Sweet Songbird

by Sweet Songbird (retail) (epub)

  She turned her head. The heavy gold ring on his finger glinted in the light. She sat up abruptly, folding her long legs to bring her knees up under her chin, clasping her hands about them. ‘No.’

  He lay back, his face expressionless.

  She shook her head, her hair veiling her eyes. ‘No,’ she said again, ‘can’t you see? I have to do it myself.’

  His eyes were cool, as was his voice. ‘Don’t be stupid, Kitty. I’ve told you – in this world you have to use any weapon that comes to hand. I’m your weapon against Moses. To hell with your pride. I’ll sort Moses out. He’ll let you go.’

  ‘And Pol?’

  ‘Ah. That might be a bit more difficult.’

  ‘I’m not going without her,’ she said, and was mortified at the frail catch of uncertainty in the words.

  * * *

  In the event she found herself confronting Moses Smith rather earlier than she would have wished, and on the fat man’s own ground. She did not even know if Luke had got round to talking to him.

  It was some time since Kitty had been summoned to one of Moses’ ‘quarterly meetings’ in the cellar – her new status, both as entertainer and with regard to Luke Peveral, had spared her that. She was surprised therefore to find herself and Matt peremptorily summoned some few days later. She had no time to consult with Luke, nor indeed with anyone else, and it was with some misgiving that she obeyed. She did not at the moment dare to do anything else, for the last thing she wanted to do was openly to antagonize the man.

  Reluctantly she had come to accept that only with Luke’s influence behind her would she be able to break free; despite the promptings of common sense she still harboured the hope that Pol might be allowed to leave with her. Not that Pol allowed herself to harbour such false hopes. ‘Don’t take the chance, love – you’ll cock it up fer yerself if yer try it. The old bastard won’t let me go, you can bet yer boots. ’E won’t be ’appy at losin’ you – ’e’ll keep me ter spite us both, you mark my words.’ But Kitty had determined not to give up so easily; so now, if the brusque summons from Moses caught her unaware and unnerved her more than a little, at least it looked likely to take matters from her hands and force the issue one way or another. It might as well be now as later. It was with some determination in her step that she set out for Whitechapel.

  She should not, she afterwards realized, have been surprised to discover that it was not she who had stirred up the hornet’s nest of Moses’ anger, but her brother.

  She suspected that Matt knew, or guessed, more of the reason for the summons than she did from the moment she slid into the seat beside him, squeezing onto the low bench between him and Croucher. The dimly lit cellar was exactly as she remembered it from that first evening that now seemed so long ago – even the faces were the same, except that Pol now sat alone, brass-blonde head tilted a little tiredly to the mildewed wall. Lottie, of course, was no longer required to attend such gatherings.

  ‘What’s this all about?’ she whispered to Matt.

  He shrugged, a little too carelessly. He had hardly greeted her. Springer, seated at his other side, cast him a single disgusted look and sniffed.

  She peered at her brother suspiciously. ‘Matt?’

  ‘How should I know?’ His face looked a little pale in the half-light. His fingers fidgeted with the ragged strands of cotton at his cuff.

  ‘You haven’t—?’ Kitty’s question was cut short as all sound suddenly died as Moses, Bobs, and another bruiser, a particularly unpleasant man known as Dyce, who, she had heard, brutally and efficiently policed the brothel known as The House, entered the cellar. Kitty heard her brother’s sharp-indrawn breath. His eyes were fixed on Dyce, and the last vestiges of colour had left his face.

  Moses was in no good temper, and it showed. His plump pink face was bereft of expression, his small red mouth pursed. His eyes were flat and cold as a snake’s as he seated himself and stared about the room, his eyes flicking coldly from face to face with no sign of warmth of greeting. Dyce and Bobs stationed themselves one each side of his chair. Moses barely looked at Kitty; the chill gaze slid across hers, fixed upon her brother and stayed there. She felt Matt tense beside her as he lifted his chin and returned the man’s look. Kitty’s heart sank to her boots. The silence was tense.

  ‘In this organization,’ Moses said, at last, quietly, ‘a warning is given only once. I believe that you all know that. I will not be cheated. I will not be crossed. I will not be disobeyed. Matt Daniels. Here.’

  Awkwardly Matt stood. With brave composure he walked into the open space before the dais, where he stood, head up, watching Moses.

  Kitty was trembling, fear turned her stomach. Matt, oh Matt, why must you always do it? It was like an oft-repeated nightmare.

