by Dominic Luke
Now she was sitting next to Dorothea on the top deck of an omnibus stuck in traffic. She was trying to be as quiet and inconspicuous as possible. When she spoke, she spoke in a whisper, covering her mouth with her hand. The other passengers were not so reticent. Several had begun to lean out, trying to find the cause of the hold-up. Many were talking at the top of their voices as if they didn’t care who was listening.
‘It’s a horse. A horse has gone mad and blocked the street.’
‘They can be brutes, horses. I shall be glad when we’re rid of ’em.’
‘I’ve seen one kick—’
‘One bit me once—’
‘But all the same, there are some jobs where only a horse will do.’
‘Why is it taking so long? I shall miss my appointment.’
‘I tell you, it would be quicker to walk—’
The omnibus at last got under way again. It paused for a moment by St Paul’s then swept on, leaving the great dome behind. Eliza reminded herself of the quest. They were looking for Dorothea’s papa. ‘Quite a short man,’ Dorothea had said: ‘slender and dark-haired with brown eyes and a small moustache.’ But that might describe any number of men, thought Eliza: that man there, for instance, with the bowler hat and an umbrella, looking in at the window of a shop; or that man in the long overcoat forging through the press of people on the pavement; or that man on the street corner who had stopped to buy a paper from a newsboy. The men were glimpsed for a moment then disappeared as the bus rattled onwards.
Dorothea got to her feet. Eliza followed, running down the stairs as the omnibus slowed and stopped. She jumped from the platform onto the pavement. The omnibus moved off. Eliza quickly lost sight of it, found herself caught up in the hustle and bustle of the street. She was glad to have Dorothea on one side, Smith on the other, otherwise she felt she would have been carried off in the press of people like a leaf in the current of a swollen stream.
Before long they came to a junction. ‘This way,’ said Dorothea. But as she picked her way, turning this corner then that, she seemed unsure, looking all around. ‘It’s been so long,’ she murmured, ‘since I was here last.’
Eliza allowed herself to look around too. Was this still London? If it was, it was a far cry from the swept pavements and spotless facades of Essex Square. There were lots of shops but they were very different from the shops on Oxford Street: Selfridge’s, and Marshall and Snelgrove, and Peter Robinson. There were tailors and haberdashers and drapers. There were teeming coffee rooms and tiny tobacconists. Butchers had racks of meat outside and joints hanging from hooks in their windows. Hawkers had spread their wares on the pavements. A woman was selling fish from a barrel. There were carts with little stoves, on this corner offering hot pies, on the next, roast chestnuts. People swarmed in every direction, spilled out across the roads. Dirt and rubbish choked the gutters. The noise was unrelenting.
‘This way.’ Dorothea turned to cross a street. Eliza hurried to keep up, skipping over the tram tracks, dodging the horse manure on the cobbles, Smith striding beside her.
‘’Ere, lanky, lost yer motor, have yer?’
There was laughter. Heads turned. People stared, pointed. Eliza hung her head. She would have liked to hold Dorothea’s hand, or even Smith’s.
They left the shops behind. Dorothea seemed more assured now, seemed to know the direction she wanted to take. They walked along run-down streets between rows of houses. The brick fronts were blackened with soot; the windows were grimy, the glass often cracked or broken, sometimes missing altogether, the holes stopped up with paper or bits of cloth. There were fewer people and no traffic. Here and there, women stood in the narrow doorways or sat on the doorsteps: sly-looking women, Eliza felt, and belligerent. Children ran back and forth dressed in what Eliza thought of as rags: many had bare feet, some had snotty noses; they looked dirty. Scrawny dogs nosed at piles of rubbish, lapped at the effluent in the gutters or at the foetid pools in the road where chunks of cobbles were missing. Eliza had thought herself decidedly grubby, still wearing yesterday’s clothes, the clothes she’d slept in, but here she felt as if she was covered from head to foot in something like a film of grease.
