Honour & Obey

by Carol Hedges

  Tonkin pauses, watching intently as the sad little procession passes. The young woman’s face is almost luminous in its pallor. Her eyes are two inky smudges. Tonkin doffs his hat as the coffin goes by, noting how many other people have also stopped as a mark of respect. There is a murmur of sympathy but the young woman seems unaware of it. She follows on, holding her head erect, carrying her silent sorrow as if it were a badge of honour.

  Tonkin waits until she is swallowed up in the swirling traffic. Then he goes about his business. It is the usual one: calling upon certain slum tenants who have not paid their rent. For as well as his shop, Mr Crevice is also a landlord. A landlord of the greedy, grasping, squeezing, farthing-extracting school, and woe betide any tenant unfortunate enough to fall into rent arrears.

  Such a one has to face the wrath of Tonkin, who has been taught, at the end of a fist, the way to threaten and cajole money from hapless tenants. He also carries The Ledger – a battered black-bound book in which all the rents, missed rents and general misdemeanours of the tenants are written down. Tonkin cannot read much, but he has seen the power of The Ledger on enough occasions to recognise its importance.

  Slipping down a side passageway that runs between two houses and is so narrow that he is forced to walk sideways and move in a crablike manner, Tonkin arrives at a small square, surrounded on all sides by rickety tenement dwellings. It is euphemistically called Paradise Place.

  The once flagged courtyard has now disintegrated into a thick slurry of greasy mud, dotted with heaps of rubble, broken furniture and the carcass of a dead dog. There are lines of grey washing strung on poles, and thin columns of smoke rise from blackened chimney pots into the leaden sky.

  Tonkin mounts the worn stone step and bangs on the rickety door of number four, calling out loudly that he is here for the rent, and he won’t go away until he has it, this being the greeting he has been taught to utter upon such an occasion. A couple of grubby pinafored children briefly look up from whatever they are doing, then turn away with an air of resigned indifference.

  Number four is the home of the Claphams, a married couple with five children. After a deal of knocking and shouting, the door is reluctantly opened by a half-grown girl with a pinched face and hard eyes, who invites Tonkin to “Bugger off. T’ain’t convenient.”

  At her back, a herd of smaller children stand and stare like stupefied sheep. Tonkin however, is practised in the art of gaining entry. He inserts a battered boot over the threshold, then leans hard against the door, forcing the girl back into the musty hallway.

  “Where’s yer Pa and Ma?” he asks.

  “Gone for a jug o’ beer,” one of the little ones pipes up, to be instantly glared at by its big sister, who bids it to “Mind yer tongue or I’ll pull it aht wiv red-hot pincers.”

  “Then I’ll wait, h’if you don’t mind.”

  Tonkin pushes past the children and enters the main living room, which, like most of the rooms in Paradise Place, has developed its own internal weather system. The walls are damp, and the fire in the grate has drawn off some of the moisture from the plaster, creating a small local fog. There is very little furniture, and no beds to be seen. From the evidence of the piles of rags, the family sleep about the room however best they can.

  “Nice gaff,” Tonkin says, folding his arms.

  “Yeah, proper posh, innit?” the half-grown girl says. “Lives in the lap o’ luxury, we does. Now why dontcher piss off and tell your boss we ain’t got anythink more to give him, coz what we ’ad, we’ve pawned at his place, so he’s already got the lot.”

  Tonkin stares into the tight, pinched little face of his adversary, and recognises a kindred spirit. Another follower of the rules of the street, which can be summed up in one word: survive.

  “Look,” he says, “S’pose you give me ...” he searches round the room for something, “them fire-irons,” he says, his eyes lighting upon them.

  “And if I do, how’re we going to keep the fire going?”

  “Oh, you’ll fink of summat,” Tonkin waves an arm airily.

  He opens The Ledger.

  “So, let’s say – them fire-irons in lieu of a week’s rent.”

  The girl rolls her eyes.

  “I ain’t going until I gets paid.”

  There is a pause. The girl stares at him. Then at the fire-irons.

