‘Here, madam.’ He places one of Angela’s china plates in her hands.
She looks up at him; the fear of the unthinkable written on her face.
‘Madam.’ He cannot call her by her given name as she asked. ‘Whatever those men want, they’ll only find at the end of my fist. All of us, and my Angela, too, we fight if we have to.’
She does not tell him her strange and dreadful notion. He will think her mad.
‘Soon we stop to change the horses. Then we enter the long tunnel. You must eat now. It ain’t for the faint-hearted.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you.’
She picks up her fork and pokes at the food before taking a bite of the shredded ham. Her eye is trained on the towpath. The pudding is meaty and moist, the carrots sweet. She feels a murderous boil in her blood. She will do whatever necessary to protect the child. The fried potatoes are glorious.
CHAPTER THIRTY
‘Curses and more curses.’ Captain Emil spits into the canal with a low-voiced growl.
There is a delay at City Road Basin. The Islington tunnel has no towpath and the steamboat that would pull them through the dark abyss needs a new boiler. Misery.
It is the busiest time of the day. Between five and six o’clock wagons pour into the basin laden with goods. The wharves are crammed with boats, in which the name of Pickfords dominates. The captain locates three moorings; it is a tight fit but the narrow-boats manoeuvre and tie up.
Preoccupied with finding extra men to help leg them through the tunnel, he assigns tasks to his crew. Supplies must be purchased, the boys are sent to the stables to change horses, and arrangements must be made to reload freight on their return. Before he steps onto the bank, Captain Emil speaks to Angela in the patois of the boatpeople. Constance hears a few words but they make no sense to her. ‘Foreign,’ he says, and something about the cabin box. Angela seems to reassure him with a firm nod of her head. He gives her arm an affectionate squeeze before he enters the fray on the bank of the canal.
Dusk descends upon the basin. Grey smoke rises from the boats’ chimneys and drifts towards the flour wharves, then disappears into the Scandinavian timber yard. Angela lights the lamps inside the cabin. One of the boys sees to the lighting at the bow and stern of each boat. The lanterns are richly painted; the blushing, pink roses and purple pansies create the effect of a glowing, evening garden.
Constance paces the wooden planks and looks out across the basin as it comes alive with lamplight. One by one the canal-side workers illuminate the expanse of the basin. She can just glimpse Bertie and Percy as they wander off in search of tobacco and beer.
Verity emerges from the cabin having added extra layers of warmth to Rafe’s clothing. He is drawn to the reflection of the lanterns’ light in the water and leans out from Verity’s grasp, his arms stretching to touch the image of floating, waving light.
‘Shall we go to your Aunt Constance?’ she asks him. He looks all around him when he hears Constance’s name.
As Verity comes towards her, Constance is struck with a very clear vision. As if she has been in a long, deep sleep and a slap of cold air has rattled and shaken her, she wakes fully aware: the men, all the men, are absent from our boats. She surveys their location again. How vulnerable they seem to be. The night has come now and it falls down upon her in a bad way. Her eyes dart around at the empty barges and boats, whose masters are doing business on land. She raises her hand to Verity to stop where she stands. She would very much like to tell her to take Rafe back inside the cabin. But she is too late, for there are the two men who have been following them. They appear like swift phantoms and are on board in an instant. The men’s faces are covered with black kerchiefs.
One of them, the taller of the two, positions himself behind Verity. He grabs her and spins her around, then reaches for the boy. The other man blocks Constance, creating a barrier between the sisters.
Verity tries to fight off her attacker as best she can while still clinging to Rafe. She lets out a scream that does not sound human.
Constance scratches at the eyes of the man who holds her back. He hits her in the face with his fist. She drops.
The man struggling with Verity suddenly relinquishes her as he feels cold hard steel against the back of his neck.
‘There ain’t no delay when I pull this trigger. So move away, or I have a large heavy bullet for you. One for your friend, too.’ Angela has stripped off the robe of shyness.
