“Eel! Watch where you’re goin’, you clumsy lad!” Florrie Baker jumped aside, but I had to reach out and steady myself on the Broad Street pump to keep from sprawling to the cobblestones. I squeezed Little Queenie tight to keep from dropping her.
“Sorry.” I grinned into the second pair of green eyes I’d seen that morning. Though I wasn’t about to tell Florrie Baker she had anything in common with a half-drowned cat—not if I wanted to avoid getting knocked down for real. “You’re up early. Fetchin’ water for your mum?”
“That I am.” She wrinkled her nose. “You been at the river, ain’t you? You got the stink of the Thames about you. And whatever is making your bag wriggle like that?”
Just then a freckle-faced boy came up behind Florrie, leading a pony and a small cart. He stopped and cleared his throat. “Beggin’ your pardon, Florrie. Can I have a turn at the pump? I need to get to Hampstead and back this morning.”
“Go right ahead, Gus, unless Eel here wants a turn first,” said Florrie. She picked up her bucket and moved aside.
“Not me. At the Lion we get water delivered from the New River Company, and we have our own well,” I said, pushing the cat more firmly under my arm so she wouldn’t wriggle so much. “Besides, I like the Warwick Street pump water better. Can’t say exactly why.”
Gus stepped up to fill his jug, not taking his eyes off Florrie. I jabbed her in the ribs and whispered, “One of your admirers?”
Florrie giggled. “Now don’t you say anything against Gus. ’E’s a steady boy—has a job as a runner at the Eley Brothers factory down the street. And thoughtful too. Even brings me flowers sometimes.”
Flowers? Was Florrie the sort of girl who liked flowers? The most I’d ever given her was a pencil.
Florrie stepped closer and tried to peer into my bag. “Now let’s see what you got in here.”
I peeled the bag open to reveal the little cat’s wet head. Florrie laughed. “So, are you rescuin’ kittens now, or is this creature for that famous Dr. Snow you’re always goin’ on about?”
“Dr. Snow mostly keeps guinea pigs, mice, frogs, and rabbits these days,” I told her. “I’m gonna raise Little Queenie up as a ratter at the Lion.”
I paused. “Unless … that is … maybe you’d like her.”
Florrie grinned. “Our Jasper would claw her pretty face to pieces. Besides, we can’t take on another mouth to feed, even a cat. Mum has her hands full trying to feed a family of five.
“I’m goin’ to be helpin’ Mum out, though, soon enough.” She looked serious now. “It’s been settled. I’m to go into service in a fortnight.”
“You are? But where?”
“Worried you won’t see me ever?” she teased. “Don’t fret. I’ll be working for a nice lady and her elderly father in North London, not too far away. Close enough to walk home on my half day off to see all my old friends.”
“What will you do?”
“Where do all girls start? I’m to be the scullery maid. But before long, mark my words, I’ll be housemaid in charge of everything,” she told me confidently. “I’m twelve, after all, thirteen come next winter. It’s time I did my part.”
“So … so I guess this means you’ll leave the ragged school?”
“I was lucky to go this long. Nancy only went to school till she was ten.” She pulled a small, dog-eared sketchbook from her pocket and giggled. “I’ll draw you pictures of all the fancy dishes the fine folks eat.”
I grinned, though I wondered if she’d have time for that. I’d seen scullery maids, their hands swollen and red from all that washing up. “Maybe you can sketch Little Queenie for me someday. Once she’s properly dried off, that is.”
“I will,” she promised, slipping her sketchbook back into her pocket.
Across the way, the front door of the Lion opened. The business day was starting.
“I’d best get this little one somethin’ to nibble on before I start work,” I told Florrie. “Don’t want to be late or I’ll catch trouble.”
“Can I come feed Dr. Snow’s animals with you today?” she asked. “I haven’t seen them yet, and soon I won’t have the chance.”
“Meet me here later,” I agreed. “I can’t go until I’m done with work at the Lion and sweepin’ up for Mr. Griggs.”
“I swear, Eel, you’re the busiest lad in Soho,” said Florrie. “What do you do with all your extra tin? You certainly don’t use it to buy clothes.”
Florrie was my best friend. Only friend, really. But I hadn’t even told her why I needed money, or why I didn’t ever get clothes or treats for myself.
