by Evie Grace
‘I hope that I will have found more suitable accommodation by then.’
‘Oh? Is my home too ’umble for you, Mrs Linnet?’
‘I didn’t mean to offend you. It just isn’t what I’m used to.’
‘Do you really think you will be able to afford anything better working for the Spodes? Or are you expecting the young man who had his way with you to come and rescue you?’ Mrs Hamilton smiled gently. She wasn’t being unkind. ‘It happens all the time. It’s their nature.’
‘I pray that he will be sorry one day, and come and find me. I think God will encourage him to search his heart and find the right answer.’
‘If I had a shilling for every wretch who has thought that, I would be a wealthy woman.’
‘You are not married?’
The old lady laughed raucously. ‘Who would ’ave me? No, I value my independence and the money I’ve made for myself. I have three properties, all let. I have no wish to hand over my empire to a husband.’
‘Why do you call yourself Mrs then?’
‘To fend off unwanted amorous advances.’ Mrs Hamilton’s eyes flashed with humour. ‘It happens all the time. The trouble is, I know that those men are after my wealth, not my body, so I make out that I’m taken. They aren’t so keen when they think there’s a husband lying in wait to fend them off.’ She changed the subject. ‘Would you like second helpings? I see that you’ve finished.’
‘No, thank you. I shall retire to my room now.’
‘Would you like me to knock for you in the morning? It’s a halfpenny a week.’
‘Yes, that’s a good idea,’ Agnes said, afraid that she wouldn’t wake in time to be at the screevers’ for nine o’clock.
She returned to her room and tried to open the window, but it was jammed shut. She checked the mattress and a nest of baby rats fell out with the stuffing. The bedding was dirty. She wore her clothes in bed, but she couldn’t sleep for the cacophony of sounds that rattled through the building as though it was alive. She could hear her landlady snoring through the flimsy partition between their rooms, the creaking of the rafters above and the scuttling of vermin across the floorboards, people crying, shouting and laughing and a baby bawling its eyes out.
She yearned to be back at Windmarsh with the sound of the gulls and the wind. She wished for the routine of lessons with Nanny and her dear brother Henry. She missed seeing Miriam every day, turning up to the nursery with the breakfast tray and making some comment on the weather or whatever drama was playing out in the kitchen.
She stroked her belly. The infant inside her kicked back as though blaming her for the fact that he or she would never have a good life after what she’d done. She hoped her little one wouldn’t cry. She wanted him, or her, to be happy, but she couldn’t see how the way that she had to live now, from hand to mouth and in such dirty and desperate conditions, could ever bring any joy to anyone.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Pen and Ink
‘A screever’s life is a happy one in general. Some of the jobs are dull, others are more interesting, and when you get the hang of it, Mrs Spode lets you give free rein to your imagination. My name’s Jeannie Cotton, by the way.’ The woman who stood beside her as they waited for Mrs Spode to let them into the office the following morning was about forty, Agnes guessed from her matronly appearance. She wore a large bonnet over her greying hair, and a cape that spread over her voluminous figure. ‘Nice to meet you,’ she went on smilingly.
‘The feeling is mutual,’ Agnes said, relieved that here was someone with whom she might get along. ‘I’m Mrs Linnet, but you can call me Agnes.’
‘Well, Agnes, you stick with me and you’ll get along fine. Have you brought anything for nuncheon?’
She shook her head. She had had weak tea and a slice of toast with lard for breakfast.
‘Good morning, ladies.’ A young man with dark, oiled hair and dressed in a suit with a cravat introduced himself as Mr Riley.
‘Morning, cock,’ Jeannie said in a familiar manner which surprised Agnes, who was used to more formal kinds of address. ‘This is Mrs Linnet who’s come to join us.’
He touched the forelock plastered to his forehead, and smiled.
Agnes couldn’t bring herself to smile back. He didn’t seem like a gentleman.
Mrs Spode came across to unlock the door. Agnes caught a glimpse of a patterned carpet, a shiny table and shelves filled with books as the door swung closed on the Spodes’ private quarters behind the office. She thought the contrast with the office rather odd. Wasn’t it usual to impress with the condition of one’s offices? Papa had certainly thought so.