Astonishingly, despite the gun at his head, the man acts as if he has not heard or understood Angela, and lurches forward again to try and tear the baby from Verity’s arms. Angela brings the handle of her pistol down hard. She intends to hit his temple, but he turns and she misses; the pistol smacks his shoulder. He grunts.
There is a third man. They hear his running steps before they see him in the faded light. He leaps onto the narrowboat and lands beside Verity. He too wears a kerchief around his face, and the night is too dark to see him clearly. The third man surprises the attacker when he knocks his hat off, grabs a handful of his hair, and pulls him away from the child. Angela keeps her pistol trained on Verity’s attacker.
A loud splash in the water distracts them. The man who assaulted Constance has jumped into the canal and is swimming away from the boat’s bow. The other attacker takes advantage of the diversion and leaps from the stern onto the next boat. The third man does not waste a moment. His black coat sweeps through the night air as he pursues the man who now jumps from boat to boat.
Brandishing her pistol, Angela strides to the bow.
‘Get the babe down to the cabin,’ she says to Constance.
She takes aim and fires into the water.
Verity does not flinch at the sound of gunfire, but stands fixed, glued in fear.
‘Take him to the cabin,’ Constance tells her. ‘Verity!’
Verity stares dumbly. Her shoulders tremble and she seems oblivious to Rafe’s terrified cries.
Constance’s eye throbs and her vision begins to blur. Her good eye tracks the third man and the attacker as they flee in an acrobatic chase across empty barges. The attacker reaches the bank and runs to a timber yard. The mountainous stacks of long planks soon swallow both men.
Constance approaches Verity with great care. She has known her sister in this trance-like state of shock before. Gently, she places her hands on Verity’s shoulders.
‘Verity. It’s Constance, darling. Everything is fine. Look at me, Verity. See here? You have Rafe safely in your arms. I am here. We are all safe.’
Verity turns her gaze to Constance.
‘There is blood coming from your eye, sister.’
Constance reaches up to her swollen eye.
‘So there is. Come now, we shall go down into the cabin and sit by the range.’
Angela reloads and fires a second time into the water, but the man is an excellent swimmer and is beyond the bullet’s reach.
Men with great, white cloths tucked under their chins, who seconds ago were enjoying their picnic suppers on the small parcels of green near the bank, scramble for safe cover, unsure of what has caused the melee.
Several men give chase on the towpath towards the City Road Lock. Impeded by their weapons and lanterns, the attacker outruns them. Though he is drenched, his nimble legs carry him further and further to safety in the pitch-black evening.
With a storm on his face Captain Emil comes barrelling towards his boats. Then there is Percy, breathlessly sprinting from barge to barge. Last comes Bertie, who finds it difficult to negotiate the slope of a hill and drops her basket, lifts her skirts and eases her way back to the mooring.
In the cabin, huddled near the range on bunk seats, Constance holds Rafe and rocks him until his whimpering begins to subside. The warmth from the stove is welcoming. Ashen-faced, Verity sits beside them with her head bowed and her hands clasped. She chants a prayer in Latin. Over and over her voice quakes with the same phrase that no one else understands, not even Constance.
On deck, Angela’s arm hangs down by her side, the pistol heavy in her hand. Captain Emil parts the crowd gathered near his boats. He is yet to know what, exactly, has happened and stops short when he sees his wife standing on the boat. Angela looks at him with a strange expression on her face. He approaches her slowly, then when he is upon her, he reaches down and eases the pistol out of her hand. He begins to speak, but she places her hand over his mouth. No, not yet. But he is bursting with questions.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘The ladies?’
‘I think not.’
‘I know the bastards ran with empty hands. What were they after?’
‘The baby.’
What? I don’ understand.’
‘None of us do. Give ’em a minute. They need a drink … something strong.’
His crew is still on land helping to search the timber yard, although they have lost hope that the attackers are still near. The guilty will not be found tonight.