Dorothea came to a stop. They had reached a place where a side street led away to the right. On the opposite corner was a man with a barrel organ. Above him on a blank brick wall was a sign, black letters on white – or grey, as it was now, a mucky grey: STEPNALL STREET.
‘There,’ said Dorothea, pointing down the narrow street. Her face was pale. Her hand trembled.
‘Are you sure, miss?’ Smith was dubious. ‘Are you sure you want to go down there?’
As they hesitated, the three of them, Eliza found herself mesmerized by the barrel organ. The old man turning the handle had a lined face and untidy whiskers. The jolly, plinky-plonk music sounded out of place in these grim surroundings, like a shower of rain in a desert, futile.
The organ grinder caught her eye. He grinned. His mouth was a miry slit. From somewhere, Eliza summoned courage enough to give him a look: the sort of look she imagined that Mama might have given. The organ grinder wasn’t daunted in the least. He didn’t fawn or doff his cap. His grin grew wider. His cracked lips pulled back over red gums and the blackened stumps of his teeth. Eliza felt queasy and looked away. Almost she felt nostalgia for Mother Franklin’s clean, toothless gums in the village far away.
‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ Dorothea was saying, geeing them up. ‘This used to be my home.’ But she sounded almost as if she was trying to convince herself as much as anyone else.
Smith sighed. ‘Very well, then, miss: let’s get it over with.’
They ventured into the side street. It seemed to Eliza to take a great effort, as if her legs were leaden. Step-by-step they pressed on. The sound of the barrel organ faded. It seemed to grow gloomy, too. The narrow street was barely wider than an alley, the sky above a thin strip between sullen, soot-stained walls. Here and there between the squat doorways were arched openings leading to – to where? Eliza shuddered to think. But to her horror, Dorothea turned aside and disappeared into one of those very entrances. Eliza hung back. Surely Smith would protest, fetch Dorothea back?
He didn’t. Grim-faced, he ducked under the low brickwork. He too disappeared. Eliza had no choice but to follow. She found herself in a dark, dank tunnel. There was a fusty smell. Somewhere water was dripping.
It came as a relief to emerge into daylight again (or what passed as daylight here): she felt as if she’d been walking in the dark for half her life instead of half a minute. When she looked round, however, she recoiled. She had to stop herself from running back the way she’d just come.
They were in a cramped, irregular-shaped courtyard enclosed by high walls: it was like being at the bottom of a deep well. There were many windows and several blank doorways. The ground was littered with rubbish: bones and scraps and filth. The far-off sky was reflected dully in putrid puddles. Washing hung on a line stretched from window to window. A scraggy chicken pecked in the dirt. Somewhere high above a baby was feebly grizzling.
On one of the doorsteps sat a middle-aged woman with a grubby shawl thrown round her shoulders. She was stuffing a mattress from a sack of rags and straw. Her hands moved in a blur. Her eyes were dark and full of suspicion.
Dorothea was looking round with a strange expression on her face. ‘This is the place,’ she said. ‘This is where I used to live. Our room was on the third floor. We went in by that door there.’
She pointed. Eliza caught a glimpse of a narrow entrance hall and steps going steeply up. The banisters were missing and paper was peeling off the walls.
‘Excuse me. I wonder, could you help?’ Dorothea seemed fearless in approaching the seated woman. ‘I’m looking for someone, a man named Mr Ryan: Mr Frank Ryan. Do you know him?’
‘Can’t say as I do,’ said the woman shortly, not pausing in her work for even a second.
‘What about Mrs Browning? Does she still live here?
She had two children, Mickey and Flossie: they will be grown up now, of course.’
‘Never heard of ’em.’ The woman pursed her lips. ‘What do yer want wiv ’em, anyway? What’s yer game?’
‘Frank Ryan was – is – my papa.’
The woman snorted. ‘Lorst him, have yer? Careless of yer!’
‘He used to live here. I used to live here.’
The woman’s eyes widened, taking in Dorothea’s neat belted jacket, her long, pale-blue skirt, her beribboned hat. ‘You? Live here? Huh! A likely story!’ She turned her head (her hands kept working) and called through the doorway. ‘’Ere, Mrs Watts, listen to this. She says as she used to live here. Have yer ever heard the like?’
