by Dilly Court
‘Why, ma’am? Are you going to tell her in the kitchen that I was spouting off about me family? Please don’t. I’ll get a clip round the lughole and she won’t want me no more.’
‘Nobody is going to harm you in any way. This is my house and Mrs Flitton will do as I ask.’ Mirabel stuffed her feet into the slippers that Zilla had handed down to her. She knew what it was like to be poor, but she had never suffered such abject poverty as the frail girl standing before her now.
‘But Mrs Kettle, the child is too small and puny to do a full day’s work,’ Mrs Flitton protested, glowering at Tilda who was seated at the kitchen table making short work of a bowl of porridge.
‘All she needs is good food and some warm clothing,’ Mirabel said calmly. ‘She’s barefoot and it’s snowing again.’
‘That’s how the poor live, madam.’ Mrs Flitton lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘I pay her a penny a day to come in and see to the fires and do other jobs that I don’t have time for.’
‘I know what she does, but a penny a day is not nearly enough. Do you know what her home conditions are like?’
Mrs Flitton drew herself up to her full height. ‘It’s none of my business, Mrs Kettle. The girl came to me on the recommendation of the verger who had recently made arrangements for the latest Coker infant to be interred.’
Mirabel thought for a moment, staring at Tilda’s bent head as she shovelled food into her mouth. ‘What time does Mr Kettle take breakfast, Mrs Flitton?’ Even as the words left her lips she realised that it must seem like an odd question, but then she was a newly wed wife and unlikely to have acquired such knowledge. She met Mrs Flitton’s blank stare with a steady look.
‘Nine o’clock sharp, madam. The master likes to have his meals punctual to the stroke of the hour, and that goes for luncheon at one o’clock and dinner at eight. Will you be making any changes?’
‘No. That sounds quite satisfactory.’ Mirabel glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf. ‘It’s only half past six so I’ll have plenty of time. I want you to pack a basket with as much food as you can spare.’
Mrs Flitton’s eyes opened wide and her raised eyebrows disappeared beneath the goffered frill of her white mobcap. ‘A basket, madam? For a picnic, in this weather?’
‘Certainly not. I intend to take it to Black Raven Court. Tilda may finish her breakfast and then I want her to show me the way.’
‘But she hasn’t completed all her tasks yet, Mrs Kettle. She has to riddle the ashes and fetch water for the boiler, and I don’t know what else, but I’ll think of something.’
‘All for a penny a day.’ Mirabel shook her head. ‘I don’t think that’s a fair wage. I’ll be putting it up to threepence a day, and her breakfast will be included, as well as her midday meal if she needs to stay on longer.’
Tilda raised her head, swallowing a mouthful of porridge. ‘Are you talking about me, missis?’
‘Eat up. I’m taking you home. Will your pa be there at this time of day?’
‘I daresay he will. It all depends if there’s work for him or not.’
‘I have a pair of boots that might do for you. They’ll probably be too big, but anything is better than going barefoot in the snow. Wait here, Tilda. I’m going to get dressed.’ She moved towards the stairs, pausing to look over her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Flitton. I’ll be back in time to take breakfast with my husband.’
Mirabel approached the building in Black Raven Court with some trepidation. Even with the softening effect of the newly fallen snow, it was a sinister place; narrow, dark and dirty. Barefoot boys pelted each other with snowballs and the prostrate body of a ragged beggar blocked a pub doorway. Whether he was dead or dead drunk was a matter of concern for the landlord, and Mirabel walked by, following Tilda who skipped ahead in her newly acquired boots. They were at least two sizes too large for her but Mirabel had found an old pair of woollen stockings, which she had insisted that Tilda must have, and with the addition of some carefully folded newspaper in place of insoles, the boots were now a reasonable fit. Tilda stopped, waiting for Mirabel to catch up with her. She pointed to the basement area. ‘We got a room down there, but the steps is a bit rotten so you have to tread careful like.’