  “I’m a-waiting,” Tonkin says, tapping his foot and raising a small cloud of dust.

  “Just the poker then,” the girl says finally. “Got to be worth a bit ... solid iron. My dad made it, when he was blacksmithing.”

  Tonkin nods. “Deal.”

  He helps himself to the poker. At the back of his mind, he is already working out the next stage of the trade: he will sell the poker to an ironmonger he knows, for the best price he can get. It will be more than the paltry sum he is here to squeeze out of the half-starved family.

  He will give the rent money to Crevice, and pocket the profit. Fair’s fair. The only wages he gets off his skinflint of a boss is the rough end of his tongue and the occasional blow.

  “Pleasure doing business wiv yer,” he says.

  He heads for the door, shoving the younger children roughly out of the way.

  “And don’t forget, next lot o’ rent’s due in a week’s time. Or I’ll be back,” he adds for good measure, as he slams the door behind him.

  ****

  Meanwhile the re-entry of Lobelia and Hyacinth Clout back into respectable Christian society is proceeding apace. Here they sit in the dark oppressive parlour of the vicarage, with its skimpy carpet, faded wallpaper, and stern pictures of former clerical incumbents. They are attending the monthly meeting of the Ladies’ Committee for the Charitable Relief of the Poor and Indigent of the Parish.

  This was Mama’s favourite committee. Indeed, before her final illness, she used to chair it. In her absence, and during that final illness, the chair was taken over by Bethica Bittersplit, but she has now relinquished the seat at the head of the table to Lobelia.

  There is something vaguely familiar about Bethica today, Hyacinth thinks. She studies her covertly as she tries to work it out. Then she realises: it is the rather ugly brown woollen jacket Bethica is wearing. It used to belong to Mama. Hyacinth remembers packing it up along with the rest of her clothes for the Missionary barrel. It would appear that the missionaries did not require it.

  So that is two disconcerting things, Hyacinth thinks, fiddling with her pencil. Bethica clad in Mama’s jacket, and Lobelia sitting in Mama’s chair. She catches Bethica’s eye and receives a superior little smirk. She decides to ignore it and concentrate upon her sister instead.

  And really, it is most remarkable – her sister’s jowly, petulant expression and sharp, scolding voice recall the many committee meetings she has attended with her late and not much-lamented Mama.

  “Hyacinth!” The querulous voice of her sister breaks into her reverie. “I have asked you twice to pass me the list of applicants. What is the matter with you this afternoon?”

  Hyacinth fumbles for the applicant folder, drops it on the floor, bends down to retrieve it, knocks her bonnet askew.

  “Oh bother!” she exclaims.

  There is a shocked indrawing of breath from the assembled ladies. Lobelia’s eyebrows shoot up almost to her hairline. She gives her sister Mama’s Look. Suddenly Hyacinth is twelve years old again, standing outside the parlour door awaiting a scolding. Red-faced, she mutters an apology and sinks into her seat.

  Lobelia opens the book and begins to read out the list. It is a very long list. So many poor and needy have applied for parish relief. As each case is read out, it is examined by the ladies, and its merits and demerits minutely dissected.

  Time passes. Eventually, after much charitable relief has been discussed but little dispensed, there is a knock at the door. The Reverend Ezra Bittersplit glides in and is invited by Lobelia to close the meeting with prayer. As soon as the ‘Amen’ has echoed round the gathering, Lobelia and Bethica go in
to an earnest huddle in a corner. Hyacinth rises, and with an apologetic smile, hastens out of the room. She will have to answer for her untoward exodus later, but the sense of oppression she has felt during the meeting, which increased incrementally with the appearance of Bethica’s father, is almost overwhelming. She makes her way to the churchyard and settles herself comfortably on her favourite bench in a corner under one of the yew trees.

  Hyacinth leans back. The air is soft, and a little breeze fans her face. How pleasant it is to be on her own. She spends so little time on her own. She thinks back over the day. It has been a long day, piled on top of other long days. Hyacinth closes her eyes and lets the clouds of tiredness take her.

