The loss of Paddy’s wages alone would’ve been enough to cause her hardship, but she had been hit immediately after his death with a hospital bill, the cost of a coffin and a hearse, a plot in the churchyard, and a marker for the grave. She had found the two pounds he’d told her about, and as he said, the men at Oliver’s had passed the hat and presented her with three more, plus there was a pound from the union, and the burial insurance. Fiona and Charlie were giving her everything they earned and she had started laundering again, but it wasn’t enough.
She had hoped that Burton Tea might pay her ten or twenty pounds’ compensation for her husband’s death. After nearly two weeks had passed and she’d heard nothing, she’d summoned her courage and walked to the company’s offices. She’d waited for three hours before being seen by a junior clerk, who told her she’d have to come back the next day and speak with a senior clerk. When she returned, she was made to wait again. Another clerk then gave her documents to fill out. She wanted to take them home to have Roddy read them, but the clerk said she couldn’t, so she handed them in and was told to come back in a month to check on her claim.
“A month! Sir, I need the money now,” she’d protested.
The clerk, a severe-looking man with muttonchop whiskers, told her that by signing the papers she’d consented to follow Burton’s procedures for awarding compensatory monies. If she did not follow these procedures, her claim would be forfeited. She’d had no choice but to wait.
The time she’d spent at Burton’s had exhausted her. It was all she could do these days not to come apart at the seams. Every morning when she opened her eyes, the pain hit her again and she would weep. Then, dazed by grief, but driven by necessity, she would get up, feed her children, and start the laundering, keeping herself going as best she could. She wore no mourning clothes, no jet beads or brooches. There was no languishing in darkened parlors with mementos of the dearly departed. That was for her upper-class sisters. Women like herself, they might be mad with sorrow, but they got up and got going or their children went hungry.
Whenever she thought about her children, she was plagued by fears for their future. How would she support them? She could sell some of their furniture when they moved – that might bring a few shillings. If she had to, she could pawn Paddy’s wedding ring, but only if she had to. She could sell her mangle and copper. There wouldn’t be room for those when they were all living in one room. Without them, she wouldn’t be able to take in laundry, which would mean another loss of income, but maybe she could do piecework or launder for her customers at their houses. But then who would watch Seamie and Eileen?
I can’t cope with this, she thought, I can’t. I’ve spent two days at Burton Tea and I’ve got nothing to show for it. I spent yesterday and today looking for a room and I haven’t found a thing. They’re either too dear, too small, or too horrible. Her tears came again. And this time they were tears of desperation and there was nothing she could do to stanch them.
“Come on, Bristow, come out with me and the lads. It’ll be fun,” Harry Eaton said, straightening his tie in the mirror.
“No thanks, mate. I’m knackered,” Joe said, eyes closed, stifling a yawn.
“Oh, bollocks! You’re not tired. I know what the real reason is.” Joe opened one eye. “What?”
“It’s that pretty little lass of yours. Fiona. She wouldn’t like it. You tell her your cock’s not a bar of soap. You won’t use it up just because it gets wet now and again.”
Joe laughed. This was Harry’s Saturday-night ritual. No matter how tired he was, he still found the time and energy to go wenching … and to rib him for not going.
“Just think of it, squire,” he cackled. “A pretty tart with big tits and a nice tight cunny, all yours for three bob. Blond or brunette, whatever you fancy. I know a ginger-haired girl who does all sorts of tricks. She can suck the paint off a lamppost…”
“Control yourself, would you?”
But Harry Eaton never worried about controlling himself. He was more than willing to pay for sex and there was no shortage of women in London to accommodate him. There were two types of women in Harry’s book – the ones who made you merry and the ones who made you marry – and he preferred the former.
Joe had his reasons for not joining Harry – namely Fiona, but he also had no desire to come back from a Haymarket whorehouse with a nice dose of clap. He’d heard Harry groaning in the loo some mornings when his cock hurt him so much he could barely piss out of it. He said the treatment hurt even more – his wallet as well as his member. It didn’t stop him, though. He still went out with blokes from the market in pursuit of “a sheath for my sword,” as he put it, and there was always a ribald joke to be endured as he departed. Little witticisms about how he would leave Joe to take matters into his own hands, or that he hoped he’d have a wonderful evening with the lovely Rosie Palm.
