by Dilly Court
A thick white mist had crept up the Thames and it hung in a damp cloud over the city. Irene went out to fetch water and almost immediately her hair was pearled with tiny droplets of moisture. She managed to dodge Sal’s inquisitive company by going to the bakery and then the dairy where she had her jug filled with a pint of milk. At least when Pa did eventually turn up she would have breakfast waiting for him. When he was in a good mood it would be time for them to talk seriously. As she left the dairy, Irene was pleased to see that Sal had latched on to one of the scullery maids from the Mitre pub, further along Wood Street. They were deep in conversation and did not notice her as she hurried past them to draw water from the pump. She struggled home with the heavy bucket, and was attempting to fish the key from her pocket when the sound of approaching footsteps made her glance over her shoulder. ‘Pa! Thank goodness you’ve come home.’
Taking the key from her hand, Billy grinned as he opened the door. ‘Don’t I always turn up like the proverbial bad penny, my little flower?’
‘Don’t soft soap me, Pa. You know it won’t work.’ Irene stepped over the threshold and set the heavy pail of water down carefully so as not to spill a drop. She turned to him, concealing her relief with a frown. ‘I suppose you’ve only come home now because you’ve run out of funds.’
Billy tossed his hat onto the peg, followed by his muffler. ‘Not entirely, my pet.’ He tapped the side of his nose and winked at her as he made for the stairs. Irene knew that there was no use scolding him when he was in this ebullient mood. ‘What do you mean by not entirely, Pa?’ She followed him upstairs to the living room.
‘I mean exactly that, dumpling. I lost some and I won some, and then I lost some more, but Vic has got a job for me which will pay ten times what I lost at the tables.’
‘What job would that be?’ She spoke more sharply than she had meant to, and she tempered her words with an attempt at a smile.
Billy perched on the edge of his bed and began to unlace his boots. ‘Just a job, sweetheart. Nothing bad, I can assure you, so don’t worry your pretty head about that.’
‘But I do worry, Pa. You know that Inspector Kent has been asking questions.’
‘You didn’t tell him anything, did you?’
‘How could I, when I don’t know what’s going on?’
‘And that young idiot Arthur, did Kent speak to him too?’
Irene knelt down to riddle the cinders in the grate. ‘Why didn’t you ask him yourself? You must have seen him at the Sykes’ place.’
‘Not a sign of him, the lazy young devil. I daresay he’s gone crawling back to his father.’
She sat back on her haunches, eyeing him suspiciously. ‘You didn’t have a row with Artie, did you, Pa?’
‘I told you, ducks. I haven’t seen the boy, and I wouldn’t waste my breath on him if I had. Unless he’d been making improper advances to you, and then I’d tan his hide.’
‘He hasn’t done anything of the kind. I’ve told you that Artie isn’t like that.’
‘Likes boys better than girls, does he? I’ve always had my suspicions about that fellow.’
‘Don’t be cruel, Pa. He’s just an ordinary bloke, but he’s sensitive and his dad is a bully. I think Artie might have run away.’
‘Bah!’ Billy threw himself back onto the bed and closed his eyes. ‘I’ve no patience with the fellow. Wake me when my breakfast is ready, love.’ He opened one eye and raised his head. ‘And I don’t want tea and toast. I’ll have a pork pie with a good dollop of mustard pickle on the side and a pint of porter to wash it down with.’
Irene scrambled to her feet. ‘And where is the money coming from for this feast, Pa?’
Billy thrust his hand in his pocket and pulled out a crown. He tossed it to her. ‘Get yourself something better than a slice of bread and scrape. There’s more where that came from. Soon we’ll be rolling in money and I’ll have your mother back home where she belongs.’
Fear clutched at Irene’s heart. ‘Promise me that you haven’t got yourself mixed up in anything bad.’
Billy folded his hands on his chest and groaned. ‘How many times must I tell you not to worry? Now go and get those vittles before I die of starvation.’
There was little that Irene could do other than humour him, and when she had a good fire blazing up the chimney she went out to purchase the food and drink that he had demanded. Billy demolished his meal with obvious enjoyment and did not seem to notice that she contented herself with a slice of bread and a thin scraping of butter. She intended to use what was left of the money he had given her to buy new stock, and now she could pay the old villain Yapp in advance as he had demanded.