‘Lead on,’ Mirabel said with more confidence than she was feeling. A bitter wind had risen from the east, whipping the soft snow into eddies and causing small avalanches to slide off roofs. She trod carefully, holding up her long skirts and making sure she kept to the inside of the steps where the wood was less worn. Tilda jumped the last few, landing catlike on the snow. She opened the door, allowing a gust of putrid air to billow out in a suffocating cloud. Mirabel’s hand flew to cover her mouth and nose. She had grown up with the stench from the river at low tide and overflowing sewers, but there was a sickly odour of death and decay, like gangrenous flesh, emanating from the basement. Tilda marched in, seemingly inured to the terrible smell and the lack of light below street level. Mirabel hesitated in the doorway, fighting down a feeling of nausea, but Tilda was calling to her and she stepped inside, holding her nose and breathing through her mouth in an attempt to escape the worst of the foul smell.
The room occupied by Tilda’s family was small, dank and airless. Mirabel could feel the cold striking up through the flagstone floor, and although there was a small fireplace there was no fire to warm the hapless occupants. Small children leapt to their feet and threw themselves at Tilda, clinging to her like burrs on a dog’s coat, and in the light of a single candle Mirabel could see the shape of a man, lying on a pallet. He peered at them through the gloom. ‘Is that you, Tilda?’
Disentangling herself from her siblings, Tilda moved swiftly to his side. ‘Yes, Pa.’
He raised himself on his elbow, peering at Mirabel. ‘Who’s that with you?’
‘It’s Mrs Kettle, Pa. She’s been ever so kind to me, and she’s brought food for you and the little ’uns.’
He sat up. ‘What does she want here?’
‘I can speak for myself, Mr Coker.’ Mirabel set the basket down on the table, which seemed to be the only piece of furniture in the room, apart from a couple of rickety-looking chairs.
He rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘I don’t want charity from the likes of you, missis. You can take your basket and toss it in the Thames for all I care. I can provide for my family.’
Mirabel could see shades of her father’s stubborn pride in this ungainly man, whose sinewy arms hung limp at his sides; his hollow eyes and sunken cheeks a testament to his suffering. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you,’ she said softly. ‘You could say that this is in lieu of the wages Tilda should have received for her hard work. Things will be different from now on.’
He glared at her, as if studying every line and contour of her face. ‘You’re the young wife then? Married him for his money, did you?’
‘You can insult me all you like, but I’ll put it down to the pain you must be enduring.’ She glanced at the children who were huddled together, the younger ones clinging to Tilda and sucking their thumbs.
Tilda put her arms around them, gathering them up like a small mother hen protecting her chicks. ‘The nippers are starving, Pa. It’s a sin to waste good food.’
Mirabel saw a flicker of doubt in Coker’s eyes and she held out her hand. ‘I’m Mirabel,’ she said softly. ‘Tilda will be paid a proper wage in future. That’s a promise.’
Reluctantly he shook her hand. ‘Alf Coker.’
She smiled. ‘I really didn’t mean to offend you, Alf.’
‘I’m a proud man, missis. I used to earn a good wage on the docks until the rheumatics caused me to lose work. But we ain’t paupers. My boys are mudlarks and they’re out now, even in this weather.’
‘It ain’t easy for them if the mud is frozen.’ Tilda looked up from unpacking the basket. ‘I’ll save some of this for them.’ She eyed the younger children who had gathered around, watching eagerly. ‘No grabbing, d’you hear me? This has got to go round everyone.’
‘I
ain’t hungry,’ Alf said hastily. ‘Never mind me.’
‘You’ll have some anyway,’ Tilda told him firmly. ‘You got to keep your strength up.’
Mirabel could see that Tilda had her father and the children well in hand, and she hid a smile. What Tilda lacked in size and age she made up for with determination and courage. ‘I’ll leave now, but if there’s anything I can do to help, please don’t be afraid to ask.’
‘You mean well, missis. But you don’t belong here and it ain’t safe for the likes of you to wander round on your own.’
‘I grew up round here and I know how to take care of myself.’ Mirabel made for the door, pausing as she lifted the latch. ‘If I hear of any jobs that might suit and were not as rigorous as working outside on the docks, would you be interested?’