“Florrie, here’s something I would like to do with my money,” I said suddenly. “I’d like to buy you an Italian ice.”
The chance to see Florrie Baker smile was definitely worth a penny.
CHAPTER THREE
Thief!
Thursday, August 31
“It’s like breathin’ soup,” Abel Cooper complained, same as he had every morning for a week. “Hot, stinkin’ soup.”
“Any errands for later, Mr. Cooper?” I asked the foreman as I mopped the brewery floor.
“In this heat? No, I’ll not send you out. There’s bad air out there. Poison,” he declared, wiping his forehead. “Bad air brings trouble.”
“What kind of trouble, sir?”
“Disease, lad. Since ancient times, folks have known that bad air—what they call miasma—is the cause of disease. And that’s what we’ve got now: noxious, poisonous air. It smells like … well, you know.”
I did. We all did. “Mr. Cooper, exactly which diseases does miasma cause?”
“You name it: measles, scarlet fever, smallpox, and, worst of all, the blue death,” he answered. “It’s obvious when you think on it, ain’t it? Bad smells cause bad things.”
I nodded, though I wondered how it was that Thumbless Jake, Ned, and the rest of the mudlarks were still walking around. Seemed like we all should be laid low by now from inhaling that filthy, smelly air that rose off the Thames. Especially since so much of London’s garbage and human and animal waste got dumped into it.
As for the heat, well, that didn’t bother me so much. I had too many bad memories of winter, with its tentacles of icy fog that bite into you and won’t let go. But there was no denying it was hot. Hot from dawn till dark. And not a dry heat, like you find in an oven. No, it was hot in a thick, wet sort of way, as if the sun were a giant who’d aimed his moist, stinky breath on us all.
The whole city reeked of fish, rotten fruit, horse droppings, and worse. The thick, foul air stung our eyes. Each morning the sky turned a murky yellow. That was day. It stayed that way till, hours later, the sickly yellow sky faded away to a hot, muddy gray. That was night.
Even deep in the cellar of the Lion Brewery, where the stone walls made things a bit cooler, I sometimes saw Little Queenie panting, her tiny pink tongue sticking out. She’d settled in well, though. Small as she was, she’d already delivered a mouse, purring with pride as she laid it at my feet.
“Next time, go for the rats, Li’l Queenie,” I instructed. “Them’s the nasty ones that crawl over me at night, their long, snaky tails ticklin’ my skin. You’re a big girl now—take ’em on.”
Mr. Cooper was a regular brick—if he could spare us messenger boys from traipsing all over in the horrible, stinking heat, he did. And maybe that’s why it happened. Maybe it had something to do with us being so cooped up. I can’t say for sure. What I do know is that if I’d thought my troubles were over for the week, I was gravely mistaken.
I’d finished mopping and was dumping the bucket in the courtyard when Hugzie Huggins tapped me on the shoulder. Pushed would be a better way to say it. I stumbled, sloshing water over my legs.
“Watch it!” I felt like knocking him flat.
“You’re wanted, Eel.”
My stomach lurched. Herbert “Hugzie” Huggins was the nephew of the Lion’s owners, the Huggins brothers—John and Edward. Hugzie had a pumpkin-shaped head an
d grimy yellow hair. He smelled of onions and burps. I’d always wondered how he’d gotten that nickname. A less huggable lad I never saw.
“Who wants me?”
“My uncle does.”
“Mr. Edward?” I asked hopefully. Mr. Edward was my favorite. He was a fair man who cared about his workers. As for his older brother, I made it my business to stay out of his way.
“Uncle John needs to see you,” Hugzie said. He couldn’t keep the sneer off his face. “Mr. John Huggins to you.”
“What about?” I snapped, suddenly suspicious. Something didn’t feel right. “I been doin’ my job. Workin’ harder than you.”
Hugzie just shrugged, his plump lips twitching as though he was trying not to laugh. What was he up to? As I followed him up the passageway to the office, I tried to stay calm. I’ll be able to handle whatever he doles out, I told myself. After all, I can hold my own with Thumbless Jake.
Maybe I was just extra jittery, on account of what Thumbless Jake had let on about Fisheye. Or maybe Abel Cooper’s talk about the bad air carrying poison was getting to me. But I couldn’t keep from feeling like I was headed for something dark and unknown. It was a little like wading into the deepest part of the river at high tide, without even a lantern in my hand.
