‘There she is,’ the old man called, his wizened face contorted with disgust. He hobbled towards them, his crooked finger out, his coat flinging open, his walking stick tapping the muddy slabs. He glared down at Janey Mack, his grey eyes popping.
‘Where the hell were ye?’ he croaked, his grey cheeks suddenly livid. ‘Were you bothering this lady here?’ He swung the stick up, brandishing it like he intended to crack it across Janey Mack’s back.
‘She’s giving ya money, Hoppy John,’ Janey Mack hollered.
The raised stick dropped slowly.
‘She fixed my hand.’ Janey Mack showed him her new bandage. ‘She’s a physic. She’ll fix yer sore stump.’
Hoppy John’s thin face pinched and set hard. His chin was curiously rounded and swooped up towards his nose. He scrutinised Merriment, noticing her bright breeches beneath her cloak. She didn’t impress him. He flicked his eyes back to Janey Mack.
‘Where were ye the whole day?’ he rasped. ‘Ye’ll get no supper. Off dodging work, playing with yer notions. There’s bees in yer head, Janey. I never met a girl to daydream more. Yer useless so ye are, useless. Chatting to the wind.’
Merriment stepped forward.
‘My name is Merriment O’Grady. I was hoping to come to an agreement with you.’
‘Oh, aye?’ Hoppy John curled his lips, his walking stick held across his body, his gnarled hands ready to use it if necessary. ‘What kind of an agreement? I’m not paying for her hand being fixed, if that’s what yer after.’
‘No. I was thinking . . . I’m very busy over in my shop. I was wondering . . . I was hoping you could spare Janey. I’d like to make her my apprentice.’
This news made Hoppy John laugh. His mouth burst open, dark and empty of teeth.
‘What? That bundle of scatterbrained nonsense standing there? Sure, the girl’s a hindrance, she’ll get in yer way, burn the house down around ya and tell barefaced lies straight to yer face.’
‘I would not. I would not,’ Janey Mack screeched. ‘You’re a big fat liar.’
‘It’s all right, Janey.’ Merriment raised her palm. ‘You just let me and Hoppy John work something out.’ She turned back to Hoppy John; his eyes flashed quickly from her pockets to her face. He was totting things up.
‘Naturally, I would like to reimburse you for any inconvenience,’ she said. A canny expression cut across Hoppy John’s face.
‘Reimburse, ah now, ye see there we have a problem.’ Hoppy John lowered his walking stick and leaned on it, his whole frame keeling to one side. ‘We have a problem, see. See this?’
He stood up straight, tapping his wooden leg with his walking stick. Merriment heard the low dull thud of wood knocking on wood.
‘Lost the limb doing me duty. Where once I had a lively wage and the fine company of hardy sailors . . .’
‘Let me stop you there. See this?’ Merriment stepped forward and unbuttoned her high-necked shirt to reveal a small anchor tattooed into the base of her neck.
Hoppy John’s nose twitched, his white eyebrows rising slightly.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You’ve been to sea.’
‘So we’ll tell no tales,’ replied Merriment.
Hoppy John nodded, looking over the river a moment at a brightly painted frigate.
‘She fetches my firewood. Cooks me meals. Scavenges for thru’pence a day and prevents me from falling in the river.’
Merriment nodded.
‘You could get a boy from the foundling hospital to replace her.’
Hoppy John shrugged.
‘Suppose I could.’
‘I’ll give you two pounds to buy her apprenticeship.’
‘Two pounds!’ Janey Mack squawked. ‘Are ya mad?’
‘That’ll do.’ Hoppy John spat on his large palm and reached out to Merriment to shake on the bargain. Merriment spat on her own hand and shook on the deal. She pulled two folded pound notes from the pocket inside her waistcoat and listened as Hoppy John chuckled and chided.
‘I’ll tell you this much for nothin’,’ he said. ‘I’m not buying her back. When you show up here looking to get rid of her, I’ll only say I warned ye. She’s as dizzy as a jinny-joe, always chattering, never thinking in a straight line. She never gets nothin’ done beginning to end and she’s a mouth on her. She’s an answer for everything so she does.’
‘That’s a pack of lies, you one-legged rusty guts.’ Janey Mack wanted to thump Hoppy John in the side; she wanted to send him head over heels into the brown stinking river.