  At a sign from Moses Bobs stepped forward and caught the boy from behind, holding him by the elbows, twisted savagely back. Matt did not struggle, nor did he take his eyes from Moses’. Dyce stepped to him. He was a brute of a man with a vicious, pock-marked face and the strength of a bull, as many a girl in The House would testify.

  Moses spoke very softly. ‘Matt Daniels, did I not, just a week ago, and for the second time, forbid you The House?’

  Matt did not reply.

  Almost casually Dyce backhanded him across the mouth. ‘Speak when you’re spoke to.’

  ‘Yes.’ Blood dribbled from Matt’s lip and dripped onto his grubby shirt.

  ‘And have you obeyed me?’

  Matt hesitated. Dyce lifted a hand. ‘No,’ Matt said.

  ‘No.’ Moses’ voice was deceptively mild. He surveyed Matt for a long moment. ‘Can you give me one good reason,’ he asked, suddenly sharp and hard, ’why there should be one rule for Matt Daniels and another for everyone else?’

  Matt was watching him as if mesmerized. Kitty could see his fear and his brave attempt to hide it. He shook his head.

  ‘And yet – that would seem to be your opinion, boy. This is not the first time you have defied me, that you have presumed upon my good nature and my favour. It will be the last. I told you to stay away from The House, and to stay away from Sally-Anne.’ He glanced around the cellar. ‘Matt Daniels,’ he said, cruelly derisive, ’thinks he can have for nothing what other men pay hard-earned money for.’

  Unexpected, painful colour flooded Matt’s face. His bloodied lips tightened, but he said nothing.

  Moses’ eyes came back to him. ‘Every whore in that house pays dues to me, boy. And Sally-Anne’s a whore like the rest of them. How can she pay her dues if she’s giving it to you for free?’

  Desperately Matt shook his head.

  Moses pressed savagely on. ‘Sally-Anne’s been with me for four years. Since she was twelve. And the most willing whore I’ve had – no tongue, no trouble – that right, Dyce?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Smith.’

  ‘An’ what happens now? Along comes Mr Cleverdick Daniels, and the girl finds herself in trouble. Eh, Dyce?’

  Dyce grinned. ‘Yes, Mr Smith.’

  Matt looked at him, wrenched suddenly upon his held arms. ‘What have you done to her?’

  ‘Ask yourself what you’ve done to her, lad,’ Moses snapped. ‘That’s a bit more to the point, isn’t it? What Dyce did was hurt her, and on my orders. What you’ve done’s far worse than that.’

  Matt was struggling wildly now, tears on his face. ‘You bastard! I’ll kill you!’

  Kitty sat rooted to the spot. She caught Pol’s eye, sympathetic and warning.

  Dyce, at a sign from Moses, struck Matt hard once, and then again, across the face. The boy reeled back, still held by Bobs.

  ‘Tell me, Matt,’ Moses said, very softly, ‘what the buggery do you think you’ve been doing here? I mean – we all like to take the little ladies for a ride, don’t we? But – fair’s fair! The poor little bitch thinks you love her – least, that’s what she told Dyce. Wasn’t it, Dyce?’

  Dyce grinned again. ‘Yes, Mr Smith.’

  Matt had stopped struggling. He stood,
slim and rigid in Bobs’ grip, his face a picture of ineffectual rage and hatred. ‘I do,’ he said.

  Moses shook his head mournfully. ‘Oh, no.’ His eyes flicked to Dyce. Dyce spat on his hands, rubbed them on his dirty shirt. ‘You can’t love Sally-Anne, Matt – she’s mine – and I won’t have you – putting ideas in her head – that don’t suit me. You hear?’ At each pause Dyce’s great fist buried itself in Matt’s lean stomach. Matt screamed. Moses talked inexorably on. ‘You behave yourself a while – show me how sorry you are – and maybe, sometime – you’ll be allowed back at The House – but you’ll take whatever girl’s offered – and it won’t be Sally-Anne. Understood? Enough, Dyce,’ he added.

  Matt hung, silent, from Bobs’ huge hands. After a moment he lifted his head. Moses was waiting for him. ‘I asked if you understood?’ The steel chill of his voice gave notice that Matt Daniels had forfeited his untrustworthy favour forever. Matt nodded. Kitty looked down at the cellar floor, not to see the expression on his face. Moses’ next words almost stopped her heart. ‘You will not, of course,’ he said, ‘be leaving with your sister. That goes without saying. You owe me, Matt Daniels, and you’ll pay. You stay.’

