Fogging Over

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Fogging Over Page 4

by Annie Dalton


  Suddenly a little boy appeared, flourishing a bald-looking broom. He made a bow to the lady and grandly swept all the poo out of her path.

  The lady fumbled in her purse and gave him a very small coin.

  “I’ll carry them bags for yer, if you like, lady!” he said eagerly. “I’ll carry them to Timbuctoo if you just says the word.”

  She clutched her bags. “Certainly not! Such impudence! Run along, you little guttersnipe. Shoo!”

  “Stop thief!” An older boy came dashing through the traffic complaining at the top of his voice. “Turned me back for a second and the little tea-leaf swiped me broom!” he panted.

  “Call that a broom?” jeered the little urchin. “Where I come from, we calls that a stick.” He flung down the broom and legged it down the nearest alleyway.

  For no obvious reason we all went chasing after him. The people in the tenements had strung their washing across the alley. Victorian pantaloons, nightgowns and petticoats hung limply overhead in the stagnant London air.

  In mid-sprint, Lola and I exchanged glances.

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” I panted. “He’s our kid?”

  I saw Brice grinning to himself.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing,” he smirked.

  “Can you believe that!” said Lola breathlessly. “We went all the way to Australia and we still hooked up with our human!”

  “Agency timing is quite cool like that,” Brice admitted.

  “What about PODS timing?” The remark slipped out before I thought.

  “Also excellent,” he said coldly.

  Lola gave me a look. Like, how could you be so mean? So I gave her a look right back. Like, was I being mean?

  Our human slowed down to a leisurely amble, but he didn’t totally relax. He was like an animal in the wild, noticing the smallest sound or movement, alert for trouble.

  They’ve picked us a real character this time, I thought.

  He wore a battered stove-pipe hat and a swallow-tail coat at least two sizes too big for him. The coat was full of holes which he’d tried to mend with various jazzy remnants, including a flowery bit of curtain. Despite his comical clothes, the kid had an air of genuine dignity, as if his tattered hand-me-downs were just a costume he was wearing for the time being.

  We trailed our little urchin through a maze of sleazy courts and alleyways, finally emerging in a street market.

  It was total mayhem. Stall holders competing for who could yell the loudest. Two women having a cat fight, literally pulling out clumps of hair! Plus a driver was backing a brewery wagon into a very narrow entry, while bystanders yelled contradictory advice.

  But the little boy in the patchwork coat just sauntered through the chaos, dodging all the slippery cabbage leaves and fruit peel underfoot cheerfully scuffing up dirty hay with his boots as if it were autumn leaves. He was having his breakfast on the move, I noticed, helping himself to a bread roll when a baker’s boy wasn’t looking, sneaking a quick dipper of milk from under a milkman’s nose.

  He strolled up to a stall selling the lurid Victorian horror comics known as Penny Dreadfuls and started reading furtively, while he munched away on a stolen apple.

  I should be taking notes, I remembered, and fumbled in my bag until I found my notebook.

  Our human is probably about ten years old, I scribbled. But v undernourished, so looks younger. He can read though he doesn’t seem to go to school.

  The Penny Dreadful stall was next to a stand serving freshly-made coffee and cooked breakfasts. An elegantly dressed gentleman stood apart from the regular customers, self-consciously turning his coffee cup in gloved hands, looking as if he’d been up all night.

  “Slumming,” Brice commented. “You get a lot of that here. Toffs coming down to get their thrills.”

  “Toffs!” I mimicked. “Who are you? The Artful Dodger?”

  I’d become vaguely aware of a news vendor bawling on the other side of the market. I couldn’t actually hear what he was saying at first. It was just another raised voice, competing with the voices of barrow boys and costermongers yelling about fresh fish and shallots. Even when I finally managed to make them out, the words still didn’t really register.

  “Another murder in Whitechapel. Read all about it!”

  I saw people gasp and turn to each other to make sure they’d heard correctly.

  I suddenly felt sick. “Omigosh. The Whitechapel Murderer. That’s what they called Jack the Ripper.”

  Lola’s face went white. “The Ripper was in these times? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  Brice sounded stunned. “I assumed you knew. That’s why I—”

  And suddenly I felt as if I was falling through space.