They sat down and Mrs Spode allocated tasks to each of the four screevers who were present: Agnes, Mr Fletcher, Mr Riley and Mrs Cotton.
‘I’ve assembled a pack of items for you, Mrs Linnet.’ Mrs Spode slid a paper packet across to her, and handed her an inkwell and bottle. ‘I’ll take the cost from your wages.’
‘I should be grateful if you can tell what the deduction will be,’ Agnes said. ‘I might wish to purchase the items more cheaply elsewhere.’
‘It depends on how much more you need in the way of screeving supplies. If you don’t like it, you can lump it. Mr Spode and I have to pay to keep this place, and settle our advertising costs, collection, delivery and postage as required. As it is, we make little profit from this enterprise. We pray for riches in heaven, rather than on earth, and find joy in helping the poor seek donations from the wealthy as part of our work. We live very frugally, as you can see.’ She held out one hand as though to demonstrate. A large ruby shone from the silver fretwork ring on her finger.
‘I apologise for mentioning it,’ Agnes said, taking up her pen and a piece of paper. She noticed that Jeannie had folded hers into thirds and used her fingernails to deepen the indentation before tearing it into sections. She did the same.
‘I’m glad to see that you understand how to economise, but the letters you will be concerned with this morning require that you use whole pages, not parts.’ Mrs Spode gave her a letter to copy out.
The work was hardly bearable. It didn’t help that Mr Fletcher was sitting next to her, gazing at her as he wrote slowly and carefully, turning out letters without blots and splashes. She kept making mistakes: her pen seemingly incontinent of ink, then completely dry and scratching holes. She began to worry how much it was costing her in materials.
It was a far cry from when she had been in the nursery screwing up sheets of paper and throwing them into the fire for the slightest defect in the symmetry of a line, or mistake with a single letter of the alphabet.
‘Mrs Linnet, you have to write a short letter to confirm the alias of the bearer. The name is here.’ Mrs Spode gave her a piece of paper with the name written out in full. ‘Copy it down exactly the same so there can be no confusion.’
But Agnes was confused. How could she confirm an alias when she had never met him?
‘This is no time for scruples,’ Mrs Spode said, preempting her question. ‘What are you waiting for?’
It was wrong, but she didn’t have a choice. It was a lie to add to the ones she had already told. She had promised herself she wouldn’t repeat any more falsehoods. She would live as an honest woman as she had been brought up to be, but the more trouble she found herself in, the more desperate she had become, and the more she seemed to have to depend on committing to untruths.
Her palms became damp as she removed another piece of paper from the packet and began to write. When she had finished, she blotted it with blotting paper and handed it to Mrs Spode, who gave her another task.
‘Here’s one for you – to write a letter from a decayed gentleman, a distressed scholar, asking only for the money to cover coach hire so he can take up his new appointment in Bermondsey or Wandsworth, or wherever you will so long as it’s in London. I shall need at least five copies, identical.’
‘Why?’ Agnes asked.
‘One as a record for our business, one reco
rd for himself, and one … never you mind. You’d do well to mind your own business.’
Her pen fair flew across the paper by the time she was writing the third and fourth copy, and she was just completing the fifth, when she felt a pressure against the toe of her shoe. She looked up to find Jeannie shaking her head almost imperceptibly and frowning with disapproval. She waited until Mrs Spode had left the room and whispered, ‘It isn’t right that you go so fast. Think of me, Mr Riley and Mr Fletcher here.’
‘Oh? Oh dear.’
‘We have an agreement to share in the work. That way we all get paid at the end of the week. It can get very unpleasant if one person should act selfish and spoil it for the others. Do you get my meaning?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry.’ Agnes bit her lip as Mrs Spode returned through the door. She blotted the fifth copy and handed all five to her.
‘Now, let’s see you provide a fakement. A gentleman of my acquaintance has asked for a petition complete with witnesses and supporters.’
‘Where will I go to find these people?’ Agnes asked.