  His words caused a stir about her. Eyes turned to look at her. Moses’ gaze was still fixed upon Matt, but there was a hint of malice in his face that she knew was directed at her. If pressure from Luke were forcing him to let her go he would make her suffer first if he could. That, she suddenly saw, had been the reason for his summoning her to witness Matt’s humiliation and punishment.

  Moses jerked his head at Bobs. ‘Let him go. He’s going to be a good boy now. Aren’t you, Matt?’

  Bobs let go of Matt’s arms. He staggered, righted himself, wiped the back of his hand across his still bleeding mouth.

  Moses, at last, turned his attention to Kitty. ‘After all I’ve done for you, girl?’

  She said nothing.

  He shrugged. ‘Never let it be said Moses Smith wasn’t soft-hearted. You want to go? Go. Just remember – anyone asks, it was Moses Smith gave you your first chance.’ He turned to leave.

  Kitty stepped forward. ‘Mr Smith!’

  He stopped. Kitty saw Pol’s frantic gesture to silence, and ignored it.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Pol – I’d like Pol to come with me.’

  He turned very slowly, eyed her for a long moment. ‘I see. And what does Pol have to say about it?’

  ‘She’ll come if you’ll let her.’ Doggedly she held his eyes, refusing to be intimidated.

  ‘Will she now?’ The small, unfriendly eyes turned to Pol. ‘I’m surprised at you, Pol. You and me go back a long way.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Pol said, sourly.

  ‘Mind you’ – he mused for a moment – ‘getting a bit long in the tooth now, I suppose?’

  Pol flushed very slightly, and bit off a sharp retort. The faintest gleam of hope had appeared in her eyes.

  ‘Was a time when I might have felt different – but, well, I can’t deny Lot’s had a word in my ear—’ He turned suddenly to the wary Kitty. ‘Tell you what I’ll do. Pol wants to go with you – she can go—’

  She did not believe it. She waited, and was not disappointed.

  ‘—for a price, of course,’ he added smoothly.

  ‘A – price?’

  ‘Well of course. By way of compensation, as you might say.’

  Kitty held his eyes, ‘What sort of price?’

  ‘Well – let’s see – she might be on the shady side of thirty, but there’s life in her yet, and she’s strong.’ He might, Kitty thought bitterly, have been talking of a milk cow. ‘Midge’d miss her if no one else did. Let’s say – fifty guineas?’

  She stared at him. ‘You’re joking!’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I can’t – you know I don’t have fifty guineas!’

  His small mouth quirked mockingly. ‘You don’t say? Well that’s that then. Fifty guineas is my price.’

  The light had gone from Pol’s face. Kitty’s temper stirred. ‘Thirty,’ she snapped.

  ‘Forty-five.’ He was grinning, now, enjoying the entertainment.

  She hesitated. ‘Thirty-five.’

  He laughed. ‘You got thirty-five guineas?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ll get it.’

  ‘Not a penny less than forty.’

  She glared at him. ‘Done!’

  He opened a plump white hand, pointed to the palm, ‘Cash on the barrel. Before she leaves.’

  ‘You’ll have it.’

  ‘I will. Or Pol stays where she belongs.’ Moses turned and left the cellar, Bobs and Dyce at his heels. Muttering amongst themselves, casting sidelong glances at Kitty and Matt, the others followed. Pol, the last to leave, smiled ruefully at Kitty. ‘Forty guineas? Soppy thing – where you goin’ ter get forty guineas?’

  ‘I’ll get it.’

  The other girl laughed a little, shaking her head sadly. ‘Not much of a bargain fer you, girl. I’d ferget it were I you.’ Still smiling, her eyes sombre, she left them.

  Kitty looked at Matt. He had until now been standing, with an effort, in the middle of the floor, where Bobs had left him. Now he moved painfully to a bench, and dropped down onto it, his arms crossed over his bruised torso.

  She moved to him, touched his shoulder lightly.

  He lifted his head.

  ‘We’ll get you away, too,’ she said, uncertainly, ‘eventually.’

  To her surprise he shook his head, his face set. ‘I’m staying. And not on Moses Smith’s say-so either.’

  ‘Matt – please – if it’s the girl – you’ll do more harm than good—’

  ‘Leave it,’ he said.

  She shut her mouth.

  He grinned a little, split lips seeping blood. ‘It’s not just that. I’m going to be big, Kitty. Big as the Guv’nor. And when I am – I’m going to kill Moses Smith. Very slowly.’

  She knew at last from experience when to argue and when not. ‘Tell me when,’ she said, grimly, ‘I wouldn’t want to miss it.’