Billy went to bed as soon as he had finished his meal, instructing Irene to wake him at noon. She went downstairs to open the shop but she could not rid herself of the fear that something awful might have happened to Arthur. Supposing that either Vic or Wally had discovered that he was spying on them? They would show no mercy to an informer and their vengeance would be swift and deadly. Somehow she managed to get through the morning, and having dutifully awakened her father at midday she waited until he had left for Blue Boar Court, saying nothing about her intention of closing the shop for as long as it took to visit the Greenwoods’ house in Bread Street. If Arthur had gone home without telling her, she would want to know the reason why, but if he had not then she would be really worried.
Irene did not recognise the maidservant who answered her urgent rapping on the doorknocker, but she was hardly surprised. The servants in the Greenwood residence never seemed to stay for any length of time. Mr Greenwood was a notoriously hard taskmaster and Mrs Greenwood was possessed of a volatile temper. Living in their house, Irene thought, must be like dwelling on the edge of an extremely active volcano.
‘The master is at the shop in Silver Street.’ The maid was about to close the door but Irene was too quick for her and she put her foot over the sill.
‘I meant Mr Arthur Greenwood.’
‘Haven’t seen him for days, miss.’
‘Then I would like to see your mistress. Please tell her that Miss Irene Angel would like to speak with her.’
The maid blanched visibly. ‘Mistress is having her midday meal, miss. I daresn’t disturb her.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake let me in,’ Irene exclaimed, pushing past the astonished girl and heading towards the dining room. Although she had never been formally invited into the Greenwoods’ establishment, Irene was familiar with the general layout of the house. She had often sneaked in with Arthur when they were younger, and he had smuggled her up to his room on the third floor where they had played war games with his lead soldiers. The four-storey house had always seemed like a palace to the young Irene, but now, by comparison with Josiah Tippet’s mansion, the house in Bread Street did not seem quite so large or so grand. The wallpaper in the hallway was slightly faded and there were chips off the plasterwork on the high ceiling. The black and white marble floor tiles were crazed and worn down in places by the passage of feet over the course of two centuries, and the atmosphere was one of faded elegance and pervading melancholy.
‘You can’t go in there, miss,’ the maid cried, running after Irene and catching her by the arm. ‘She’ll skin me alive.’
‘I’m sorry, but this won’t wait. I’ll take the blame for my bad manners.’ Shaking her off, Irene opened the door and stepped into the dining room.
Mrs Greenwood, resplendent in purple, with her dark hair severely scraped into a bun and crowned with a white lace cap, looked to Irene like a rather poor imitation of her majesty the Queen. Drusilla Greenwood raised her slanting black eyebrows so that they formed a triangle over the bridge of her sharp nose. ‘What’s all this? How dare you burst in on me like this?’ She lifted a lorgnette and peered myopically at Irene. ‘Is that you, Irene Angel?’
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am,’ Irene said, bobbing a curtsey. ‘But I’m worried about Artie. Has he come home?’
Mrs Greenwo
od turned on the maid. ‘This is all your fault, Ethel. How dare you disobey my orders?’
‘I’m sorry, missis. She pushed past me. I couldn’t stop her.’
‘Get out of my sight, you stupid girl.’ Mrs Greenwood rose to her feet, shaking her fist at the maid who fled sobbing from the room.
‘There was no need for that,’ Irene said angrily. ‘It wasn’t her fault. She tried to stop me, but I needed to see you urgently.’
Mrs Greenwood subsided onto her seat, clutching her bosom. ‘I’m having one of my turns. Fetch the sal volatile.’
Irene looked round helplessly. ‘I don’t know where it is.’
‘In my reticule, you fool.’ Mrs Greenwood pointed to the chiffonier where a small black beadwork bag lay on a silver salver. ‘Bring it to me.’
Irene passed it to her and waited until Mrs Greenwood had inhaled the pungent fumes from a silver vinaigrette, coughing and spluttering and then wiping her eyes on a scrap of lace handkerchief. ‘All I asked was if Arthur had come home,’ Irene murmured. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘Upset me? You encourage my only son to leave home and live in sin with you in that pickle shop, and you say you didn’t mean to upset me.’
