The Tea Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “Thought the murderer might’ve got you,” Rose said to Kate. She was a small, plump hen of a woman, with the same easy smile and merry blue eyes as her son. “Seems like ’e’s decided to work overtime this week. ’Ello, Fiona!”

  “ ’Ello, Mrs. Bristow,” Fiona replied, her eyes on Joe.

  “Oh, Rose!” Kate said. “Don’t even joke! It’s ’orrible! I wish to God they’d catch ’im. I’m jumpy just coming to the market. Ah, well, we still ’ave to eat, don’t we? I’ll ’ave three pounds of spuds and two of peas. ’Ow dear are your apples, luv?”

  Joe handed the broccoli he’d been holding to his father. He came over to Fiona, took off his cap and wiped his brow on his sleeve. “Cor, but we’re busy tonight, Fee. Can’t move the stuff fast enough! We’ll run out of apples before closing time. I told Dad we should buy more …”

  “… but ’e didn’t listen,” Fiona finished, giving his hand a sympathetic squeeze. This was a familiar complaint. Joe was always pushing his father to expand the business and Mr. Bristow was always resisting. She knew how much it upset Joe that his father never listened to him. “Twelve and two …” she said, using their secret code – the current amount of money in their cocoa tin – to cheer him up, “… just think of that.”

  “I will,” he said, smiling at her. “It’ll be more after tonight, too. Bound to ’ave a little extra brass with this crowd. They ’ardly let you catch your breath.” He glanced over at his father and younger brother Jimmy, swarmed by customers. “I’d better get back. I’ll see you tomorrow after dinner. Will you be around?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Fiona said airily. “Depends on if my other suitors come calling.”

  Joe rolled his eyes. “Oh, aye. Like the cat’s meat man,” he said, referring to the gnarled old man two stalls down who sold offal for pet food. “Or was it the rag-and-bone man?”

  “I’ll take the rag-and-bone man any day over a good-for-nothing coster,” Fiona said, nudging the toe of Joe’s boot with her own.

  “Oh, I’d take the coster!” a girlish voice chirped.

  Fiona turned her head and stifled a groan. It was Millie Peterson. Spoiled, arrogant, full-of-herself Millie. So blond, so buxom, so bright and pretty. Such a bloody little bitch. Millie’s father Tommy was one of the biggest produce men in London, with wholesale concerns in both the East End and Covent Garden. A self-made man, he’d started out with only a barrow and his own ability, and with hard work and a bit of luck he’d made it to the top. As businessmen went, there was none shrewder. As busy as he was, he spent as much time as possible on the streets, getting his knowledge firsthand by watching his customers and their customers.

  Tommy had grown up in Whitechapel. As a newly married man, he lived on Chicksand Street, only a street away from Montague. As a child, Millie had played with Fiona and Joe and all the other children in the neighborhood. But as soon as he started to make some money, Peterson moved his family to a better locale – up-and-coming Pimlico. Shortly after moving, Tommy’s wife became pregnant with her second child. She died in childbirth and the infant with her. Tommy was shattered. Millie was all he had left and she became the focus of his existence. He showered her with affection and gifts, trying to make up for the mother she’d lost. Whatever Millie wanted, Millie got. And ever since she’d been a little girl, Millie had wanted Joe. And although Joe did not return her feelings, Millie persisted, determined she would get what she wanted. She usually did.

  There was no love lost between Fiona Finnegan and Millie Peterson, and if she could’ve, Fiona would’ve told her where to go right then and there. But she was at the Bristows’ pitch, and the Bristows bought much of their stock from Millie’s father and getting good prices depended to a large degree on good relations. She knew she would have to behave herself and hold her tongue. At least she’d have to try.

  “Hello, Joe,” Millie said, smiling sweetly at him. “Hello, Fiona,” she said, nodding curtly. “Still on Montague Street, are you?”

  “No, Millie,” Fiona answered, poker-faced. “We’ve taken up residence in the West End. A lovely little place. Buckingham Palace it’s called. It’s a long walk for me da to the docks every morning, but the neighbor’ood’s ever so much nicer.”

  Millie’s smile soured. “Are you making fun of me?”

  “Whatever gave you –”

  “So then, Millie,” Joe cut in, shooting a look at Fiona, “what brings you ’ere?”