  * * *

  She would not ask Luke for the money, and there was no one else she could go to. When her temper cooled she had to admit that her impulsive acceptance of Moses’ deliberate challenge had been foolhardy. ‘I’ll save it,’ she said, as confidently as she could, to Pol. ‘It means you’ll have to wait a bit before you can join me, but I’ll do it, I promise.’

  ‘What’ll you be earning at this Cambridge place?’

  ‘A guinea a week to start with.’ A fortune she had thought it.

  ‘Well, that’s all right then,’ said Pol, gently mocking, ‘providin’ yer don’t want ter eat, dress or live anywhere – roll on a year or so—’

  Kitty looked at her, miserably. ‘Oh, Pol – I’m sorry—’

  Pol patted her hand. ‘It’s all right, yer daft ’a’porth. You tried. That’s what counts. You bloody tried. An’ I won’t ferget that.’

  (ii)

  Her disappointment about Pol and her worries about Matt notwithstanding, Kitty’s spirits were high as she set out with an advance from Patrick Kenny in her pocket to find herself somewhere decent to live at last. Not even the days that she spent tramping London’s grimy streets and crowded pavements could dampen them. A week or so later – a week of knocking on strange doors, inspecting rooms that ranged from the squalid through the cheerless to the barely adequate, she found herself in Pascal Road, a narrow residential street in Paddington, not far from the great station. The paved street was quiet and respectable-looking. The houses – built perhaps twenty years before – were small, the front doors opening directly onto the pavement. Most had lace curtains hanging at meticulously cleaned windows. The tiled doorsteps were burnished red, to vie with each other, gleaming crimson. She counted the doors. Number twenty-three was as clean and neat-looking as its neighbours. A small flowering plant blossomed at one of the lace-draped windows and another stood by the scrubbed and polished doorstep. Faint hope stirred. She kno
cked.

  ‘Yes, dear?’ A diminutive woman opened the door, tilting her head to look at tall Kitty. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’ve come about the room.’ Beyond the little woman Kitty could see a long hall that in the shadows gleamed with polish, and narrow stairs, carpeted with a well-brushed runner. An indefinable smell, compounded of soap and polish and the fragrance of flowers, came to her nostrils. The smell of a well-kept, well-loved home.

  The little woman stepped back. ‘Yes, of course, dear. Come in. I’ll show you.’ She had little black eyes, shiny as boot-buttons, and an equally small, turned-up nose. Her movements were quick and bird-like. She was, Kitty surmised, not all that much older than she was herself. ‘This way, dear. Any preference, front or back?’ The woman bustled up the stairs, stopped, laughing, halfway: ‘Oh, I suppose I should introduce myself?’ She spoke very fast, hardly seeming to take breath between sentences. ‘Mrs Buckley. Amy Buckley. A widow, I am. Now – what do you think, front or back? I’ve two rooms going, you see, I’m moving downstairs and letting off the top.’ She led the way up the narrow stairs, still talking breathlessly. ‘With poor Mr Buckley gone, you see, I need to do something – something to bring in a bit of money. He left me the house, you see, but nothing to go with it – not that I’m complaining, mind you. Oh, no, I wouldn’t complain. Worked hard all his life, he did, and no one could argue about that. Now—’ She paused on a tiny landing, lit from fanlights above the two doors that stood one each end of it. The landing was permeated, as was the rest of the house, with the fresh and clean smell of soap. ‘Which would you prefer, front or back? The front’s a bit bigger, but the back’s quieter. Prettier, too, I reckon. Looks out onto the gardens you see—’

  ‘Might I see the back?’

  ‘’Course, dear, this way.’ She led Kitty to one of the doors and threw it open, standing back. ‘There.’

  Kitty stood like a statue. It seemed to her to have been an age since she had seen such a room, welcoming and homely. Roses scrambled across the wallpaper and over the plump eiderdown that covered the bedspread. Crisp and pretty pink curtains hung at the narrow window. Roses there were too upon the jug and bowl that stood on a sparklingly clean tiled washstand in the corner. She walked to the window. A long slender strip of garden marched in parallel with its neighbours to a fence, beyond which ran a narrow, linking alleyway. The garden was a patch of grass with a tiny path, straight as a ruled line, beside a washing line upon which blew Mrs Buckley’s immaculate washing. The path ran beneath the spreading branches of what looked like an apple tree to the wooden gate that led to the back alley. She felt Mrs Buckley’s small presence at her shoulder. ‘Mr Buckley’s pride and joy was that little garden,’ she said a little sadly. ‘I try to keep it nice. For him, like.’