Return to Paradise

by Erica Brown

  * * *

  Aggie Beven liked moonlit nights when the canal looked like a strip of silver and the sky turned turquoise. Tonight there was no moon. If there had been she would have stayed up top, sampling the fresh air along with a hot toddy and a fresh pipe, and she would have seen the shadowy figures creeping towards the boarding house, staves over their shoulders, dipping every few steps to pick up stones from the towpath. Instead Aggie drank inside the boat’s cabin and, what with the drink and the warmth, fell swiftly and soundly asleep, her snores setting the china rattling.

  Inside the lodging house, Samson woke from a worried sleep, his senses sharp and instantly alert. Instinct born of experience told him that something was wrong. In his childhood, overseers and those who’d sold their souls to the sugar planters had come creeping in the night, following a riot or a walkout in the fields by men who had once been slaves and had become poorly paid labour. Then there’d been the infighting amongst the various factions that had sprung up in the emancipated communities. He had had to be on his guard all his life. Here in England was no different.

  Abigail stirred beside him. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Sshh!’

  Keeping low, he crawled across the bed to the window and his heart leapt into his throat when he saw what was outside.

  ‘Down,’ he shouted, dragging his wife and children from the bed and diving under it. It was not a moment too soon. The windows came flying in, pane after pane spraying the room with splinters of glass. Rolling onto his side, he did his best to act as a barrier between the glass and his beloved family. What have we done to deserve this? he asked himself.

  ‘I want to go home,’ wailed Desdemona.

  Much to his credit, his son, Hamlet, stayed silent, though his eyes were round as saucers. ‘What shall we do, Pa?’ he said eventually. His bottom lip quivered.

  ‘Just stay down. Stay down!’ his father replied in a hushed voice.

  The door to the room suddenly opened. Samson covered the bodies of the children with his own.

  ‘Come on. Out of there!’

  Rosie, Aggie’s sister and their landlady, filled the doorway.

  ‘Down to the cellar. Quick!’

  Hamlet bobbed up, ready to run. Samson grabbed the back of his pants and brought him down again. ‘Crawl on your belly.’

  The sound of staves beating on the front door echoed along the passageway.

  ‘That’s an oak door,’ said Rosie, sounding more confident than she actually felt. ‘They won’t get through that.’ She bustled them along to a door beneath the stairs. ‘Lock it behind you,’ she said.

  ‘What about you?’ Unlike her sister-in-law, Rosie was tall and angular, her clothes hanging like curtains on her lean frame. ‘I’ll talk to them. Don’t you worry, me dears, I’ll give ‘em a piece of my mind. I’m good at talking.’

  Samson was doubtful their attackers would listen. ‘I can’t leave you here alone,’ he said.

  She brushed him off. ‘Don’t you worry about me, ole butt. I won’t be entirely by meself.’ Rosie reached up behind his head and took something down. ‘I’ve got Bessie,’ she said in a determined, though cheerless voice. ‘I’ll shoot the bloody lot of ‘em if I’ve got to.’

  The fat muzzle of an ancient blunderbuss grazed Samson’s ear.

  ‘Now get down them stairs,’ ordered Rosie.

  Samson did as he was told, though he couldn’t help worrying. She’d been very kind, had fed them simple but nourishing meals and, as they had spooned the thick mixes of potatoes and meat into their mouths, had regaled them with stories of her life in the Forest of Dean.

  Once she was sure they’d bolted themselves in, Rosie made her way towards the oak door, her old knees creaking but her long legs swiftly covering the ground. She was feeling more jittery than she’d let on to Samson, but had convinced herself that she was still the woman she’d always been, the sort who could lay out a man with one blow of a fierce right hand.

  The sight that met her eyes made her feel more worried. Much as she’d put her faith in the oak door, the old surround was made of a softer wood and was splintering around the locks.

  ‘Get away from my door, or I’ll blast the lot of ye!’

  ‘Give us the niggers!’

  ‘Damned if I will!’

  The hammering continued. The doorframe splintered.

  Rosie loaded the ball in the old gun, sharpened the flint and heaped powder in the pan. John, her late husband, had taught her how to use weapons when they’d been stationed in India – in case of need, he’d told her. A large number of Afghan tribesmen had been slain by John’s army rifle. A few more had been blasted by Rosie’s blunderbuss when they’d attempted to steal her donkey. That was in the days when they’d all been younger – including the blunderbuss.

  The hammering was deafening. At last the wood splintered with a thunderous wrench and the door caved in.

  Dark figures waving weapons charged then jammed in the door as three of them tried to get in at once.

  There was a blinding flash as Rosie opened fire. The lead man screamed and grabbed at his chest. The weight of those behind pushed him forward. He fell flat on his face, stone dead.

  ‘Get out of my house,’ Rosie shouted as she swiftly reloaded. Usually she poured the exact measure into the pan, but there was no time.

  ‘You’ve killed him,’ the lead man shouted, pointing down at his colleague.

  ‘And you be next, ole butt if you don’t get out,’ she shouted back, her gun cocked and loaded. ‘This used to be a respectable area before the likes of you came along.’

  ‘Call yourself respectable?’