‘No, ma’am. You’ve got it all wrong. It’s not like that. Arthur and me are just friends, as we’ve always been. It was Mr Greenwood who threw him out on the street. Artie had nowhere else to go.’
Mrs Greenwood eyed her beneath lowered lids. ‘It seems he’s found somewhere else now then, for the worthless boy has not returned to the bosom of his family. He has abandoned his apprenticeship and broken his father’s heart, and mine too. Was there ever such an ingrate as he?’
Irene opened her mouth to defend Arthur, but Mrs Greenwood had turned away from her and was attacking a plateful of roast lamb as if the poor animal was still alive. She stabbed at the meat with her knife and forked large portions into her mouth, followed by a whole roast potato and then a carrot. Irene backed out of the door, closing it softly behind her. It seemed that Arthur’s mother was more concerned with her belly than with her son’s fate. Poor Artie, no wonder he sought solace in drinking and gambling whenever he had the chance. She hesitated for a moment in the hallway. The last thing she wanted was to linger in this gloomy and unhappy house, but there might be a clue as to Arthur’s whereabouts in his bedroom. She cocked her head, listening for sounds of movement, but all was quiet except for the solemn tick-tock of a long-case clock at the foot of the staircase. She reasoned that at this time of day, unless summoned by the master or mistress, the servants would be downstairs in the basement having their midday meal.
She headed for the back stairs and made her way up to Arthur’s room, where she discovered that almost nothing had changed since she was last here. There were no toy soldiers in evidence now, but the chintz curtains were the same, if rather faded, and the coverlet on the narrow iron bedstead was similar to the one that had been there when they were children. In fact, it was a child’s room still, with no indication as to the personality or taste of the adult occupant. Perhaps Arthur liked living in a monk-like cell? Maybe he didn’t even notice the austerity of his surroundings. Irene did not stop to wonder why he had not demanded a little more comfort from his well-off parents. She set about methodically going through the drawers in the tallboy but it did not look as though he had come home to collect any of his clothes, and this was borne out by a portmanteau and a valise sitting on top of the wardrobe.
She closed her eyes, trying to remember his exact words when he had threatened to run away. He had mentioned an aunt living in Essex. Aunt Maude, who lived in a place called Havering which was fairly near a town called Romford. Irene had no idea where that was. It would not be difficult to find out, but she needed the full address. She gazed round the room in desperation and then she spotted Arthur’s old school desk tucked away in a corner and half hidden under a pile of discarded clothing. She crossed the floor and threw the garments onto the bed. Lifting the lid she discovered a leather-bound notebook buried beneath a jumble of sealing wax, pen nibs and scraps of paper. She flipped through the pages of notes and designs for silverware and jewellery and at the back, written in Arthur’s untidy scrawl, she found some names and addresses including that of Miss Maude Greenwood, The Round House, Havering-atte-Bower, Essex. Committing it to memory, she put everything back in its place and opened the door just wide enough to make certain that there was no one about. The corridor was empty and there was no sound to be heard apart from the odd creak of ageing timbers. Breathing a sigh of relief, Irene crept down the backstairs and let herself out of the house.
When she arrived home, she was horrified to find the shop door open. At first she thought that someone must have broken in, but there was no obvious sign of forced entry. She stepped inside. ‘Hello?’
‘Is that you, Renie?’
She breathed a sigh of relief at the sound of her father’s voice. ‘Yes, Pa.’
He came thundering down the stairs and for a moment she thought he was going to upbraid her for closing the shop, but he wrapped his arms around her in a bear-like hug. ‘Pack some clothes, enough for a day or two. You’re going to your sister’s until I get back.’
‘What do you mean? Why am I to go and stay with Emmie?’
‘I have to go away on business, my duck. You’ll be safer in Love Lane than you would be if I left you here on your own.’
‘What sort of business?’ Irene watched him shrug on his greatcoat. He seemed to be avoiding meeting her gaze and she was instantly suspicious. ‘You’re not doing a job for the Sykes brothers, are you, Pa?’
He shot her a quick glance and then turned away to ram his bowler hat on his head. ‘Never you mind, Renie. The less you know the better.’