  I had actually chosen to come here. I’d even imagined it would be fun, like when my mates and I used to watch dross like Jeepers Creepers to scare ourselves into hysterics. But it wasn’t thrilling to be on Jack the Ripper’s turf for real. It felt unbelievably sordid and scary.

  And suddenly I knew what was wrong. It wasn’t the fog and the soot that made the streets of Victorian London so dark and brooding. It wasn’t even the poverty. Plenty of times are poor and dirty, but only a small handful of them are a breeding ground for cosmic evil. And for shallow and pathetic reasons which I was totally ashamed to remember, I had brought my lovely soul-mate to one of them.

  Chapter Four

  I‘m not going to try to justify what I did next.

  OK, so possibly my angelic system was affected by its brief exposure to those negative Victorian vibes. That could have clouded my professional judgement. Even so, that’s no excuse.

  I should have called the trip off then and there. I was going to, I was, honestly. I opened my mouth, drew a big breath - and did absolutely nothing. I pictured Brice smirking to himself as I mumbled my way through my apology, then I pictured Lola and him exchanging glances over my head, and I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t give him the satisfaction. There was this crucial split second when I could have, should have, done the right thing and I fluffed it. What can I say? I promised to tell you the whole truth and here it is; uncut, unvarnished and as you see, deeply unflattering to yours truly.

  “Our human’s on the move again,” hissed Lola.

  He was making for a stall, where a woman in a filthy bonnet had various hot suet puddings for sale. “Well, it’s my little Georgie,” she said. ‘“Ow’s tricks?”

  I was still inwardly freaking at what I’d done, but I couldn’t bear to think about it, so I whipped out my notebook and scribbled frantically: Our human’s name is George.

  Georgie produced a coin from an inside pocket. “I’ll have a ha’porth of the plum,” he shivered. “I want it pipin’ hot, mind.”

  “I don’t blame you, dear! Perishin’ today, ain’t it?” The pudding lady gave him a toothless grin. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You run and fetch me a drop of what does your ‘eart good!” She gave him a conspiratorial wink. “And I’ll give you a bit of plum duff for nuffin’.”

  “Is that some kind of code?” whispered Lola.

  Brice grinned. “She’s sending him to buy gin. Gin is the poor man’s tipple,” he explained. “Life doesn’t seem quite so bad if you can see it through a boozy blur.”

  The gin shop was in the most desolate street I have ever seen. The houses all looked to be on the verge of falling down. People had stuffed old rags and newspapers into the cracks in an attempt to keep out the cold. I couldn’t believe anyone really lived here, but if you listened you could hear families inside, clattering cooking pots and soothing crying babies just as if it was a real home and not something out of a nightmare.

  In these surroundings, the gin shop, with its fancy sign and plate-glass windows, stood out like a glittering palace. Inside everything was bright and gleaming: the polished mahogany of the bar, the brass rails, the giant gin casks painted glossy green and gold. The barrels were labelled with enticing names, like Real Knock-me-down, and Celebrated B
utter Gin.

  It seemed a bit early to be knocking back the hard stuff, but some of the customers already smelled of drink. One half-starved woman was shushing a toddler.

  “Never mind, dearie,” cackled an old lady. “A few drops of gin in ‘is bottle and ‘e’ll sleep good as gold.”

  Georgie bought something that was called Regular Flare-up. As soon as he was outside the shop, he took a furtive swig. He shuddered, wiped his mouth then raced back to claim his free plum duff.

  I was starting to feel as if I was trapped in the opening chapters of Oliver Twist as Georgie ran about the streets running errands, taking messages, carrying parcels for toffs, doing anything he could to earn a couple of pence.

  Wherever we went, people were talking about the Whitechapel murders. It got to I could tell when people were going to bring it up. They all had this same expression on their faces, a kind of sick fascination. They were like Jack the Ripper addicts, swapping the latest lurid rumour, endlessly rehashing horrific details. You could see they were scaring themselves, yet they couldn’t seem to stop talking about it.