‘There ye are,’ Hoppy John sniggered. ‘What did I tell ya? She’s a mouth on her would drive a nun to murder.’
He snatched the money from Merriment’s hand and shoved it into his coat pocket. Merriment couldn’t help smiling. She had secured Janey Mack and secured her cheaply. She looked down at her new charge.
‘I think she’s just the kind of girl I am looking for,’ she told him. ‘Janey here is very capable.’
‘Now, melodeon legs, what do you have to say to that?’ Janey Mack wanted to know.
Merriment patted her head.
‘Have you anything to pick up, Janey?’
‘What?’
‘Any belongings?’
Janey Mack’s huge eyes widened in the fading light.
‘Oh, yeah.’
She dived into a tottering shack, leaving Merriment and Hoppy John to look at one another. Neither spoke. When Janey Mack came back out she was carrying a bedraggled shawl and a tiny rusty box.
‘Me collection,’ she said.
That made Hoppy John splutter with laughter.
‘Her collection,’ he roared, patting his pocket. ‘She’s all yours, madam. Good luck to ya.’
And without a single goodbye he turned his back, walking his hobbled walk down along the docks to the nearest tavern to break his pound notes and drink till Christmas.
Merriment took Janey Mack’s hand and found herself babbling as they walked back along the quays.
‘I’m going to give you a good scrub. Tidy you up. Wash your hair. You’ll need a new dress.’
‘Really?’ Janey Mack clutched her shawl and the tin box with her bandaged hand, holding on for dear life to her fairy godmother with her other hand. It was dark now, and the torches on Essex Bridge sent long rippling flames up into the night sky.
They climbed the steps up to the road and left the poorly lit teetering shacks behind. The houses along the quays were tall and slender and those who could afford to lit candles in lanterns above the doorways. Merriment decided not to walk the back alleys. Instead she turned up Parliament Street, passing the night watch, an old man with a hawthorn stick for a weapon. The owner of a cutlery shop was closing up late, he tapped the rim of his tricorn hat and bid Janey Mack goodnight. They passed row after row of businesses, all filled with an expectant darkness, like the shops and music rooms and vacant tea rooms were all waiting for morning, eager to be busy again.
‘Everything looks lonely at night,’ Janey Mack whispered.
‘Does a bit.’ Merriment flung the jacket over Janey Mack’s shoulders and held it there with her hand. They turned up a side street full of tall houses. The soft glow of fires and candlelight emanated from the mullioned windows as people settled down to eat their supper. Some houses were brightly lit and Janey Mack stared into the radiant interiors, her heart rising in her chest.
‘Look in there,’ she said, filled with awe at a chandelier sparkling from a stuccoed ceiling. ‘Is that where the King stays?’
‘No,’ Merriment laughed, ‘it’s a gentlemen’s club.’
They turned up Fishamble Street and Merriment fetched the shop key from her pocket.
It had been a long, eventful day.
‘Do you think Solomon knocked on the door when we were out?’
‘He’s probably in a chophouse working on his broadsheet,’ Merriment said. ‘He’ll be back. I’ll leave a candle in the window, let him know we’re in.’
‘I was supposed to put
a chop on for his supper. Do ya have a bit of mutton?’
‘I never thought.’
‘We’ll have to get him sausages tomorrow to make up for having no supper this evening.’
‘Do you like sausages?’ Merriment enquired.
‘Only ever had one. It was tasty-tasty.’
‘Then we’ll get some sausages to celebrate the start of your apprenticeship. What’s in the box, Janey?’ Merriment tapped the rusty tin box.
‘Teeth, miss.’
‘Teeth,’ Merriment chuckled. ‘I see.’
As she unlocked the shop door and pushed it in, she was fully aware that her life had altered. On a whim, a curious burst of mothering desire, she had adopted a little girl and her life would never be the same again.
5
Blood and Beast
‘Are ye in or out, Harry?’
Harry winked at Solomon. ‘Ye always know when Badger has a bad hand. He gets very surly.’
‘Throw down yer money or move on,’ Badger growled.
Harry looked at his cards, calculating his chances slowly to annoy Badger. The man next to him began to snore, pretending to have fallen asleep.
‘I’m still in,’ Harry announced, ordering another quart of ale. He glanced at the neat pile of coin in the centre of the table where the best of his week’s wages was hidden.
‘Right,’ Badger sneered sourly and, looking at the swarthy man next to Harry, said, ‘You in or out, Gus?’