Bertie stifles a cry when she finally reaches the sisters and sees their faces, shadowed by lamplight. Constance’s gruesome eye glows red with blood. Verity mumbles like a lunatic through her blue lips.
‘Sweet Mary and Jesus and all the saints preserve us,’ Bertie says.
‘Ah, Bertie, there you are. Where is Percy?’ Constance asks.
‘He’s off to find the authorities. He knows you three are safe. With great thanks to Angela here.’
The boat is heavy with people again. Angela motions for Bertie to join her on deck, and there speaks softly to her, receiving quick nods in return. ‘Yes,’ Bertie says, ‘bring it quickly, too.’ Angela fetches the whisky from the stern.
No one has noticed that the temperature has dropped except the three boys who care for the horses. They carry a collection of blankets they’ve gathered from the other boats.
‘Here, Mrs Fitzgerald,’ says the eldest. ‘You shiver so.’
Constance looks up at the boy from where she sits with her head held back and resting on the cabin’s scumbled panel. She holds her handkerchief over her eye.
‘You are the son of the captain and Angela?’ she asks.
He grins at her and nods. ‘And them two runts up there be my brothers.’
Captain Emil stands at the door, gives his son an approving glance and then motions for him to move along. ‘We will leave here soon. Make ready, Marland.’
Angela pours a round into teacups.
‘Madam, a bit better?’ he asks Constance.
‘Yes, captain.’ She takes the whisky in one gulp. ‘I have never been struck before. I do not recommend it.’
‘Angela will see to you. She has a talented hand at the medicinal, ’specially the leeches.’
‘And what about you, madam? All right?’
Verity manages a weak nod.
‘They were after the boy,’ she says.
‘I heard. Don’t you worry. Won’t happen again. You ladies and the little one are safe now. You’ll not be out of my sight.’
‘Thank you, Captain,’ Constance says, though her voice belies her fears and she sounds very worried indeed.
‘Right.’ Angela enters the cabin. ‘Your eye. ’Tis bad.’
Inside, behind the swagged, lace curtain Angela rummages around in a concealed cupboard.
‘We realize this is your private space and we regret invading your home,’ Constance says.
‘You are welcome here,’ Angela says matter-of-factly.
She gently removes the handkerchief from Constance’s eye.
Verity gasps.
‘Can you see out of that eye?’ Angela asks, as she cleans the area with a fresh wad of muslin.
‘Yes, I am relieved to say.’
‘You’re a brave lady.’
‘Constance has always been brave,’ Verity says.
Angela pauses, and then turns to Verity. ‘You held on to the babe mighty fierce. You are both brave.’
All that is not said here now is breathed in sighs and held fast in their throats and hearts. How could they say, ‘We could not lose another child, now could we … For surely that would be the end of us.’
Angela has swiftly mixed a poultice.
‘Madam, the treatment? Your permission?’
‘Yes, of course.’
A few moments of silence are broken when Percy appears in the door.
‘Good Lord! My dear Constance!’ he says upon seeing her eye.
‘She is quite all right, aren’t you, Constance?’ Verity says.
‘I am indeed, by some miracle. What news, Percy?’
‘We will be on our way again soon. I have just returned from the lock-keeper’s cottage. He has dispatched a man to New Scotland Yard. The Peeler on the beat tonight is policing a violent brawl just north of the basin. He can be of no service to us here. It may be that we cannot report the assault until we reach Horsefall Basin.’
‘We must not be followed to Camden Town, Percy. Whoever those brutes are they mustn’t know the location of our new home! The very thought chokes me,’ Verity says.
‘They will not. With the kind help of Captain Emil and his connections we have a formidable escort on the towpath.’
‘I’ll just be takin’ this up, then.’ Angela carries two plates that serve as trays for the teacups.
Percy makes way for her and then continues. ‘There is talk of a gang in the area.’