  “Just out for a stroll with my father. He wants to have a look around, see who’s doing well, who isn’t. You know him, always an eye on the main chance.”

  Out for a stroll, my arse, Fiona thought acidly. Turned out like that?

  All eyes were upon Millie, Joe’s included. She was dazzling in a moss-green skirt and matching jacket, cut tight to show off her small waist and full bosom. No woman in Whitechapel owned an outfit like that, much less wore it to the market. Her golden curls were swept up under a matching cap. Pearl earrings complemented the ruff of lace at her throat and the ivory kid gloves encasing her dainty hands.

  Looking at her, Fiona felt a sharp stab of self-consciousness at the drabness of her own woolen skirt, her white cotton blouse, the gray knitted shawl around her shoulders. She squashed the feeling immediately; she would not allow the likes of Millie Peterson to make her feel inferior.

  “Is ’e finding any new customers, then?” Joe asked, his eyes, and a dozen others, straying from Millie’s face to her chest.

  “A few. But it’s not only customers he’s after. He likes to come to the market to spy out new talent. He’s always looking for lads with promise. I’m sure he’d be taken with you,” she said, laying her hand on his forearm.

  A jealous anger surged through Fiona. Sod good relations; Millie Peterson had just crossed the line. “You feeling ill, Millie?”

  “Ill?” Millie asked, eyeing her like so much rubbish. “No, I’m fine.”

  “Really? You look like you might fall over, leaning on Joe like that. Joe, why don’t you get Millie a crate to sit on?”

  “There’s no need, thank you,” Millie snapped. She removed her hand from Joe’s arm.

  “If you say so. Wouldn’t want you to faint away. Maybe your jacket’s too tight.”

  “Why, you little cow!” Millie cried, her cheeks turning red.

  “Better a cow than a bitch.”

  “Ladies, that’s no way to be’ave. Can’t ’ave a row in the market, now, can we?” Joe joked, trying to defuse the two girls, who were regarding each other like bristle-backed cats ready to strike.

  “No, we can’t,” Millie sniffed. “That’s gutter behavior. For guttersnipes.”

  “Watch who you call a guttersnipe. You came out of the same gutter, Millie,” Fiona said, her voice low and hard. “Maybe you’ve forgotten that, but nobody else ’as.”

  Sensing defeat, Millie changed her tack. “I should go. It’s plain I’m not wanted here.”

  “Aw, Millie,” Joe said awkwardly. “Fiona didn’t mean it.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “It’s all right,” Millie said mournfully, turning her huge hazel eyes on Joe. “I’ve got to find my father anyway. I’ll see you about. Hopefully in better company. Ta-ra.”

  “Ta-ra, Millie,” Joe said. “Give me regards to your dad.”

  As soon as Millie was out of earshot, Joe turned to Fiona. “Did you ’ave to do that? Did you ’ave to insult Tommy Peterson’s daughter?”

  “She ’ad it coming. Thinks she can buy you with ’er father’s money. Like a sack of oranges.”

  “That’s ridiculous and you know it.”

  Fiona kicked at the ground.

  “You ought to watch that temper of yours. Are you going to be’ave like that when we ’ave our shop? Putting your nonsense before good business?”

  Joe’s words cut Fiona. He was right. She had behaved stupidly.

  “Joe! ’Elp us out, will you?” Mr. Bristow shouted.

  “Right away, Dad!” Joe shouted. “I’ve got
to go, Fee. See if you can finish your marketing without causing any more trouble, all right? And don’t be so jealous.”

  “Who’s jealous? I’m not jealous, it’s … it’s just that she’s unbearable, that’s all.”

  “You’re jealous and you’ve no reason to be,” he said, returning to his pitch.

  “I’m not!” Fiona shouted, stamping her foot. She watched Joe take his place out in front of the barrow again. “Jealous,” she huffed. “Why should I be jealous? She’s only got pretty clothes and jewelry and big bubs and a pretty face and all the money in the world.”

  Why in the world should Joe fancy her, when she had so much less to offer him than Millie did? Millie, with her big important father and his big important money, could get Joe a shop just like that. Ten shops. He’d probably call the whole thing off any day now – their plans, their shop, everything – to take up with Millie. Especially now that she had behaved so badly and made him angry. Well, let him. She wouldn’t be dumped like a sack of rotten spuds. She’d beat him to it. She’d tell him she liked Jimmy Shea, the publican’s son, better. Tears pricked behind her eyes. They were just about to spill over when her mother came up behind her.