  Georgie had to stand around in the barber’s for ages, waiting to deliver one of his messages. He kept clearing his throat, waiting for someone to notice him, but everyone was too busy speculating about the Ripper’s true identity.

  Someone’s cousin had seen a suspicious figure with a doctor’s bag, fleeing the murder scene. Someone else had heard of a foreigner with a gold-topped cane in which he concealed his deadly weapon. One customer swore it was the killer’s perfume that marked him out. “Sweet, like lily of the valley. It’s to cover the smell of the blood,” he explained with relish. “It’s that scent what’ll give him away, mark my words.”

  “Nuffin’ won’t give ‘im away,” the barber chipped in. “Our Jack’s too clever for ‘em.”

  “I heard that Scotland Yard know who it is,” said his customer through a froth of shaving foam. “But they’ve been asked to hush it up.”

  The barber stopped with the cut-throat razor in his hand. “Why would they do a thing like that?”

  “It’s obvious, ain’t it? It’s got to be a member of the Royal Family.”

  In the street outside, some guy was buttonholing anyone who’d listen. “It’s a Hebrew conspiracy!” he shouted, spraying spit. “Send them murdering Jews back where they come from. Coming here, taking food out of our children’s mouths!”

  That was too much for Georgie. Without warning he bolted into a side street. Outside a tumbledown tenement, two kids, brother and sister, were crouching in the gutter. They looked blue with cold. Drunken shouts drifted from an upstairs window.

  But Georgie kept on running and just five minutes’ walk away from that hideous street everything was calm and peaceful. I could hear a little winter bird tweeting, and the sound of someone busily scrubbing something with a brush.

  Georgie turned into somewhere called Milkwell Yard. The houses were small and narrow but well cared for. Outside Number 7, a maid was polishing a brass knocker.

  “Hello, Ivy,” said Georgie.

  She beamed at him. “Why it’s Georgie Porgie! Haven’t seen you for days. Too busy kissing the girls, I suppose!”

  “You suppose wrong,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve got business to attend to.”

  Ivy laughed. ‘“Ark at you! You sound just like a gent on the Stock Exchange! Go round the back, lovie, but keep your voice down. The mistress had another bad night.” She gave him a grin. “If you ask me, the spirits are getting their revenge!”

  I assumed this was another reference to gin, but then I saw the name on the brass plate. Miss Minerva Temple, Medium.

  I nudged Lollie. “Is that cool or what!”

  She looked uneasy. “Don’t mediums talk to the dead?”

  “Yeah, Victorians were really into it. We are going to get SO many brownie points for this. Mr Allbright is going to love us forever!”

  We followed Georgie down some steps.

  A fair-haired girl rushed to open the door.

  “Georgie! Where have you been? I was worried something had happened to you.”

  Georgie’s sister was so pale, you could practically see daylight through her, except for her cheeks which were a hectic pink. In her lavender gown and button boots, she looked like a little china doll. She dropped her voice. “We’ll have to be quiet,” she whispered. “Miss Temple is feeling rather fragile this morning.”

  “She still treats you well I hope, Charlotte?”

  Hello! I thought. Georgie had suddenly changed his way of talking. He sounded almost posh.

  “Oh, no, she’s really kind,” his sister reassured him. “She’s extremely satisfied with my work. She says my face is ‘wonderfully ethereal’!” Charlotte’s giggles turned into a long coughing fit.

  “I’m afraid you are getting ill again, Charlie,” said Georgie anxiously.

  She shook her head. “Don’t be silly! I just catch my breath sometimes.”

  As the children chatted, I noted down useful facts for Mr Allbright. Georgie and Charlotte were orphans. Their mother had died only a couple of years ago. Until recently, both kids were surviving on the streets, by selling matches and bootlaces. It was

  Georgie who had found his sister her unusual post as a medium’s assistant. Georgie was the youngest, yet he was fiercely protective of his sister, wanting to know if Miss Temple was working her too hard.

  Charlotte said the hardest part was trying not to laugh when Miss Temple pretended the spirit guides were speaking through her. “She sounds exactly like a bullfrog!” She broke off to cough, and this time she couldn’t seem to stop. It sounded like rusty machinery rattling inside her chest.