  She is awoken abruptly by the crisp sound of footsteps on the gravel path. Opening her eyes, she sees Reverend Bittersplit stalking purposefully towards the church. A feeling of revulsion washes over her. Over the past year, since Mama died, she has come to realise that she simply cannot bear him.

  The soft snaky voice hissing Bible verses at her. The big yellow vulpine teeth. The flecks of spittle that gather at the corners of his mouth when he towers in the pulpit every Sunday, berating the hapless congregation for their manifold and various sins and wickednesses.

  Hyacinth ducks down behind the seat and folds herself up as small as she can. Peering covertly between the wooden slats, she watches until his black figure enters the porch. As soon as she hears the church door slam shut, she is on her feet and flying along the path towards the lych-gate, until, breathless and panting, she arrives on the other side. Here, as luck would have it, she encounters her stern-faced sister making her way home from the vicarage.

  “Hyacinth?” Lobelia exclaims. “Where have you been? I was waiting for you in the hallway.”

  Hyacinth’s heart is hammering in her chest, but she recollects herself enough to tell her sister that she has been visiting Mama’s grave.

  Lobelia’s lips pinch tight shut.

  “I just wanted to spend a few moments alone with her,” Hyacinth lies.

  “I see,” Lobelia says tartly.

  She hands over the heavy cloth bag containing the committee books. “Meanwhile I have had to carry these all the way. Despite my fragile condition.”

  It is an unspoken and accepted fact that Lobelia’s health is and always has been precarious, although no medical authority has ever pronounced upon it. As Mama was, so Lobelia is. Meekly, Hyacinth shoulders the heavy dual burdens of bag and responsibility, and the two sisters make their way home in silence.

  ****

  Meanwhile Emily Benet, having buried her best friend in the municipal cemetery, is also making her way home in silence. A pile of sewing awaits her at her place of work. Mrs Crevice has only allowed her to take time off on the understanding that she returns and makes it up by fulfilling her allotted tasks. Emily reckons she is unlikely to see her bed until after midnight.

  She crosses the busy street, trying to recall how many candles remain in her drawer. She hears the boy who sells papers on the corner calling the early evening headlines. It sounds like the usual background noise – just one shrill voice amongst the cacophony that crowd daily into her ear. So at first, she does not really hear what he is saying. But then she does.

  Time stands still.

  Emily reaches into her underskirt pocket, where she has secreted a couple of coins. She had been going to buy herself something to eat, as she has missed the midday coffee and bread provided by the store. She knows now that she will not be hungry. She gives the boy fivepence, and takes a copy of the paper. The headline reads:

  Slasher Strikes Again! Body of Second Victim Found!

  The picture underneath shows a tall top-hatted man in a frock coat, large knife in one raised hand. He towers over a young woman who staggers back, her mouth opening in a silent scream. She looks nothing like Violet, apart from the fair hair, but suddenly Emily cannot breathe.

  The noises of the street blur into one rhythmic sound that beats in her ear like a warning drum. She feels afraid, as she has never felt before. And cold, even though the sun is shining and the air is warm on her face.

  Emily reaches her building and pounds up the stairs, pausing on the landing to catch her breath. She unlocks her door and throws herself onto the bed, clutching the newspaper to her bosom, as if it were precious and beloved.

  Time passes, but Emily does not notice. She is lost in memories of happier days, feeling the footprints on her heart of laughing friendship and shared girlish dreams. She is finally roused by the sound of timid but persistent knocking at the door.

  She rises. On the other side of the door she finds Little Fan – the latest recruit to the sewing room. She is the twelve-year-old sister of Annie Smith, one of the sharp-tongued pattern-cutters. Now she stands on the landing in the gathering twilight, wringing her hands, her face one big worry.

  “Oh, there you are Miss! Mrs Crevice sended me. She says you has to come now!” she exclaims in one unbroken breath.

  Emily feels her spirits plummet. She had quite forgotten her obligations to her employer. She reaches for her overall, sliding her arms through the holes and tying the side-ties. Little Fan shuffles her feet.

