****
Hannah scratched at a soup stain on the front of her pink dress. Standing by the Dundee, Perth and London Shipping Company’s dock, she hoped that the dress and her bonnet were marks of respectability, even though the dress was seriously in need of a good cleaning. And, of course, she had money, but not enough that she could afford to blow it on more clothes. Where would she go? Back in her cabin, she had panicked on realizing that the Professor had left her alone, but she had forced herself to calm down and think. There had to be a reason why she was on a package tour to the Great Exhibition, so it made sense to start there. Unfortunately, she learned from her cabin steward that tickets were not included in the vacation, and had to be purchased separately at the Crystal Palace.
Now, she was debating with herself how she should get there. She stopped an Asian man, one of the dozens of porters milling about, and asked him how she could get a cab. “You wait at rank, miss,” he said in a Chinese-Cockney accent, pointing to the taxi stand. “And another cabriolet come along presently. It might take a time, though. The other passengers was out before you, and most of them had to wait long time. It’s the Exhibition, miss. Ain’t never been this much demand for cabs before.” He shook his head, and went on his way.
Hannah sighed heavily, and prepared for a long wait. However, just then, she heard the clop of horses’ hooves, and a taxi came racing up the road toward her. The driver was sitting on an elevated seat behind the tiny passenger compartment, flicking a long whip at his horse as it pulled his nimble two-wheeled black carriage. He brought the horse to a halt before jumping down, and opening the carriage door.
At once, Hannah made to enter, but the driver stopped her. “Excuse me, miss, but haven’t you got a chaperone?”
Hannah stepped out again. “No. Why? I’m not going to a dance. I just want to go to the Crystal Palace.”
The driver touched his cap in respect. “Begging your pardon, miss, it’s just that a young lady like you shouldn’t be out without a chaperone. London’s not safe for you, Miss. But I can take you to the Crystal Palace. Got a ticket for opening day, have you?”
“No,” said Hannah. “Do I need one?”
The cabbie looked very concerned. “Yes, miss. I’m afraid so. Today’s opening costs a pound to get in, and everyone needs a…”
“HOW much?” Hannah screeched.
“A pound, miss. Goes down to five shillings tomorrow.” The cabbie seemed amused by Hannah’s horror. Now he looked at her sternly. “Come along, miss, I dunno what you’re playing at, but London’s no place for young ladies what takes it into their heads to run away. You tell me where we can find your mother.”
“I’m not here with my mother,” Hannah said resentfully. “I’m here with my governess, Miss Davies, and she took off and left me here at the boat.”
The driver climbed aboard his cab. “Well, then, miss, you had best stay here until she comes back.”
“So where is here, anyway?” Hannah said in her attitude voice.
“Here’s Wapping, miss, and this is Hore’s Wharf.”
“Where?” Hannah asked incredulously.
“Hore’s Wharf, miss, named for the late Mr. Hore. His widow lives over there.” He pointed to a house with his whip, before waving it around to indicate the neighborhood. “And this is the borough of Wapping.”
“Whopping?” Hannah was now convinced that the man was messing with her head.
But the driver was tired of repeating himself, and seeing no other customers, he cracked his whip and took off, leaving a very annoyed Hannah in his wake. She decided to take matters into her own hands, and walk.
Hannah soon decided that she had made a major mistake. The docks were a nightmarish jumble of tall warehouses, some joined to each other by odd little overhead bridges. Wooden double doors hung open on even the highest stories, and from them extended drawbridges, just like on a castle, on which dockworkers stood precariously. They leaned over dangerously to grab at dangling bales of goods that hung from thick ropes. It gave Hannah vertigo just watching them.
She could barely walk through the warren of alleys for all the merchandise stacked everywhere, much of which, she couldn’t help but notice, was packed in Dundee jute-wrapped bales. When she emerged from between two towering piles of goods, she was almost run down by an enormous blinkered draft horse, dragging a cart. She stepped back, and the driver swore at her as he passed.