  “Was that Millie Peterson I just saw?” Kate asked, glancing at her daughter’s face.

  “Aye,” Fiona said glumly.

  “Lord, but she puts ’er goods on show, doesn’t she? Overbearing sort of lass.”

  Fiona brightened a little. “You think so, Mam?”

  “Aye, I do. Come on, let’s ’urry, I want to get ’ome …” Her mother’s voice trailed off as she moved toward another stall, and Fiona heard Joe’s voice rising above the general din as he resumed his patter. He sounded livelier than ever. She turned to look at him.

  He smiled at her and even though she was standing in the dark, Fiona felt as if the sun had just come out. “This smashing cabbage …” he was saying, “… usually I’d charge thruppence for a specimen of this quality, but tonight it’s free! Free, that is, to the prettiest girl in the market. And there she is!” He lobbed the cabbage at her. She caught it. “Ah, ladies,” he sighed, shaking his head. “What can I say? She stole me cabbage and me ’eart, but if she won’t ’ave me, I’ll take you instead, me darling,” he said, winking at a customer who was at least seventy and nearly toothless.

  “I’ll take you, too, laddie!” the old lady shouted back. “But keep your cabbage, I’d rather ’ave yer cucumber!” The women at Bristows’ screeched bawdy laughter and Joe’s mother and father were once more wrapping produce as fast as they could.

  The prettiest girl in the market! Fiona was beaming. How silly she’d been, getting so jealous over Millie. Joe was hers and hers alone. She waved good-bye to him and ran off to catch up with her mother. She felt happy and sure of herself again. Her emotions had boiled up, then spent themselves like a sea fret and were now forgotten.

  Fiona’s happiness would certainly have been dampened if she’d remained at the Bristows’ pitch a few seconds longer. For just as she left to follow her mother, Millie reappeared, her father in tow. She tugged on his sleeve and pointed at Joe, as if she were pointing at something in a shop window, something she meant to have. But Tommy Peterson didn’t need to have his attention directed to Joe. His sharp eyes had already fastened upon him, noting with approval how quickly he moved his stock. For the first time that evening, Tommy smiled. How right his daughter was; here was a lad with promise.

  Chapter 2

  “Five bloody pence an hour for slaving our guts out, lads,” Paddy Finnegan said, slamming his glass on the bar. “No overtime pay. And now the bastard holds back our plus money.”

  “Bloody Burton’s got no right,” said Shane Patterson, a man who worked with Paddy. “Curran said if we got the boat unloaded by five o’clock tonight we’d get our plus. We was done by four. Then ’e says ’e ain’t paying!”

  “ ’E can’t do that,” Matt Williams, another workmate, said.

  “But he did,” Paddy said, remembering the anger, the shouts and curses, when their foreman told them that their plus – a bonus paid for the quick unloading of cargo – was being withheld.

  The pub door opened. All eyes fastened on it. The Lion was a dangerous place to be tonight. Ben Tillet, the union organizer, was speaking, and every man in the place was jeopardizing his job by being here. The newcomer was Davey O’Neill, another docker from Oliver’s. Paddy was surprised to see him. Davey had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with the union. A young man, he already had three small children. It was all he could do to feed them and he was terrified of losing his job.

  “Hey, Davey lad!” Paddy shouted, motioning him over.

  Davey, a slim man with sandy hair and anxious eyes, greeted them all.

  “A pint for me, Maggie, and one for me mate,” Paddy called to the barmaid, jostling the man on his right and knocking his glass. He apologized for the spilled beer and offered to buy him a new pint, but the man shook his head. “No harm done,” he said.

  The pints arrived, thick and foamy, and the barmaid took their price from a pile of coins on the bar. Davey protested, but Paddy waved him off. “What brings you here?” he asked. “T’ought you were steering clear.”

  “I was till today. Till Curran robbed us.” Davey said. “Thought I’d come and ’ear what Tillet ’as to say. I’m not saying I’m joining, but I’ll ’ear ’im out. Don’t know who to believe. Union says it’ll get us sixpence an hour, but Burton says ’e’ll give us the sack for joining. If I lose me job I’m done for. Lizzie, me youngest, she’s taken ill again. Weak lungs. I can’t afford the medicine. Me wife does what she can, putting poultices on ’er, but it’s not enough, the poor wee thing cries …” Davey stopped talking; his jaw was working.