A second woman appeared, older, hollow-eyed, her greying hair hanging limp, her dirty frock in tatters. She had no shoes on. It seemed to Eliza shockingly indecent for a grown woman to be standing there with no shoes on.
‘Her?’ said the new woman, looking Dorothea up and down. ‘Her lived here? Get away with you! The likes of her wouldn’t live here!’
‘But I did, I really did, why won’t you believe me?’ cried Dorothea. ‘It was a long time ago: twelve years. I’ve come back now and I’m looking for my papa, Frank Ryan.’
‘There’s no toffs round here.’
‘But he wasn’t a toff! I’m not one either!’
‘Not a toff? Don’t give me that! Just look at yer!’
‘If she’s not a toff then what is she?’ said the mattress woman. ‘One of them do-gooders, I’ll be bound.’ She spat into the dirt, contemptuous.
‘We don’t want no do-gooders round here,’ said the woman with bare feet. ‘We’ve no time for do-gooders, have we, Mrs Noakes.’ She moved forward, stepping over the mattress. Eliza watched in horrified fascination as the bare feet squelched in the sludge. ‘Why don’t yer just bugger off? Go on, bugger off, the lot of yer! We don’t need your sort round here!’
There was a murmur of voices, agreeing. Glancing round, Eliza experienced a catch of fear. Unnoticed, other women had appeared in other doorways; ragged children had gathered; faces were peering down from the upper windows. There was an atmosphere of blatant curiosity, of underlying hostility.
Eliza grabbed hold of Smith’s long leather coat, afraid. But Dorothea seemed heedless of any danger. She looked so clean and neat against the dark and dirty court – compared to the drab and dirty people – that she seemed almost to shine. It made her horribly visible. She was utterly defenceless.
The onlookers drew near, crowding round her.
‘Please – won’t you help – if I could just look – our old room—’
She actually made a move towards the doorway she had pointed out earlier but Smith now stepped forward and put his hand on her shoulder.
‘Come on, miss. We should go.’
‘But, Stan—’
‘You won’t find him here, miss. He’s not here, he’s gone.’
The barefoot woman thrust her face up close to Dorothea’s. ‘Yeah, that’s right. You listen to ’im, listen to that lanky bastard!’
‘If . . . if you hear anything . . . about Frank Ryan—’
‘Just bugger off! We don’t want you here, poking yer noses in! Bugger off and don’t come back!’
A chorus of voices rose all round. ‘Get on out of it! Bugger off! Fucking toffs!’
In the face of such aggression, Dorothea’s shoulders slumped. She allowed Smith to lead her away. Eliza stumbled after them into the noisome tunnel, still clutching Smith’s coat tail.
The narrow street seemed like a wide and spacious boulevard after the stifling confines of the court. Eliza gulped air. Now at last they could leave this horrible place and go back to Essex Square.
But Dorothea had other ideas. ‘We have to keep looking.’
‘Is that wise, miss? We stick out like a sore thumb round here.’
‘I have to go on, Stan: I have to. You see that, don’t you?’
Despite the misgiving in his eyes, Smith said, ‘All right, miss, if that’s what you want. Where to next?’
‘There’s the Swan. Papa used to go there, Mrs Browning too.’
‘Who is this Mrs Browning?’ asked Smith.
‘She is – was – I don’t know: the woman whose room we rented. We lived there, five of us in one room: me and Papa, Mrs Browning and her children. But that’s not important. The Swan, if I remember, was just down here, by the crossroads.’
Eliza’s heart sank into her boots at the thought of going on, but Dorothea was determined and Smith didn’t gainsay her. Eliza walked with the chauffeur as Dorothea hastened ahead along the street. Before long, they came to a junction where Stepnall Street was intersected by another, slightly wider street. On the far right-hand corner was a pub. It had frosted windows and a door on each side. A battered sign with a picture of a swan hung high on the wall.