‘You mean well, no doubt, but I can manage on me own, missis.’
‘He’d be very interested, ma’am,’ Tilda said firmly.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Tilda. Good day to you, Alf.’ With a smile encompassing the smaller children, who were busy munching bread and scrape, Mirabel made her escape from the dire surroundings, holding her breath until she was outside in the alley. She set off for home, quickening her pace as she marched through a crowd of slatternly women standing on the street corner. One of them spat at her.
‘You’re no better than the rest of us, ducky.’
Mirabel walked on, head held high. They were right, of course. Not so long ago she herself had been destitute, and if Zilla had not taken her in she might well have ended up selling her body to pay for a night’s lodging in a flea-ridden doss.
She arrived home just in time to join her husband for breakfast.
Hubert was already seated at the table and he rose politely when she entered the room. ‘Mary tells me that you took the little skivvy home.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t like the thought of you wandering around the back streets unaccompanied, my dear.’
His unconscious repetition of Alf Coker’s words made her want to laugh, but she kept a straight face. ‘Thank you, Hubert, but I’m quite capable of looking after myself.’ She took her seat at the place laid for her at the foot of the table, although it would have been easier and more comfortable to sit beside Hubert. She filled a dainty bone-china cup with coffee from the silver pot. ‘I hope you don’t mind that I took some food for the family. I saw for myself that they are only just surviving in dire conditions.’
‘We employ the child. We cannot be responsible for the whole family.’
‘She was getting a penny a day for doing heavy work which should be done by someone older and stronger. I told Mrs Flitton to give her threepence a day, and I’m not sure that’s enough.’
‘I’d say it’s more than generous, but if that’s what you want then the child will be paid threepence a day.’ He glanced at Mirabel’s empty plate. ‘Now you must eat. I can recommend the kedgeree; it’s one of my favourites. They served it in the officers’ mess when I was in India.’
‘You’ve led such an interesting life, Hubert.’ Mirabel rose from her place and went to serve herself from one of the silver entrée dishes on the sideboard. She lifted the lid of a breakfast warmer containing bacon, kidneys and mushrooms. Buttered eggs were in another and in the third was spicy kedgeree. She had been brought up to live well, but this array of food for two people seemed gluttonous and downright wrong. A vision of the Coker children eating bread and scrape and thinking it a luxury robbed her of her appetite. She sat down to eat, toying with the delicious dish of rice, haddock, soft-boiled eggs and spices, but her stomach rebelled and she had to force herself to swallow.
Hubert looked up from reading his copy of The Times and frown lines puckered his brow. ‘Don’t you like it?’
‘It’s delicious, but I keep thinking of those poor hungry children. Their father is a stevedore, but he’s not well enough to work.’
Hubert lowered the newspaper, peering at her over the top of his tortoiseshell spectacles. ‘I’m sure he could find something if he tried hard enough. You mustn’t believe everything these people tell you, my dear. They can spot a soft-hearted person and will use all their wiles to extract monies, which will probably be spent on drink or in an opium den.’
She could see that it was useless to argue and she did her best to finish her breakfast, hiding the last mound of rice beneath her fish eaters. She sipped her coffee, but her thoughts were still with the unfortunate family in their unheated basement room. She looked up as the door opened and Mrs Flitton entered with Gertie following close behind.
‘This young person has an apology to make, Mr Kettle.’ Mrs Flitton stood arms akimbo, staring hard at Gertie who was blushing furiously. ‘Go on, girl. Speak up.’
Gertie bobbed a curtsey. ‘I apologise for my behaviour yesterday, sir and madam. I hope you will forgive me, but I ain’t used to drinking.’
‘Is this really necessary, Mrs Flitton?’ Mirabel protested angrily. ‘Gertie was hardly to blame and it was a special celebration.’
‘A servant has to know how to behave, ma’am.’
Hubert folded his newspaper slowly and carefully. ‘I think we can overlook her behaviour this once, Mary. You will teach by example, and I’m sure that Gertie could have no better tutor than you.’
‘Well, sir, that’s very kind of you to say so. Back to the kitchen, my girl.’