‘Yer in an awful hurry there, Badger. Let me tot up.’ After a pause, Gus called for one more card.
‘I’m in,’ Solomon said.
‘That’s his tell,’ Harry told Solomon, his boyish face grinning from ear to ear. ‘See the way Badger’s gritting his teeth there.’
‘Shut up you, you muckwork,’ Badger yelled.
‘Oh, profanities.’ Harry blessed himself. ‘He’s a bad hand for certain now.’
‘Who asked you? Ye whiddler.’ Badger’s fist landed on the table. ‘Go on off home and do what you always do of an evening.’
‘What’s that then?’ Harry beamed, unperturbed by Badger’s hot temper.
‘Polish the dolphin. Beat the Jesuit. Introduce the hand to the pizzle,’ Badger roared. The table burst out laughing.
Harry stayed smiling.
‘We have him by the short and curlies,’ he told Solomon. ‘As sure as his face is turning purple, we have him now.’
‘Show your cards, gentlemen,’ Gus said.
Solomon laid his cards flat and Badger lurched across the table at Harry, grabbing his head and pulling him out of his seat.
‘Ah now, lads.’ Gus held onto his ale.
Solomon read the cards. He had lost. He sighed. Harry’s diversionary tactics were excellent, the man had won and wrestling free from Badger he pulled the pile of coin towards himself.
‘Yer a sore loser,’ he yelled, kicking Badger and sending him knocking to the floor.
A row broke out, punches were thrown; a chair was knocked over. Solomon squeezed out of his seat, grabbed his belongings and took refuge at the bar, sipping the last of his ale. At first no one paid a blind bit of attention to the squabble; there was a row every night in the Cock and Hen. While Badger and Harry threw wild, useless punches, huffing and puffing and dancing in comic circles around one another, Solomon looked at the clientele who frequented the tavern. The place was packed to the seams, full of jilts and thief-takers, bullies and fences, receivers and pimps, every mix of ne’er-do-well and vagabond. Every table and snug seemed to house a criminal fraternity. He saw two bawds drinking cherry-brandy tickling a large man with a ruddy face, while at the same time picking his pocket, but they were the small fry; in the darker corners were the more serious lawbreakers, not footpads and sharpers but organised villains, quiet and plotting and unruffled by threats and blades. The Dublin underworld was bulging with a staggering array of lowlifes and scoundrels, and while London could be cut-throat, Dublin’s low life seemed more volatile. The city housed an enormous variety of felons and crooks with loud and notorious personalities, who wore their scars like a badge of honour, boldly carrying weapons and wearing their clipped ears and branded faces as a proud display of their chosen profession. Solomon was faintly amused by the brash confidence of the bandits that mingled with ordinary traders and merchants, surprised by the diversity of rogues and vagabonds and chilled a little by the unabashed violence that could erupt at any moment.
Badger and Harry were more pathetic than dangerous. They screeched abuse at one another and did more damage to the air around them than each other. As Solomon watched them wrestling, amused by their ineptitude, he noticed a man with a deep scar down his right cheek glaring at the commotion. There was a particular air of menace about this man. He had piercing blue eyes and a sneering mouth fixed with a malicious half-grin. His jaw line was jagged and his nose had been broken in more than one place. He wore his jet-black hair scraped back in a ponytail that accentuated his large brow. Solomon couldn’t help but be fascinated by the man’s expression. There was a certain razor-sharp calculation in his piercing stare, an economy of movement about his body and a magnetic quality to how he behaved.
A confidence, no doubt, that comes with power, Solomon thought.
The man commanded attention, without doing anything, so it seemed. Everyone sitting at the table next to him bristled with a kind of fearful respect. Even as they talked to one another, they seemed distracted by the scarred man, stealing glances his way as if keeping an eye on him. Solomon thought of the crime bosses he had known in London, they all had the same unreliable air about them, constantly close to erupting, their hazardous moods unpredictable, their inclination towards excessive violence and savagery the one thing that secured their reputation. The only comfort, Solomon reasoned, was that the bloody and brutal lives they led were in general short.