More carefully now, Hannah entered the road, and looked about her. All she could see in the fog were warehouses, alleyways, and crowds of dockworkers and sailors. The men smoked short clay pipes, spat, and swore when she got in their way.
A grubby-looking man wearing a short cravat and dirty waistcoat turned to look at Hannah, then smiled broadly. “You look like a nice girl,” he said. “Want to come with me?”
“You look like a creep,” said Hannah. “Get lost.”
But the man grabbed her by the arm, and tried to drag her down an alleyway. Suddenly, two huge dockworkers appeared, one of them seizing the man from behind, and the other punching him in the belly. They gave him a great shove, and he sprawled on the filthy ground. He scrambled to his feet and stumbled away, muttering curses.
The first of Hannah’s rescuers, a huge bald guy wearing a broad hat, knee breeches, and a long jacket, brushed off his hands on his waistcoat. “Are you all right, miss?”
She finally caught her breath. “Yeah, awesome. Thanks, you guys.”
“You oughtn’t to be here, miss,” said the smaller man, who had only a few teeth.
“Yeah, this ain’t no place for a young lady,” said the large docker. “Come on, Bob and me will see you where you need to go. The name’s Charlie, by the by.” Hannah sighed. “Look, could you just show me to where I could catch a bus, or something? I just want to go sightseeing.”
The two men looked doubtfully at her, at each other, and then at her again.
“Honestly, miss,” said Bob, “Don’t you know where you are? You’re in the East End of London, and that’s no place for the likes of you. Come on.” Where had Hannah heard of the East End before? Then she remembered: This was where Jack the Ripper committed his dastardly crimes, or would commit them in the future. She hesitated only briefly before following the two men
down the street.
As they emerged onto the main road, Hannah pointed to a huge octagonal pavilion ahead of them. It was made from shining marble, and adorned with flags. “What’s that?”
“The entrance to the Thames Tunnel, that is,” said Charlie. “Ain’t never been down there, I ain’t, on account of I haven’t got no business across the River. Still, it attracts all the ladies and gentlemen…”
Hannah looked more closely. People were queuing to enter, and they did indeed look like ladies and gentlemen. There was a line of cabs waiting, too, and surely one of them would give her a ride back to the steamer? “Thanks, you guys,” she said to the two dockers. “This’ll do.” She was about to walk away when she saw that Bob had extended a hand. “Yeah?” Hannah stared blankly at his outstretched palm.
“A little gratuity wouldn’t be remiss, begging your pardon, miss,” he said. “Me and Charlie here, we’re getting on in years, and we present ourselves every day down at the pub, when the foreman comes and picks out the blokes who he’ll give work for the day. Only, we don’t get picked as often as we used to, and we both still got families to feed…” Charlie nodded frantically in agreement.
Now Hannah knew why the two dockers had been so eager to help. Like most poor people, they weren’t criminals, but they knew that middle-class folks had enough money to tip every poor person who helped them out. Hannah reached into her purse, and, without thinking, handed Bob a one-pound note.
His eyes widened when he saw what she had given him. He nudged his companion, and they beat a hasty retreat. Shell-shocked, Hannah watched them take off. By the time she thought to call after them, to tell them she had made a mistake by giving them such a large tip, it was too late
. They had vanished into the docklands. Now she had even less money to spend. Sighing heavily, she walked the last few yards to the entrance of the Thames Tunnel.
The marble octagonal building was not quite as elegant inside as out. Shoved up against the walls were kiosks selling candies, newspapers, and even beer. Hannah joined the line of people waiting to get in at the brass turnstile, which was staffed by a fat man on a stool. As she neared the front of the queue, she turned to the short middle-aged man with bushy eyebrows who was standing behind her. “So where does this thing go?” she asked, jerking her head at the tunnel entrance.
“It goes, young lady, under the River Thames to the South Bank. But where precisely it ends, I cannot tell you, and it matters not to me. I have no intention of traversing it, but wish merely to cast my eye upon it. After all, one cannot fairly claim to have visited London without having visited the Thames Tunnel.”