  “You don’t ’ave to explain, lad. We’re all in the same boat,” Paddy said.

  “Aye,” Matt said. “The one with the ’ole in it. You ’eard Curran at dinnertime.”

  Paddy remembered the lecture their foreman had given them earlier. “Think of your families, lads. Look at the risks you’re taking,” he’d said.

  “It’s them we are t’inking of,” he’d shot back. “We’ll never get anywhere if we don’t take a stand. We know Burton’s talking to banks, Curran. Looking for money to build up Burton Tea. You tell him we are Burton Tea, and if he wants to make improvements, he can start with our wages.”

  “Lads, lads,” Curran had said. “Burton’ll never have his arm twisted by the likes of you. Give up this union stuff. You’ll never win.”

  “I heard him, Davey,” Paddy said now. “It’s all talk. He’s on a big push to expand the company. A mate down the tea auctions tells me he’s t’inking of buying a whole bloody estate in India. Says he’s talking about putting Burton Tea on the stock exchange to pay for it all. Believe you me, if anyone’s scared, it’s him. Scared we’ll go union and squeeze an extra penny out of him, so he t’reatens to sack us. But just t’ink for a minute … what if we all joined? All the lads at the wharf, all the lads in Wapping? He couldn’t fire us then. How would he replace us? All the men would be union, y’see, and no union man would take the job. That’s why we’ve got to join.”

  “I don’t know,” Davey said. “Listening’s one thing, joining’s another.”

  “All right, then,” Paddy said, looking at each of his mates in turn. “This is what we’ll do. We’ll hear the man out. He’s a docker. He knows what we’re up against. If we don’t like what he says, no harm done. If we do, then he’s got himself four new members.”

  They all agreed. Shane said he’d look for a table; Matt and Davey followed him. Paddy ordered another pint. As the barmaid refilled his glass, he looked at his pocket watch. Seven-thirty. The meeting was supposed to have started half an hour ago. Where was Tillet? He glanced around the pub, but didn’t see anyone he thought might be the union leader. Then again, all he’d ever seen of him were drawings in newspapers, and you wouldn’t recognize yourself from those.

  “I think you’ve con
vinced your mates to join,” said the man on his right, the one he’d jostled earlier. Paddy turned to him. He was a younger man, slight and clean-shaven, with an earnest expression. He wore the rough clothes of a docker. “Are you in charge here?”

  Paddy laughed. “In charge? Sure, no one’s in charge here. That’s part of the problem. Supposed to be organized labor. Here in Wapping, it’s disorganized labor.”

  “You should be. I couldn’t help but overhear. You’re a good speaker. Persuasive. You must really believe in the union.”

  “Aye, that I do. You from round here?”

  “From the south originally. Bristol.”

  “Well, if you worked in Wapping, you’d know what the union means to us. It’s our only chance for decent wages, for fair treatment. Look at that old man there,” he said, pointing to a far corner. “Spent his whole life unloading boats and then a crate fell on him. Cracked his head. Made him barmy. Foreman tossed him out like so much rubbish. See that one by the fire-place? Wrecked his back at the Morocco Wharf. Couldn’t work. Five kids. Didn’t get one bloody penny in compensation. Kids were so hungry the wife finally went into the workhouse with them …” Paddy fell silent for a second, overcome by emotion, his eyes bright with anger. “They work us hard. Ten- and twelve-hour days in all kinds of weather. They wouldn’t work an animal like that, but they do it to men. And what’ve we got to show for it? Fuck all.”

  “And the others? Do they feel like you do? Do they have the heart for the struggle?”

  Paddy bristled. “They have heart, mate, plenty of it. It’s just they’ve been beaten down so long, it might take them a little while to find it again. If you could see these men, what they endure …” His voice trailed off. “They have heart, all right,” he finished softly.

  “And do you –”

  “Sure, but you ask an awful lot of questions,” he cut in, suddenly suspicious. Dock owners paid good money for information on the union. “What’s your name, then?”

  “Tillet. Benjamin Tillet,” the man answered, extending his hand. “Yours?”