‘You promised you wouldn’t get involved with their goings-on.’ Irene caught him by the coat sleeve. ‘Please don’t do this, Pa. I’ll use the money you gave me to restock the shop and we can live on the takings, just like we used to.’
‘You don’t understand, poppet. I owe Vic a small fortune, and it’s the only way I can pay him off. I want you to trust me, Renie. Do as I say, there’s a good girl.’
Irene bit her lip. ‘You know that Inspector Kent is having the gang watched. He’s just waiting for a chance to arrest them all, and that will include you if you’re not careful. Please don’t do this.’
He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. ‘Lock the shop up, ducks. Go to Emmie’s and I’ll come for you as soon as it’s all over.’
‘As soon as what is over, Pa? What have you got yourself into?’
‘Nothing for you to worry about, my angel, but if things go wrong I want you to look after your mother.’ He moved swiftly to the door and wrenched it open. He paused for a moment, glancing over his shoulder. ‘You know I’d never do anything really bad, don’t you, Renie?’
She nodded silently as she watched him walk out of the door. She had a terrible feeling that she might never see him again, and yet she knew that it was useless to try to dissuade him from his purpose. Billy Angel was a stubborn man. She ran to the door in time to see him disappearing round the corner into Cheapside. Suddenly he seemed to her like one of Artie’s lead soldiers, marching into battle; a gallant figure but very much misguided and doomed to be on the losing side.
She brushed tears away from her eyes with the back of her hand as she stood, undecided as to what to do next. Should she run straight to Inspector Kent at Old Jewry and tell him that the Sykes brothers were planning something desperate? She abandoned the idea almost immediately. To do so would immediately incriminate her father, and she had no definite information to give Kent. Her instinct was to remain in the shop and await Pa’s return, but there was Artie to consider. The police were already searching for him, and it would not be too long before they traced him to Essex, if indeed that was where he had gone.
A cold east wind sent a shower of copper and gold leaves tumbling from the plane tree, and something startled the rooks into
an angry protest of cawing and flapping wings. Irene closed the shop door and went upstairs to pack a few necessities into a canvas bag, but the plan forming in her head did not include a visit to Love Lane. She paused by the oak chest and then knelt down to open it. Jim’s old clothes lay on top where she had left them. For all she knew, Kent’s men might be keeping a watch on her as well as Pa, and she had no intention of leading them to Arthur.
Half an hour later, feeling horribly self-conscious to be dressed like a boy in broad daylight, Irene left the shop, locking the door behind her. She had emptied the till and she reckoned she had enough money for her train fare to the station closest to her destination and possibly for the hire of a cab to Havering. She hitched her pack over her shoulder and adopted a boyish stride as she headed into Cheapside, where she caught an omnibus to Shoreditch station. Her heart was thudding away inside her chest as she walked up to the ticket office. The rheumy-eyed representative of the Eastern Counties Railway blew his nose on a piece of oily-looking rag, sneezed several times, and informed her that Romford was probably her best bet. She purchased a return ticket and following his instructions, given between racking coughs and wiping his nose, she went to the platform where an engine was hissing steam like a giant prehistoric monster.
The third class compartment was almost full but Irene eventually found a seat squashed between a ruddy-cheeked man wearing a billycock hat, moleskin trousers and gaiters who kept dozing off and leaning on her shoulder and a middle-aged countrywoman who clutched an empty wicker basket and seemed unwilling to put it on the rack above their heads. Every time the train lurched over the points or rounded a bend, they swayed against her, almost crushing the breath from her lungs. In her boyish persona, Irene merely grinned and did not complain. The woman appeared to have taken a liking to her and chattered incessantly, boasting that she had taken a basketful of eggs to market and earned two shillings, which judging by her gin-tainted breath she had already spent in the pub. Having run out of things to say about herself, she then turned her attention to Irene, firing questions at her. How old was he? What was his destination? And what were his parents thinking in allowing a young lad to travel alone by train? Was anyone meeting him? Irene answered in a series of monosyllables and grunts, praying silently that the nosey old woman would either get off at the next station or fall asleep like the man on her right, who was now snoring loudly and grunting like a stuck pig.