Hannah shrugged, returning her attention to the man on the stool, who was extending his chubby hand and asking her for a penny. Pushing through the turnstile, Hannah found herself in a slow-moving
queue of people waiting to take the gas-lit stairs. Organ music wafted up from below, and she instinctively peered over the handrail to see where it came from.
She got a shock: It was a very long way down, and the line of people zigzagged from flight to flight of stairs. Still, she was stuck now, with more people lined up behind her. And what else was she going to do with her time?
When Hannah used to visit Disneyland in California, the waiting areas were decorated with little features, like silly pictures and signs, to help people pass the time. Apparently, that idea wasn’t new: The plaster walls of the Thames Tunnel staircase were hung with paintings and statues. On the first landing, Hannah discovered the source of the music: A skinny young man was playing an organ.
It took a long time to descend the staircase. When Hannah reached the bottom, she found herself in a brightly-lit room that looked almost exactly like the one at the top, lined with small shops. A man in exotic dress held a tiny monkey in suit and cap, and he invited people to watch it play tricks in exchange for tips.
The entrance to the tunnel itself was two large archways, each leading to an underground road. Shops lined the wall that divided the two sides of the tunnel from each other. Hannah could see all the way to the other end of the tunnel, and so far as she could see, there was a shop under every arch, maybe fifty of them. She smiled to herself: She knew a mall when she saw one. Eagerly, she approached a booth selling souvenirs. She picked up a little china telescope on which was printed A Present from the Thames Tunnel, and peeped through it. Inside was a 3-D drawing of the tunnel’s inside. Alex would love this, she thought, before realizing with a pang of guilt that she hadn’t thought much about her brother lately. She decided to buy the peepshow for him. She also picked out an ink stand (labeled Bought in the Thames Tunnel) for Brandon, and a souvenir for herself, a tiny shoe made of clay dug from the Tunnel during its construction. The woman behind the counter looked very pleased with Hannah’s purchases, and complimented her on her good taste. Hannah congratulated herself for being a great shopper as she handed the shopkeeper six shillings.
Not bad, she thought, as she walked away. Then she remembered that six shillings was two weeks’ wages in Dundee, and that there was no way to get the souvenirs back to the twenty-first century. She thought about trying to return her purchases, but she didn’t want to admit to the saleswoman that she couldn’t afford them.
Sighing heavily again, Hannah returned to the rotunda, where she realized with dismay that she would now have to climb back up the staircase. At that moment, a man standing with a notebook in front of a booth caught Hannah’s eye, and called over to her, “Come inside, young lady, and have your fortune told!”
Why not, Hannah asked herself? It would make for a nice break before she had to tackle the stairs again. As the man held back the curtain, she entered the small, musty booth, and sat down on a rickety chair across from the fortuneteller. The booth was so dimly-lit that it was practically dark. The fortune-teller
wore a veil, making her look very spooky. “First,” she said in a hushed crackly voice, “You must cross my palm with silver.”
Hannah stared at her. “What?”
The fortune-teller looked irritated. “That’ll be sixpence,” she said, extending her hand.
It seemed like a lot of money to Hannah the former Dundee jute worker, but to Hannah the Victorian young lady in London, it seemed like a pretty reasonable price. She dropped a silver sixpence into the waiting fingers. The woman took Hannah’s hand, and she looked at it for quite some time. Then, with an air of great importance, she said, “You have been on a long journey.”
Hannah looked at her skeptically. “Well, that’s kind of obvious.“ The woman paused in an annoyed sort of way, and then continued. “I see that you have had companions, but now are all alone.”
Hannah was impressed for a moment, but then it occurred to her that this would be true of anyone. What she said was, “Duh.”
The fortune teller examined her palm a third time. “I can tell that you are a girl who wastes money on any old rubbish that comes her way.”
“What?” Hannah was startled and offended, all at once. The fortune-teller threw off her veil, and the Professor revealed herself. “So why have you been wasting all the money I left with you? Oh, and here’s your tanner back.” She threw a sixpence on the table.