  “The poor kid’s got TB,” Brice said in a low voice.

  “Don’t be stupid!” I hissed. “Charlotte’s fine. Look at her pink rosy cheeks.”

  “That’s what TB looks like in the early stages,” he said grimly. “Until they start coughing blood.”

  I forced myself to count to ten. He wanted to make me look bad in front of Lola. If I lost my temper I’d just be giving him what he wanted.

  “Victorians didn’t all have TB,” I pointed out, trying to make my voice calm and reasonable.

  “No, some of them died of diphtheria and typhus and cholera. Also polio and scarlet fever and pernicious anaemia—”

  That was too much. “Will you give it a rest!” I snapped.

  “Hey,” Lola said. “Brice has been here before, remember. He knows what he’s talking about.”

  Yeah, but did he have to keep ramming it down my throat?

  Georgie ran to fetch his sister a glass of water and she gulped it down. He sat down beside her and they leaned their foreheads together like two babes in the wood.

  Georgie suddenly seemed to reach a decision. “Your cough’s not getting any better. I’m going to see our uncle.”

  Charlotte looked panic-stricken. “Georgie, don’t, not after last time.”

  “I don’t care,” he said fiercely. “We’ve got to get you to a doctor.”

  She threw her arms round his neck. “Oh, Georgie, I wish we had someone to turn to!”

  “We have, we’ve got Uncle Noel,” he reminded her. “It wasn’t him who tried to have us sent to the workhouse. He was horrified when he heard what Aunt Agnes had been up to. He’s a good man, Charlotte, and he has suffered a great deal.”

  “Has he?” said Charlotte doubtfully. “He seems extremely fortunate to me. He is a very successful lawyer, and they have that fine house.”

  “He has done well for himself,” Georgie agreed. “But it must have been terrible when he was growing up, having to pretend his mama was a respectable widow, when she wasn’t even married. Then Grandfather refused to acknowledge him as his son and heir. My uncle has had nothing but bad treatment from our family, Charlie, yet he feels responsible for us. He said he would have us to live with him at Portman Square, if Aunt Agnes wasn’t such a witch.”

  His sister laughed. “He didn�
�t call her a witch!”

  “No, she’s more like his gaoler!” said Georgie. “He can’t spend a farthing without having to account to her. It must torture him seeing us living from hand to mouth, when he has the means to help us. I’m sure that’s why he sends me on all these strange errands to Newgate. It’s just an excuse to give me a few pence.”

  “How is Mr Godbolt?” said Charlotte.

  “He seemed frailer last time I was there, but then he must be quite old by now.”

  “Did our uncle ever tell you what Mr Godbolt did to get put in prison?” Charlotte asked.

  “He just said, ‘Edwin Godbolt made one fatal mistake. But he was a faithful employee for many years and though the law has found him guilty, I will not abandon him.’ You see what a fine man he is, Charlie?”

  A clock began to strike somewhere in the house. Charlotte jumped up. “I must go! Miss Temple is holding a seance in a few minutes.”

  “This we have to see,” I said to Lola.

  She looked uneasy. “I don’t know if I want to see someone pretending to talk to the dead.”

  “Oh, come on, it’ll be educational!”

  Her lips curved into a wicked smile. “OK,” she agreed. “So long as we don’t have fun.”

  We left Georgie in the kitchen drinking cocoa with Ivy and followed Charlotte into the back parlour. She immediately started peering under tables and into light fittings.

  The room was crammed with so much dark heavy furniture it was hard to breathe. “This house needs some serious Feng Shui!” I told Lola.

  “What’s Feng Shui?” she asked.

  “It’s basically Chinese for chucking out your clutter,” I explained.

  I have never seen so much stuff in one tiny room. I don’t know how Charlotte managed to move around without knocking anything over.

  Like, the table was covered with a fringy chenille cloth. The sideboard had lacy doodads on it, and there was another bigger lacy doodad draped over the back of an armchair. There was a bowl of artificial fruit under a glass dome, plus there were real ferns inside a big glass bottle. And I haven’t even got round to the footstools or the embroidered fire screen, the ornamental photograph frames or the potted aspidistras!

 

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