“All right, I’m off.”
“I thought something smelled.”
“Very funny. Don’t wait up. And, Joe …”
“What, ’Arry?”
“Have you had your eyes checked lately?”
“No.”
“You ought to, lad. Too much of this …” – Harry, smirking, made an obscene gesture – “… leads to blindness.”
“Thanks. Now get out and give me some peace.”
Harry left, whistling as he trotted down the stairs.
I pity the poor girl who gets him tonight, Joe thought, he’ll be at her like a bull. He yawned again. He should go to bed, but he was too tired to get up. The stove door was open, the fire was toasting his feet nicely. He was feeling full and warm … and guilty.
He and Harry had started work at four that morning. Harvest season was ending, but wagons were still coming in nonstop. Farmers were eager to sell off the last of their crops. He hadn’t seen a proper day off in ages. He could’ve insisted on one, but it wouldn’t be smart. Not now. Peterson was dropping hints about a promotion. Martin Wilson, the man who negotiated the final price they paid for produce, was leaving. Joe hadn’t even thought about taking over from Martin; he assumed he was too new to expect advancement, but the signs were unmistakable. Peterson was taking every opportunity to compliment his work. And today, he’d had him do Martin’s job because Martin had been needed inside. He’d seen both Tommy and Martin observing him. At quitting time, Tommy had gone over the tally sheet, pointed out two transactions where he’d overpaid, gleefully noted four where he’d underpaid, and pronounced his work “all in all, first-rate.” He’d nearly burst with pride. Peterson’s approval had become very important to him.
He and Harry had closed down late, just after seven. Tommy had still been around when they finished, and Millie was with him. He’d invited both lads to join them for supper. Joe’s heart had sunk. He’d planned to race to Whitechapel to see Fiona. He hadn’t been back to see her for a fortnight and he was worried about her, but he couldn’t refuse Peterson’s invitation. Tommy told them to get cleaned up and meet them at Sardini’s, an Italian place two streets over. Joe was panic-stricken; he’d never been to a restaurant in his life. He told Harry that maybe he shouldn’t go, for he only had his work clothes to wear. Harry gave him a jacket he’d outgrown and lent him a shirt and tie. He wore the nicer of his two pairs of trousers.
Sardini’s was dark, lit only by candles stuck in wine bottles, so nobody noticed that his trousers didn’t go with his jacket. Tommy ordered for everyone. Joe got through the soup and starter beautifully, but was stumped when the pasta arrived. Millie, Tommy, and Harry all laughed as they watched him fight with the noodles, then Millie showed him how to twirl them on a fork. She sprinkled Parmesan on his spaghetti and wiped tomato sauce off his chin. She was her chatty self, telling them how plans for her father’s Guy Fawkes party were progressing. When they finished eating, they walked back to Covent Garden together, then Tommy and Millie departed.
Joe had enjoyed himself immensely, but now he felt terrible. He should’ve been with Fiona in White
chapel tonight. Fiona, who was pale and thin and grieving for her father. He was a first-class turd. She needed him and where was he? Living it up at Sardini’s. He remembered walking her home from the river the night of her father’s burial, remembered how she had clutched at him when he left. It broke his heart. He couldn’t stand leaving her when she needed him so. But what could he do? For a day or two, he’d been tempted to quit his job so he could go back to Montague Street and be with her. But where would that get them? He’d be back with his father, scrimping to put pennies in their tin, when he was now putting in pounds. And Martin Wilson’s job – if he got it – paid even more. Wasn’t it more important that he stay the course? Fiona would do her grieving with or without him; his presence would be a comfort, but it wouldn’t take away her pain.
He rose from his chair, stoked the coals, and walked to the loo to wash up. He had to get some sleep. As he dried his face, he looked out of the bathroom window. The London sky was remarkably clear. Stars shone against the black night. He stared at one twinkling brightly. Did the same star shine down on her? he wondered. Was she maybe looking at it out of her window and thinking of him? He told the star he loved her, he told it to watch over her and keep her safe.