The scarred man tapped a small pyramid of brown snuff onto the back of his enormous hand and flung his head back, while everyone around him became curiously attentive to the ritual. It was almost humorous to see so many large men suspended in action by the presence of a single individual, watching breathless for a motion of judgement coming from a man they feared and maybe even revered. All the scarred man had to do was move his index finger in the direction of the fight. An inch of air, stroked by a finger was all it took. A profound silence swept through the crowd as two bullies the size of plough horses jumped up, pulled Badger out of the fray, dragged him to the scarred man’s table and shoved him into a quiet corner. Harry leaped to his feet blustering, quickly realised what had happened and meekly slipped back to the table to count out his winnings. Once he had sat down, the banter and chatter of the patrons started up again. Solomon finished his drink, took in a deep breath and licked his lower lip. He would be glad to leave such a disorderly place.
Jenny the barmaid refilled his tankard, pulling him a little to one side.
‘The man with the scar is Billy Knox, keeps things in line this side of the river. Badger is one of his lads.’
Jenny peeked to one side, her eyes glancing swiftly over the crowd.
‘Everyone owes Billy Knox,’ she grinned. ‘He dishes out favours like hot potatoes at Donnybrook fair. Helping people out of tight spots, and then . . .’ Her face darkened. ‘Well.’ She tapped Solomon’s fingers. ‘You know a favour is never without a price.’
She sniffed, letting the jibe land. Solomon ignored her meaning.
‘Good job ye lost,’ she said, her eyebrows lifting as she nodded sagely, ‘or you’d have owed Billy something and that is one lad you want to steer clear of.’
Solomon winked good humouredly. ‘I’m too inconsequential for Knox to notice the likes of me. Now’ – he stroked Jenny’s hand tenderly – ‘I’m off to the Black Dog.’
‘Here now, Sol,’ Jenny whispered. ‘When you get there, tell Boxty I sent ya. Ask him where Olocher got the blade. He knows right well so he does. He’s up to his neck in it.’
‘Boxty, right. You’re
a gem, Jenny, a little gem.’
‘Ye’ll be missed, Sol.’ Jenny’s mouth pinched a little.
‘Sure, I’ll come back to see ye.’
‘That O’Grady one is as odd as two left feet.’ Jenny couldn’t understand why Solomon would want to go into digs when he could bide his time in one of the rooms upstairs, drinking and playing cards at night and having pub stew for supper.
‘She wears breeches,’ Solomon smirked.
‘I know,’ Jenny said. ‘And was at sea from the age of nineteen. Probably whored her way round the Bay of Biscay.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘No, I don’t. She’s as tight as a bee’s arse. Sure, most of the time everyone thought she was a man. She’s not like normal women, there’s no go in her. Not into that kind of thing, ye know.’
‘What kind of thing?’ Solomon teased, one eyebrow raised.
‘Ah, go way ou’ that.’
‘What kind of thing?’ Solomon repeated, feigning innocence. ‘The kind of thing you showed me last night?’
‘Shh.’ Jenny blew through her lips and looked around. ‘Don’t go tellin’ tales.’ Her eyes were bright and giddy. ‘That was a once-off, Sol. I’ve to go to confession tomorrow.’
‘Don’t go apologising to God for a good healthy appetite,’ Solomon beamed. ‘Anyway, you’ve a lovely bottom.’
Outside, the night watch called the hour and two floosies at the door bawled at the top of their lungs, ‘Ten o’clock and all is well.’
The men around them clapped and whistled and asked them to show what they got.
‘I better go,’ Solomon said.
Jenny nodded.
‘Nice knowing ye, Sol. Stay in touch.’
‘With a beautiful damsel like yourself? Of course I’ll be in touch.’
Solomon grabbed Jenny across the counter and kissed her full on the lips before picking up his carpet bag and tripping out the door into the dank rainy night.
The back alleys to the Black Dog were deserted. Rain splashed down on the slippery cobbles and Solomon wished he had brought the last of his stuff over to his new lodgings earlier. Still, he’d won seven shillings in an earlier card game, had a new hawking licence and a fine lead in the Olocher scandal. He stood a moment trying to get his bearings. It was pitch black. He orientated himself towards a distant speck of light palely throbbing at the end of a high wall. The weight of his old law books shoved into his carpet bag along with the last remnants of his hopeful youth dragged his left arm heavily down. He could smell hops brewing. A rat skittered past his wet feet. His buckled shoes were leaking; his silk stockings were spattered with mud. He took a deep breath and marched up the dark, narrow road, his fingers occasionally reaching for the high wall on his right side.
The Dolocher Page 7