Mirabel rose swiftly to her feet. ‘I’m sure she will benefit greatly from your experience, Mrs Flitton, but as she will be my personal maid I would like to spend some time showing her what I require.’
‘Of course, ma’am.’ Mrs Flitton nodded her head and marched out of the room.
Gertie’s bottom lip trembled ominously. ‘Th-thank you, ma’am.’
‘If you’ll excuse me, Hubert?’ Mirabel moved to Gertie’s side, the Coker family momentarily forgotten.
‘Of course, my dear. I thought that we could spend time together later. There is so much more that I would like to show you regarding my collection.’
‘That would be lovely.’ Mirabel hurried Gertie out of the room.
‘What do you want me to do, ma’am?’ Gertie asked nervously.
‘You can stop calling me ma’am when we’re on our own. I prefer Mabel if that makes you feel more comfortable.’
‘Oh, you are a one,’ Gertie said, chuckling. ‘What would his nibs say if he could hear you talking like that?’
‘Never mind. We’ll go to my room and you can help me sort out my things, although heaven knows I haven’t got much. I think Miss Standish is needed because I must have something more comfortable to wear if I’m going to be working with my husband’s plants. Silks and satins don’t go with watering cans and the like.’
They hurried upstairs, giggling like a pair of naughty schoolgirls. Mirabel threw open the door of her room and ushered Gertie in. ‘What do you think of this?’
Gertie’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. ‘Blimey, you ain’t half done well for yourself, Mabel. He’s treating you like a queen.’
Mirabel pulled a face. ‘I know, and I really appreciate it, but I took the little skivvy home today and saw the terrible poverty she has to suffer. It doesn’t seem fair.’
Gertie slipped her arm around Mirabel’s shoulders and gave her a hug. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t do this now you’re a toff’s wife, but you got a big heart. I was poor like that and you saved me, but you can’t save the world, Mabel. No one can.’
‘I suppose not, but you’ll meet Tilda tomorrow and you’ll feel the same as I do.’ Mirabel moved to where the carpet bag containing her clothes had been left. ‘I was too tired to unpack last night.’
Gertie rushed to her side. ‘That’s my job, my lady. Sit down and look beautiful while I do what I’m supposed to. I learned a lot from the girls in Tenter Street.’ She shot a mischievous look in Mirabel’s direction. ‘And not what you think. They taught me how to keep clothes nice and how to get stains out of silk and all sorts. I bet I could teach old Flitton a thing or two
.’
Mirabel sat down at the dressing table and watched while Gertie busied herself with the unpacking. She had just about done when someone knocked on the door.
‘Come in.’ Mirabel turned her head to see Mrs Flitton standing in the doorway.
‘You have a visitor, Mrs Kettle. A lady called Mrs Hamilton is waiting in the morning parlour.’
Chapter Eleven
ADELA HAMILTON HAD her back to the door and was examining a framed daguerreotype she had taken from a drum table by the window.
‘Good morning, Mrs Hamilton.’
Adela turned with a start but recovered quickly. ‘Good morning, Mrs Kettle.’ She replaced the photograph and advanced on Mirabel with a fixed smile. ‘I came to offer my felicitations on your recent marriage.’
Mirabel remembered their last encounter only too well. ‘How kind of you, ma’am. I know how busy you are.’
‘Indeed I am, and that’s partly why I’m here.’
‘Won’t you take a seat, Mrs Hamilton? May I offer you some refreshment?’
Adela moved gracefully to the sofa and sat down, spreading her skirts around her. ‘No, thank you. I won’t take up too much of your valuable time and I’ll come straight to the point, my dear. Your husband is a well-known benefactor of many charities, and we would consider it an honour if you would spare some time to help out in the soup kitchen.’
‘I seem to recall that when I last offered my services I was rejected out of hand.’
‘That was a dreadful error on my part, for which I fully apologise.’ Adela’s momentary look of discomfort was replaced by a confident smile. ‘I can assure you that your presence would be more than welcome.’
‘But I’m still the same person I was then,’ Mirabel insisted. ‘The only difference is that I’m married to a wealthy man.’