‘They were not men in a gang. I am sure of it. And what would a gang want with a baby?’ Constance says.
‘Why are you so certain, sister?’ Verity asks.
‘Did you not smell it? Oh. Perhaps your attacker …’
‘Smell what?’
‘The Danish tobacco. The man reeked of it. His coat, his hands, he smelled like a walking pipe from Copenhagen. It was the scent of our father.’
‘But that does not prove anything. Many smoke Danish,’ Percy says.
‘It is a particular blend. Only available in Denmark. Those despicable men are foreigners.’ Constance is firm.
‘All aboard!’ Captain Emil calls.
Finally, the boat moves forward in a night that is clear and cold. The canal shimmers under the yellow ochre of a nearly full moon. Yet the pall of the unfortunate event hangs over them, and what might have been a livelier evening ride along the water is much more subdued. The passengers and boatpeople are alert to the moving shadows of overhanging trees. The sound of rising and falling through the next lock is somehow more sinister. Each of them anticipates with dread passing through the arch and into the endless void of the Islington tunnel.
Everyone has a job to do as they wait their turn to enter.
Constance and Verity, alone in the cabin, add their whispers to the heavy hobnailed boots and the muffled grunts and voices.
‘The third man, Verity.’ Constance holds her sister’s hand. ‘I think it was the man Clovis Fowler spoke of – Benedikt. Did you see him?’
‘Only his back. It is a revolving nightmare in my mind. Horrible images that I want to forget, not remember, Constance.’
‘The tobacco. Father said it could only be had from Copenhagen. It cannot be purchased in London. And their clothing … It is made from the same wool as the swaddling blanket that was wrapped around Rafe when Mrs Fowler brought him to us. Can you see that they must be foreign?’
‘I do not know! Stop this! We’ve only just been attacked and you wish it all to be sorted.’ There is a pause in the movement of those on board.
‘I am sorry, Constance. I want off this boat and I want to be in our new home, away from these troubles and far from our former lives.’
The sisters fall silent for a moment as the boat moves closer to the darkness.
‘Will you be all right, Verity?’
‘I suppose.’
‘No, I mean, will you be all right?’ Constance turns her sister’s face to meet hers so that there is no escaping her meaning.
‘I will be … for the boy.’ She looks away.
‘Come, sister. Let us go up and witness this tunnel business,’ Constance says.
The two leggers are in position. They lie on their backs and place their hobnailed boots on the tunnel wall. Their legs hang over the boat, above the water, with a slight bend at their knees. A shout goes up from one of the leggers and then begins the first echoing sounds of heavy boots on the damp walls, like organized clapping. The right boot swings over the left, and they paw their way down the tunnel, one sweeping over the other.
Through the blackness the lantern splashes eerie shadows on the tunnel walls created by the dance-like movements of four legs.
‘Marland, give us a song, lad.’
When young Marland sings the first clear note the tensions of their journey drop away. His exquisite voice joins the echoing tunnel and sends them to place without toil and worry.
Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day;
Earth’s joys grow dim; its glories pass away;
Change and decay in all around I see;
O Thou who changest not, abide with me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The leggers jump out where boats are moored at Mr Horsefall’s basin, and slip away under the shadows of the wharf buildings. Percy asks that they halt their journey for a few minutes to await the Peeler who never arrives. Onward.
As the boats meander just beyond the workhouse buildings at St Pancras, the sisters notice the outline of a man with a torch who stands under a bulbous gas lamp centred above the entry gate. When he lowers his torch, its orange glow reveals his short black jacket and silver buttons.
‘Look, it is the third man.’ Verity points at him. ‘He follows us, sister!’
‘Shh! Do not alarm the others. You are right – it is Mr Benedikt. Look. He tips his hat. He wants us to know he is watching.’
‘How extraordinary. Constance, what is it about the boy? I think I shall go mad with not knowing.’
‘Whatever it is, he is an innocent and helpless, and we must protect him.’
The Parentations Page 21