Dorothea pressed on, not waiting. She crossed the junction and entered the pub. The door closed behind her.
Eliza and Smith hurried to catch up. As they reached the door, Smith put a restraining hand on Eliza’s shoulder.
‘Not you, miss. You wait here.’
‘Wait here? On my own? Oh, please don’t make me!’
‘I’ll be out again in two ticks. But I must see that Miss Dorothea is all right.’
A small boy was watching them: a scrawny, grubby boy with a tatty shirt and strings for braces. His trousers were too small for him and finished halfway below his knees. His feet were bare. He was lounging against the wall, eyes bright and sharp in his dirt-streaked face.
Smith gave him a hard stare. ‘What’s your game, then?’
‘I ain’t got no game, mister.’
‘In that case you come here and keep an eye on Miss Eliza.’
‘What’s it wurf?’
‘Never mind what it’s worth. Just you up and do as I say or I’ll box your ears for you, you little scamp.’
Smith wasted no more time. He plunged into the pub. Eliza got a confused impression of noise and smoke and many shadowy figures; then the door banged shut, cutting her off.
She was alone with the boy and felt intimidated. But taking stock she realized that she wasn’t quite alone: there were people further along the street in both directions, and on the pavement opposite a man was lying face down by the wall (asleep?). The house next to him had a sign over the door:
BEDS
4d a night
SINGLE MEN ONLY
Eliza turned to face the boy. He was a very small boy, very young, even if he did have a sly and knowing look that made him seem older. She drew herself up. She was not frightened of boys. She’d never been frightened of Jack Britten or Dixie Carter or Johnnie Cheeseman or any of the other village boys. This boy in fact looked a lot like Johnnie Cheeseman with his bright eyes and his dimples. Johnnie Cheeseman never went barefoot, of course, but there were some in the village at times who did, and several that were almost as scrawny and famished-looking as this boy.
She tried to muster a friendly smile but couldn’t quite manage it. The way the boy was gawking at her – so bold and barefaced – gave her a funny feeling inside. They stared at each other.
At length the boy said, ‘What’s yer name?’
‘Eliza Brannan. What’s yours?’
The boy ignored her question. ‘Got any money?’
‘I . . . I might have.’ She had a few pennies and farthings left over from the shilling she’d spent yesterday on Fry’s chocolate in the village shop. (Was it only yesterday? It seemed like a hundred years ago!)
‘Give us some, then. Give us some money.’
She fumbled in her pocket, held out a penny piece. For a moment he didn’t move, looking at the coin with mistrust. Then he suddenly snatched it out of her hand. It disappeared into his too-short trousers.
There was no ‘Thank you’, no hint of gratitude; he just went on staring at her. Eliza was disappointed. Johnnie Cheeseman would have said thank you. Johnnie Cheeseman was a quiet, pol
ite boy who called her ‘Miss Eliza’. This boy was nothing like Johnnie Cheeseman.
She made one last effort. ‘Does it hurt your feet, walking with no shoes?’
‘Not so much. I hate shoes. They cramp yer. D’yer like muffins?’
‘I . . . I don’t know. I’ve never had a muffin.’
‘Coo! Never had a muffin! What kinda girl are yer?’ He looked at her sidelong. ‘Yer could try one now if yer wanted. There’s a muffin man comin‘. Look!’
Eliza looked where he pointed but could see nobody, just the man lying on the pavement.
‘Where’s the muffin man? I can’t see him.’
‘Are yer blind? There he is, there!’
‘But there’s nobody there, you must be—’
She turned back to the boy but he’d gone. At once a terrible suspicion took hold of her. She reached into her pocket. It was empty. All her money had gone. Even as her heart was sinking and a feeling of disappointment was washing over her, she saw out of the corner of her eye a flicker of movement. Spinning round, she was just in time to see the boy disappear up Stepnall Street.
Anger flared inside her. How dare he steal her money, how dare he! They needed that money, with Dorothea penniless and Smith’s few shillings nearly used up. Without stopping to think, Eliza set off in pursuit.