“What do you mean wasting money?” Hannah said defensively, picking up the sixpence coin. “You dumped me, remember? You left me all by myself so you could go off and…and… And what are you doing telling fortunes underground? Oh my God, you are so weird…”
“It’s research,” the Professor said. “I want to know what sort of people consulted fortune tellers in London in 1851, and Tom out there is keeping a record
of who visits me. Congratulations. Your visit has been noted.”
Hannah snorted. “Whatever, but… Hey, why did you steal my dresses?”
“I didn’t steal them,” the Professor said. “I confiscated them. Turns out you won’t be needing them anyway. Haven’t you noticed how hard it is for you to go around alone when you’re dressed like a lady?”
Hannah had noticed. In Dundee, nobody had ever asked her why she didn’t have a chaperone. Here, everyone looked at her with concern.
The Professor stood up, and dusted off her own rather drab clothing. “There are very few advantages in 1851 to being a woman but not a lady,” she said. “But one of them is freedom of movement. I have to watch myself a bit more carefully, but one reason I hired Tom was so I could have protection in the scary parts of London. You, on the other hand, have been harassed, I imagine, yes?”
It was true, of course. Hannah scowled.
“Come on,” the Professor said, getting to her feet. “I could use a break.” At the tea stall, the Professor bought herself a cup of tea in a china mug, and a cup of hot chocolate for Hannah. “Pretty useless tunnel, isn’t it?” she said, handing Hannah her steaming cocoa.
“I guess,” Hannah said. “I mean, not many people seem to go all the way to the other side.”
“That’s because there’s no point,” the Professor said. “There’s not much to see in Rotherhithe, and it’s a bit of a rough neighborhood. Plus who wants to traipse up and down an eighty-foot staircase when you can cross the river on a bridge? The tunnel is only a tourist attraction, really, and the novelty will wear off soon. Mind you, it’s a spectacular accomplishment: The world’s very first tunnel under a river. Too bad that the roads aren’t wide enough for carriages, and Lord knows how they thought they could get horses down here. About ten years from now, this will be turned into part of the London Underground, the subway system.”
The Professor drained her tea, and returned the cup to the tea stall. “Tom and I will escort you back to the ship,” she told Hannah. “Tomorrow, you’re going to the Great Exhibition. I’ll see you onto the bus.”
>
“Bus?” exclaimed Hannah.
“Yes, bus. You, my dear, have spent far too much money to take a taxi.”
****
Lady Chatsfield’s visitors were arriving, and Mr. Veeriswamy greeted them, taking their coats while Brandon, now dressed in his servant’s livery, directed the carriage drivers to the back of Balesworth Hall. As the last guest arrived, Mr. Veeriswamy and Brandon followed her in. “I travelled on a railway train!” she announced. She was a twittery little lady who introduced herself as Mrs. Baston-Hume, while her maid hovered nearby. “The journey was not in the least unpleasant. Have you ever travelled on a railway train, Veeris…Veer…I’m sorry, I cannot say your name.”
Mr. Veeriswamy replied smoothly. “I have not yet had that pleasure, madam. Please address me as Vereham should you find it easier to do so.”
“Well, Vereham,” said Mrs. Baston-Hume, as her maid removed her coat, “I recommend a railway journey as altogether most satisfactory.”
“Indeed, madam.” Mr. Veeriswamy nodded as he took the coat from the maid, to whom he said quietly, “Please go downstairs to the servants’ hall, and Mrs. Watson will serve you your tea.” The maid gratefully followed the direction pointed by his outstretched gloved hand. Brandon was about to follow her, but Mr. Veeriswamy stopped him. “Brandon, remain here until you are sent for. There may be other guests to follow.”
Brandon had been looking forward to the freshly-baked scones he had seen cooling in the kitchen, and he hoped Mrs. Watson would save one or two for him. He sighed, and, checking that the butler was out of sight, sank into one of the hall chairs.
Less than a minute later, he jumped up hastily as he heard Mr. Veeriswamy’s feet descending the grand staircase. Brandon was also surprised because, usually, the butler used the servants’ narrow dark stairway.
A Different Day, A Different Destiny (The Snipesville Chronicles) Page 28