Mrs Spode laughed, and even Mr Fletcher quirked an eyebrow.
‘Why, you are a strange young woman. You write them yourself, all in different hands, of course. The gentleman who asks for the petition hasn’t the time or inclination to go and ask for that many signatures. He’s prepared to pay two guineas to have it filled in for him.’
‘I can’t be part of this deception,’ Agnes exclaimed. ‘It’s wrong. It’s immoral.’
‘It’s a living, and a good one at that. And it isn’t hurting anyone. If we don’t screeve for these people, they will find someone else to do it. The gentleman is very much occupied with his other business. He cannot do everything himself. He would do if he could, I am sure of it.’
Agnes couldn’t believe her ears. Why didn’t anyone say anything? Remembering though that she had to pay her rent and find money for food, she kept her mouth firmly shut.
Later that day when Mrs Spode had shut up shop, she walked back along the road towards the centre of Canterbury with Jeannie.
‘Don’t you think that it’s dishonest to write fakements with forged signatures? And begging letters?’ Agnes asked quietly.
‘Inviting a person who has so much income they cannot possibly spend it in their lifetime to spend a few guineas? I can’t see anything wrong with that,’ Jeannie said. ‘That’s the way the Spodes do things. That couple have had thirty years on the monkery.’
‘But doesn’t it make you feel uneasy?’ Agnes went on. ‘How do you reconcile it with your conscience?’
‘Ha!’ Jeannie exclaimed. ‘I cannot afford to have a conscience. None of us can.’ She frowned. ‘You aren’t going to report this to the authorities? I don’t want to lose my position because someone has squealed.’
‘Oh no, I’m not intending to do any such thing.’
‘That’s good to hear, Agnes, because this is our livelihood. We and our families depend on it. I work hard on weekdays and Saturdays, and on Sundays I go to church and pray for a dose of forgiveness for any sins I have committed during the previous seven days. It’s worked for me so far.’
Agnes didn’t know how she got through the first week, sitting at the table in the screevers’ office all day, six days a week. By Sunday, her back ached and her eyes were sore, and she’d only just recovered from the week before when she had to start all over again.
On the Monday evening after work, she ran into a small boy on her way back into the lodging house. He was struggling to carry a bucket of flies and sticky, rotting flesh.
‘Arthur?’ she said, holding her hand to her nose.
‘Yes, missus. Oh—’ He peered at her, the whites of his eyes bright against the grime on the rest of his face. ‘I know who you are.’ He grinned. ‘You’re a friend of Miss Treen’s and the Cheeverses at Willow Place. You was there when I almost drownded.’
She recalled Oliver diving into the water and bringing the boy back in his arms.
‘You were very lucky that day. What is that in your bucket?’ she asked.
‘Trimmin’s. Ma said to bring them home so she could see if she could do anything with them, but she says they’re only fit for the dogs.’ His eyes began to glaze with tears. ‘It’s all above board, miss. I’m not a thief.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting for a moment that you were.’
‘I have a proper job at the tannery like my brother ’ad – Mr Cheevers pays me for the work I do.’
‘How is your brother?’
‘’E’s gorn to seek his fortune in London. You know, missus, you look very different from when I last saw you.’
‘It’s true. I’m much changed,’ she said.
Arthur sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. ‘I live upstairs with Ma.’
‘Mrs Fortune?’ Agnes surmised.
‘That’s right. Why, your hands are dirty. The last time we met you were wearing white gloves.’
‘It is ink,’ Agnes said, showing him her palms.
‘You are a screever. You are working for the Spodes – sometimes, if I’m lucky, I run errands for them. I shall tell Mr Cheevers that I’ve sin you.’
‘No, please don’t. I would rather remain anonymous. I am seeking a quiet life.’
‘You don’t want anyone to know where you are? What happened to your grand house and fine clothes?’
‘I lost them,’ she said.
‘That was very careless of you,’ he said severely.
‘It was,’ she agreed, thinking of all the mistakes and wrong turns she had taken on her way to the slums of Canterbury. She hoped he would keep quiet about her turning up there. The last thing she wanted was for the Cheeverses, and Oliver in particular, to see how she’d fallen on hard times.