Mr. John Huggins was all business. He sat ramrod straight behind a large oak desk, surrounded by tall stacks of papers. I stared at the battered tin box in the center of his desk. I felt a hot flush of anger stain my cheeks.
“That’s mine! You weasel—you’ve been in my things.” I whirled on Hugzie and grabbed his shirt.
Hugzie squealed like a piglet. “Uncle, get him off!”
“Stop that,” commanded Mr. John, though I’d already pulled away.
Watch your temper, I reminded myself.
Mum’s warnings came back to me: “Try to be more like your grandpa. He was the mildest man I ever knew. He always said the best way to win an argument is to pretend you’re pouring cool water on a hot fire.” But I didn’t take after my grandpa.
Mr. John had tiny, glittery eyes just like his nephew. But mostly it was his eyebrows you noticed. They grew up out of his forehead like a thicket of branches.
“Don’t turn on young Herbert here,” he purred, though it was not the same purr as Little Queenie’s sweet, contented sound. It was more like a lion’s menacing growl, or at least what I imagined a lion might sound like. “Herbert is quite correct to bring this to my attention.”
He gestured to the box on his desk. “Now, young man, can you tell me where these coins came from?”
“They’re … they’re mine …,” I spluttered stupidly.
“I think you know that stealing is grounds for instant dismissal,” Mr. John said coldly.
That is exactly what Hugzie wants, I realized with a start. He’s trying to get rid of me.
My heart sank. My eyes burned with tears I wouldn’t let fall. This couldn’t be happening. I’d been safe here at the Lion since May. I had food, clean water, and a place to sleep. Abel Cooper treated all of us messenger boys fairly.
I couldn’t be thrown back on the streets. Not now, with Fisheye Bill looking for me. I dreaded taking up the life of a mudlark again, scavenging in the filthy river day after day, no matter what the weather. Being a street sweeper wasn’t much better: pushing aside dog and horse dung from the paths of gents and ladies, then standing by and hoping for tuppence. It was little better than begging.
These last few months at the Lion had changed things for me. I’d started to believe I could make something of myself someday. I might be a foreman like Abel Cooper, or maybe I could start a small shop, learn a trade, or even become a clerk, just as Pa had been.
All this was far off. What mattered now was protecting my secret. And to keep it safe, I needed four shillings a week. Four shillings and a penny, to be exact, to be delivered each Friday. That was the precise amount I had in my box—all ready for tomorrow morning. And except for a few coins in my pocket, it was all I had in the world.
“I earned this money fairly, sir,” I declared. “I do odd jobs at night or when I’m not needed here.”
“What kind of odd jobs?”
“I feed animals and clean their cages for a doctor over on Sackville Street. And when I’m done here in the evening, I help Mr. Griggs, the tailor who has a shop across the road, at Number Forty,” I explained. “I sweep up the extra threads and bits of cloth, and make it tidy for customers the next morning. You can ask Mr. Griggs yourself.”
“Now, young man, no need to get excited,” Mr. John said in that same cool, smooth tone. He picked up a small ivory-handled penknife and began running the blade under his fingernails.
He’s enjoying this, I thought. He likes making me squirm.
“I find your story somewhat suspicious,” he said slowly, still concentrating on his nails as though he couldn’t even be bothered to look at me. “Do you really have time and energy at the end of the day to hire yourself out to someone else? Surely Mr. Cooper can find more work for you if that is the case.”
I clenched and unclenched my fists. “I always check with Mr. Cooper, sir, before I go. He’ll tell you I’m a good worker.”
I almost let slip that I was sure Mr. Edward would back me up too. But that might not help me with Mr. John. Suddenly I remembered something. Just yesterday I’d come around a corner and heard Mr. Edward’s voice. “Don’t let it happen again, Herbert.”
I hadn’t thought much about it then. Now I wondered: had Mr. Edward caught Hugzie skimming pennies off a payment?
When Hugzie and I were sent to collect on a bill, we were supposed to return with the correct amount of money. But it was possible to cheat—to say that the customer hadn’t been happy with his lot of brew and had kept back a shilling, or that the customer had shorted us and we hadn’t noticed. Maybe Mr. Edward had discovered that Hugzie had come up short too many times.