He undressed and got into bed. Images of Fiona flooded his mind as he drifted off. One day soon he’d have the money they needed for their shop and he’d be done at Peterson’s and then they’d be together always. They’d be married and this difficult time of separation and struggle would be behind them. One day. One day soon.
Chapter 12
Fiona eyed the smoked herrings arranged in a row on the fishmonger’s barrow. She was at the Friday night market alone. Her mother had a terrible cough, one she couldn’t seem to shake, and Fiona didn’t want her out in the damp October air. She took no pleasure in the costers’ songs, showed no interest in their pretty displays. She was too busy trying to figure out how to buy tea for four with only sixpence.
“ ’Ow much are your bloaters?” she asked the fishmonger.
“The large ones are tuppence,” he said. He pointed to some smaller ones. “These ’ere are two for thruppence.”
“I’ll ’ave two of those.” She put the fish in her shopping bag, on top of the potatoes she’d bought at Bristows and the pears Mrs. Bristow had tucked in beside them.
Fiona appreciated the pears, but Mrs. Bristow’s kind gesture made her feel like a charity case. Still, she wasn’t too proud to accept them. Seamie liked pears and she wanted him to have them. She’d chatted awhile with Mrs. Bristow about Joe and his much-hoped-for promotion. They both received letters every week, but neither one had seen him in nearly a month. Fiona missed him terribly. She wanted to write to him; it helped relieve her loneliness. But every time she saved a few pennies for paper and stamps, they were needed to buy socks for Seamie or throat lozenges for her mam or bread.
Fiona was certain her mother’s cough was due to the damp walls of their new room in Adams Court. It was next to the court’s single water pump, which leaked night and day, making the cobbles slick and the walls of the houses near it wet and cold.
Adams Court was a short, gloomy cul-de-sac accessed from Varden Street by a narrow brick passage. Its houses were squat two-up-two-downs that faced each other across seven feet of cobblestones. Theirs was the downstairs front room in number twelve. Her mother had taken her to see it before they moved in. She had heard about it from her friend Lillie. Lillie’s fiancé had lived in it, but had given it up after their wedding to move into a bigger one across the river. There was no sink. No closet, either. They had to hang their clothing on nails. It measured about fourteen by sixteen feet. They’d had to sell most of their furniture. Fiona hated the room, but when her mother had asked her what she thought, her face hopeful and anxious all at once, she’d told her that once they got used to its size, it would do very nicely. Of course it would.
Their old friends and neighbors had done their best to keep them on Montague Street, offering them spaces in houses that were already full. But their offers came from good-heartedness, not practicality, and her mother would not take advantage of them. Roddy had tried to help, too. Fiona wasn’t supposed to know about it, but she did. He’d come in late from a shift one night, while they were still in the old place, and Kate had fixed him his tea. The door to the parlor was open and she’d heard them discussing her mother’s trials with Burton Tea. And then, out of the blue, Roddy had asked her mam to marry him.
“I know you don’t love me, Kate,” he’d said. “And I don’t expect you to. Not after Paddy. I know how it was between the two of you. It’s not about that. It’s just that, well… I could take care of you and the children. I’d stay in me own room and you could stay in yours and we could all go on just as we always have. You don’t have to go.”
And then Fiona had heard the sound of her mother crying and Roddy’s anxious voice: “Oh, Jaysus, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry, I only wanted to help. Christ, I’m an eejit…”
“No, Roddy, you’re not an eejit,” her mother said. “You’re a good man, and any woman would be glad to ’ave you. I’m only crying because it touches me. There aren’t many in this world who would put their own happiness second to another’s. But you can’t saddle yourself with another man’s family. You should ’ave your own with Grace. You’re sweet on ’er as can be and everyone knows it, so go on and marry that lass. We’ll make out fine.”
But would they? Fiona wasn’t so sure. These days, a voice gibbered at her constantly from deep inside, reminding her over and over again that they had so little money. Hers and Charlie’s wages barely covered the rent, with a bit left over for food. Where was the rest to come from? What would they do when the baby needed new clothes or somebody’s boots wore out? It was paralyzing, this voice. It screamed and shrieked and she never had the answers it demanded. She had prayed to God, asking Him for help. For strength to endure everything she’d lost and courage to face everything that lay ahead. But she’d received no reply. God, it seemed, wasn’t listening.