  “Mrs Crevice is very vexed,” she remarks, as Emily wraps her mantle around herself. “She says that Mrs Thorpe will be arrivin’ for a fitting of her new black silk dress first thing tomorrow, and there ain’t nobody but you can do the buttonholes as neat.”

  Emily forces a smile.

  “Don’t worry Little Fan. You found me, and now I am coming,” she says. She picks up the newspaper. “Do you know what this is?”

  “ It’s a noospaper innit. I can’t read it though. Never learned.”

  Emily runs her finger under the headline.

  “Another girl has been killed. Not two minutes away from here. The newspaper says she lived with her elderly crippled mother. They made trimming lace together. She only stepped out to get a breath of fresh air and deliver the latest order to a shop. It is a terrible thing to happen. The poor old mother has been taken to the workhouse.”

  Little Fan’s eyes widen.

  “We had all better take care,” Emily says. “I have been thinking about it and I am going to speak to the others in the sewing-room. We must not go about on our own after dark. Not until the police have caught the killer and locked him up in prison.”

  They make their way down the creaky unlit stairs until they reach street level. Emily tucks Little Fan’s arm under hers.

  “You stay close to me,” she says. “That way we’ll both be safe.”

  Outside, day people are ceding the streets to night people – though given the area of the city, there is very little difference between the two. Nobody bothers them as they slip through the crowd. Their drab clothes indicate they have nothing to steal, their unpainted faces that they have nothing to sell.

  Inside the basement workroom, the lighting is barely brighter than on the street. The dressmakers are bent over their sewing. Emily glances around but sees no Mrs Crevice looming in the gloom.

  “She ain’t here,” Annie Smith says tartly.

  Her eyes run over Emily’s face and there is precious little sympathy in them. “Ain’t going to miss her nice hot supper. She’s put me in charge till she comes back, and she’s left your work out for you. Buttons are on the table.”

  She gestures towards a sumptuous black silk dress hung on a rail. “You better get on,” Annie Smith continues, “We’re working our fingers to the bone. Sooner you get done, sooner we all finish for the night.”

  Emily lifts down the dress and spreads it face-down on the table. She threads up a needle with black thread and finds the first cut slit. It is like sewing buttonholes in the night sky. Her eyes quickly feel as if there were rings of fire behind them.

  This morning she followed the cheap coffin containing the body of her best and only friend in the world to its final resting place in a common grave. Now she is here, straining her eyes to finish a dress for some rich s
ociety woman who has probably not known a day’s suffering or loss in her whole life. She feels a pain in the place where only tears come from. But she must not cry; it will stain the silk.

  ****

  There are also no tears being shed chez maison Crevice, where supper is being consumed. A nice plate of hot mutton chops and baked potato, washed down with a pint of porter, is rapidly making its way down the wizened throat of Morbid Crevice.

  Mrs Crevice has had to fetch these delicate ingredients from the local cook shop and the Lamb & Sailor public house, as the small poky terraced property does not contain cooking facilities. Now she sits across the table, watching her lord and master eat. She does not participate in the feast, preferring less rich fare. But each to their own, and men need meat at the end of the working day.

  Morbid Crevice works a piece of gristle out from between his yellow teeth and spits it onto the plate.

  “You wanna have words with that butcher,” he snaps. “Half of this is gristle and bone.”

  Mrs Crevice’s thin lips fold in on themselves. She has had words with the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. It makes no difference. Even if she were supplied with the finest comestibles in the land, her picky husband would still find something to complain about. She decides to change the subject.

  “I ’ad to give one of them gels a half-day to attend a funeral,” she says.

  “Why? T’isn’t as if the dead’ll care. And I thought you was busy.”

  “We are. But I ’ad my orders from management.”

  Morbid Crevice snorts derisively.

  “Well, I ’ope you’re going to make her work back the time,” he says. “There’s too much idleness going on with young people nowadays. Take that boy Tonkin – I sent him on an errand, should’ve only took him an hour, but he was gone most of the morning. Got a good beating when he came back though. That’ll teach him.”