“Let me ask you another question,” Mr. John was saying, switching the little knife from one hand to the other and starting to dig into the skin behind his thumbnail. I watched, unable to take my eyes off the shining tip of that tiny blade.
That’s what I am to him, I thought. Just a speck of troublesome dirt under a nail.
“You claim you earned this money through your own labor. But what possible reason do you have? Are you not satisfied with your job here at the Lion? You get room and board and good water to drink. What use do you have for extra money?” Mr. John demanded.
I couldn’t tell him the truth, of course. I thought fast.
“To better meself, sir,” I said meekly, lowering my gaze to the tips of my old shoes. I could see my left toe beginning to poke out. It would take more than one sweep of Mr. John’s penknife to get my nails clean. “I’d like to, uh … make sure I have proper shoes, so as to look presentable when I deliver messages and suchlike.”
Mr. John waved a hand, as though to clear the air of my words. “Are you aware, young man, that there have been some irregularities in the accounts here?”
I whirled around to look at Hugzie and caught the tiniest of smiles flittering on his puffy lips. My hunch was right: Hugzie had been skimming the odd coin from his uncles’ operation. When he’d found my box, he figured this was a chance to put the blame on me.
I lowered my head again, feeling trapped. If only Mr. Edward were here. But Mr. Edward was gone on business all week. Hugzie had chosen his moment carefully. He wasn’t quite as stupid as he looked: he must have seen that Mr. Edward watched out for me. I wondered if Hugzie had resented me from the beginning. For it was Mr. Edward himself who’d agreed to let Abel Cooper take me on at the Lion.
Of course, I had Thumbless Jake to thank too. It was the nicest thing Jake had ever done. It had happened one raw, cold night in early spring, when it seemed like winter wouldn’t ever let go. Jake had stood me a mutton pie in a pub on the Strand that night. “You look like a drowned rat,” he’d growled as the rain beat down on us.
As we’d sat st
eaming in front of a fire, the rest of the patrons keeping their distance (not surprising, given the way we smelled), Abel Cooper had walked in and recognized Thumbless Jake.
“Why, if it ain’t Jake!” he exclaimed cheerily, coming over to shake Jake’s hand. “Remember me from the Lion? You used to shoe all the horses for our delivery wagons. Let me buy you a pint. I was that sorry to hear you’d left the business. I still say you were the best smith in London. Is this your lad here?”
“I’ll take a gin, Abel, if it’s all the same to you,” Jake muttered, his eyes lowered. Even through the layer of dirt on his skin, I could see a pink flush of shame creep up his neck.
Poor Jake, I remember thinking. It’s not easy for him to see his old pal now that he’s so down on his luck.
Maybe it was Jake feeling like he wanted to be in charge of something that made him put me forward. “This is Eel,” he told Abel Cooper. “Now, ’e ain’t my boy, but ’e’s a good lad nonetheless. Had some letterin’ too. I hate to see ’im waste away on the river. You got a use for a boy over at the Lion?”
Abel Cooper looked me up and down. “You seem a sharp lad, with those dark, bright eyes,” he said agreeably. “Are you willing to work hard, boy?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“Well, then, if you can clean yerself up, lad, so you don’t carry the stink of the Thames with you, I’ll have you meet Mr. Edward Huggins,” said Mr. Cooper. “Business is due to pick up this spring, and we could use a new messenger boy and someone to mop the floors and clean the place.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’ll have to pass muster with Mr. Edward, of course, but he’s a kind gentleman, not a bit like his brother,” Abel Cooper said. “Come to Broad Street in two weeks, lad. And get yourself cleaned up.”
That’s how I landed my position at the Lion Brewery. It was also why I owed Jake.
I’d done all right at the Lion, making myself useful and working hard for my keep. I fetched meat pies from the street sellers for the higher-ups. Seeing as how I knew London streets like the back of my hand, I could always be depended on to deliver messages quick-like. Part of the day, I’d sit in the Boys’ Box, a small room with a counter and pigeonholes and bells. Whenever a bell rang, I’d leap into action. I’d deliver the message as fast as I could and run right back for the next one.
The Great Trouble Page 2