Whenever her spirits sank, she would reach into her pocket and feel for the blue stone Joe had given her. She would squeeze it tightly, picture his face and remind herself of their shop, their dreams, the life they would have together. One day. One day soon. The money in their tin continued to grow. Every time he wrote, the amount was higher. In his last letter he’d said if things kept going well, they’d be able to marry before much longer. She’d been so happy when she’d read that, but her happiness faded as she realized she couldn’t get married anytime soon. Her family needed her wages. Her mam was still waiting for compensation from Burton Tea for her father’s death. It could be as much as twenty pounds and would enable her to find a better place to live and establish surer footing for herself and the little ones. Fiona knew she couldn’t think of leaving until that money came through.
Walking past the butcher’s stall, she wished she could buy a nice cut of beef for her mother to fix with potatoes and gravy, but their budget no longer stretched to pricey cuts, and even if it had, there was no way to cook them. The room had no stove, only a fireplace with a narrow grate that held one pot at a time. She missed the nourishing meals her mam used to make. Sometimes the only thing hot about what should’ve been a hot meal was a cup of tea.
Tonight’s supper would be meager. She and Seamie would have boiled potatoes with bread and margarine. No butter – too dear. Charlie and her mam would get the same plus the bloaters – Charlie to keep up his strength for the brewery and Kate because she needed some building up. The cough she’d caught was draining her. She coughed so hard sometimes that her face turned red and she could barely catch her breath. Maybe Charlie would have a few extra pennies tomorrow. If he did, she’d get some cheap mutton pieces for a stew. They could be boiled in a pot with carrots and potatoes. That might be the thing to set her mam to rights.
She finished her marketing with a loaf of bread and a quarter pound of margarine, then started for home. Creeping fing
ers of fog curled around the hot orange flames of the gas lamps, casting an eerie flickering light over the street. Like a living thing, the fog moved, dipping and swirling around the market stalls, squelching sound, obscuring vision.
The fog made her shiver. Walking through it was like being wrapped in a cold, wet blanket. Her marketing was heavy, she was hungry, and her legs ached from standing all day. Ever since she had inadvertently told Mr. Burton how to get more labor from fewer girls, Mr. Minton – feeling shown up – had worked her extra hard, requiring her to wash the tea scoops at night, wipe the tables, and sweep the floor. She was weary and wanted to be home. On impulse, she decided to take a shortcut.
Veering off the High Street, she walked through the roiling mist down Barrow Street, a derelict lane of ruined lodging houses, each with its door torn off, its windows vacant. There were no gas lamps, they’d all been broken. The street was dark and quiet, and twenty yards down it Fiona began to think that maybe taking a shortcut hadn’t been such a great idea. She remembered how frightened she’d been the time that horrible Sid Malone had grabbed her. What if he’d seen her at the market and followed her? And then there was Jack. Three weeks ago, at the end of September, he’d murdered two more women, both on the same night – Elizabeth Stride in Berner Street and Catherine Eddowes in Mitre Square. It was all anyone talked about. Fiona hadn’t paid much attention to the news – she’d been grieving for her father – but she thought about it now. Neither Berner Street nor Mitre Square was very far from Barrow Street. Jack hadn’t been caught yet. He could be anywhere. There was no one to hear her if she screamed and … oh, stop it, she scolded herself. You’re being silly. You’ll be home in ten minutes instead of twenty this way.
She made herself concentrate on other things. She thought about their new neighbors. There was Frances Sawyer on one side, who, Charlie said, was on the game. Then there was Mr. Hanson on the other. Mr. Hands-on, Fiona called him. He was awful, always leering and feeling his crotch, trying to look at her and every other woman through the cracks in the privy. At least the people who shared their house were decent. Mr. Jensen, a bricklayer who had the upstairs back room, kept to himself. Mrs. Cox, a widow – upstairs front – shouted at her two boys a lot. Jim and Lucy Brady, who occupied the back downstairs room, were the nicest of all. Jim always found time to play with Seamie, and Lucy, who was expecting her first child, had a daily cup of tea with Kate and asked her questions about birthing and babies.
The Tea Rose Page 15