to bed by Miss Adams, their new housemother.
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