Agnes continued to work at the screevers’ and lodge with Mrs Hamilton. It was barely tolerable, but Mrs Hamilton turned out to be kind in an odd sort of way. She seemed to take pity on a lost soul, although she charged her for everything.
The next rent day, having screeved for another week, she paid her landlady, counting out the shillings from her purse.
‘Will there be any change?’ she asked.
‘Of course there won’t,’ Mrs Hamilton said, smiling. ‘You look shocked, dearie.’
‘I thought I would have a little more left to tide me over for the rest of the week.’
‘They don’t call rent day black Monday for nothing,’ Mrs Hamilton said. ‘You are an intelligent woman, Mrs Linnet. Mrs Spode said so when I called on her the other day.’
Agnes had spotted her in the screevers’ office. She had paid for a fakement of some kind that Jeannie had written up for her.
‘I won’t pry into what you are paid, but as an example, when you work for six or seven shillings a week, and you pay five shillings in rent, what does that leave you?’ Agnes waited for Mrs Hamilton to continue, ‘It’s a case of simple subtraction, one minus the other.’
‘One or two shillings, of course.’
‘That’s for the rest, wittles, beer and laundry. Oh dear, you seem to ’ave led a sheltered life. You get down to the market on market day, and buy the cheapest items you can find, the end of a cheese, onions that are on the turn and offal, the sweetbreads and plucks. Barter before you hand over your precious coins, and walk away if they don’t come down on the price. Pawn your jewellery if you ’ave any, and sell anything you ’ave to spare. Make sure you pick up any rags and rubbish from the streets – the law of finders keepers applies around here.’
‘I don’t think I should like to do that,’ Agnes stammered.
‘Beggars can’t be choosers. It’s what everyone has to do in order to scratch a living.’ Mrs Hamilton glanced towards Agnes’s belly. ‘You can always give up the infant after it’s born. I could use a worker, someone to help me around the house. I mean, I’m not growing any younger. A small child will ’ave an appetite to match its stature, and will take up little room. I like that idea. A sweet and joyful companion. O
h, I can see that you are not partial to the suggestion, but you’ll soon change your mind when you ’ave a squalling brat with a dirty bum.’
‘Thank you for your offer, but no. I will manage.’
‘Well, you say that now … There, I’ve given you my advice. Like it or lump it. It’s up to you.’ Mrs Hamilton gazed at her through narrowed eyes. ‘If you’re expecting to rise up again to where you was before, like cream to the top of the jug, you’ll be disappointed. I’d recommend that you make every effort to find contentment with your lot, or you’ll be unhappy for ever.’
Agnes returned to her room and cried. She would have liked a clock, one that chimed the hours and gave comfort through its steady ticking, and a rug to cover the cold stone floor, but she knew that she’d never be able to afford them if she stayed working for the Spodes and remained at Mrs Hamilton’s paying out all her income on food and rent.
She followed the example of some of the other residents, smoking herrings in the privy. She bought a shawl for work from the market, something less ostentatious than her usual attire. She also purchased a few rags and did some sewing in the evenings to create clothes which she then sold on at another stall. It didn’t bring in much extra, but it helped. She needed a nest egg for when the baby came.
She made watercress soup, and bought sheep’s trotters from the trotter sellers, and the cheapest bread she could find, a few days old and blue with mould. All the food she ate tasted sour, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, she thought bitterly.
What had been the point of learning about Paris and Rome? The thought of the heat of the sun on her back, and the delicacies that could be sought abroad, made her even more discontent with the slim pickings that she managed to obtain in Canterbury.
She wrote to Evie with her address in the hope that she would send one or two of her belongings to her – her house slippers and the etiquette book which Nanny had given her. She needed the slippers to keep her feet warm on the cold floor at her lodgings and she thought she might be able to sell the book for a small sum. She disguised her handwriting in an attempt to fool Pell, who no doubt would be up to his usual tricks, censoring the mail at Roper House. She posted the letter and waited, unsure if she would ever receive a reply.