  The hallway was dark, so she couldn’t see his expression, just the outline of his body. He smelled of sweat, dirt and mildew. She had to rely on movement, so she narrowed her eyes, winced as she bent her knees and waited.

  ‘Come on, boys! You ain’t afraid of an old woman, are ye?’

  There was a flurry of movement as one man was pushed forward, a stave raised above his head. Rosie fired.

  The flash was fierce and accompanied by a terrific burst of noise. Rosie had no time to scream. The old blunderbuss fondly christened Bessie had grown rusty and weak. In Rosie’s haste to reload, she had tipped too much powder onto the pan and Bessie had exploded in her face. She saw no more, tasted blood in her mouth and heard heavy footsteps, the last sound she would ever hear.

  ‘She’s dead?’

  ‘So’s Smithy. Serves the old cow right.’

  His colleague was more cautious and sounded nervous. ‘That ain’t the way the peelers are going to see it.’

  ‘Then they ain’t goin’ to see it. We takes what we can then set the place alight. No one’s gonna be any the wiser then, are they?’

  ‘What about them niggers?’

  ‘They can burn, too.’

  Beads of sweat running down his face, Samson pressed his ear against the door. He’d heard the smashing of wood, the blasts of fire from Rosie’s old gun. Now he could hear the trampling of boots – many boots – running through the house, up and down the stairs, tearing apart the room he and his family had been in.

  He rummaged in his pockets, found nothing and grimaced. Every penny they had, every item they owned, had been left in the room.

  Behind him, the children were beginning to whimper. ‘I want to go home,’ said Desdemona again, rubbing at her eyes. ‘I don’t like it here’.

  Samson exchanged a swift look with Abigail as she attempted to calm the children’s fears.

  ‘We’ll go back to bed soon,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t want to go to bed. I want to go home,’ Hamlet murmured.

  Samson’s body ached with tension. ‘Go away,’ he whispered through the door. ‘Go away, go away.’

  The sound of his racing heart echoed in his head as he waited, his fists clenched, ready in case they were discovered. Backwards and forwards, up and down stairs, cupboards opened, crockery crashing, things being dragged across floors, bump
ed down stairs. Each time the sound of boots came close, his mouth turned dry and he prayed as he’d never prayed before.

  Religion had never figured large in his life, but someone must have been listening. At last the sound of voices and boots retreated. Then he smelled something.

  ‘Are they gone?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  He heard a crackling sound before the smoke filtered beneath the door, its fumes stinking of burnt varnish and lead paint.

  ‘Fire,’ he said in a low voice, his gut churning with apprehension. ‘Get back down the stairs,’ he barked. ‘Take the children with you and get into the farthest corner. Don’t move till I tell you.’

  With the aid of the one and only candle they had, Abigail did as ordered, ducking her head against the curved ceiling of the cellar.

  Samson took a shovel from behind the door. He couldn’t be entirely sure that the gang had left, but he was ready to strike in case someone had stayed. Carefully he pulled back the bolt, and opened the door.

  ‘Oh God,’ he murmured.

  A curtain of heat took his breath away. Flames soared ceiling-high down the narrow passageway and smoke billowed into the cellar.

  Samson peered through the inferno, his eyes watering, choking on the fumes, wondering whether they could run to the front door, perhaps if they draped themselves in wet clothes. But where would they get the water? Besides, the children would be terrified.

  It’s too late, he decided as panic gripped his mind. It’s too late!

  The wood that panelled the long passageway was spitting and crackling, the stairs above him burning as well as the old furniture, dried out and past its best, the varnish blackening and stinking.

  There were two humps of what looked like scorched clothing beneath the flames and between him and the front door. He recognized Rosie’s blue skirt, torn and blackened now. Even as he watched, the flames engulfed both shapes, the heat intensified and he was forced to retreat.

  He slammed the door shut, wrenched the bolt across. Clasping his chest, he coughed the smoke from his lungs and breathed deeply. Surprised that the smell of singed fabric was still so strong, he touched his head and realized his hair was gently smouldering.

  ‘Samson!’ Abigail had noticed, too.

  He hit at his head with his bare hands. Charred hair fell in a shower of sparks and smoking flakes.

  ‘Samson?’ Abigail called again, her voice trembling with fear, her eyes big with one unspoken question.

  ‘She’s dead,’ he said, and shrugged. ‘I don’t know how.’

  Once he was sure he was safe, Samson turned to his family, who were cowering in the far darkness, their terror accentuated by the light of the candle.

  ‘We have to get out.’ He looked back up the steps to the door. It was cloaked in darkness, but he was sure it was turning black and beginning to smoke. There was little time.

  ‘Give me that candle, and stay there.’

  ‘Pa!’ Desdemona wrapped her arms around her father’s legs.

  Samson unwrapped her and pushed her back to her mother. ‘Stay here. I’ll find us a way out. But I shall need the candle. You will have to cope with the darkness for a while.’

  Abigail gathered the children beneath her arms, her hands around their foreheads. ‘Stay alive, Samson.’

  Samson would have smiled to himself if the situation hadn’t been so dire. Abigail had not told him to be careful, but to stay alive. Trust his wife to get to the heart of the matter.

  He left them in total darkness. There was only half a candle left, so he had half an hour at the very most, he thought.

  His first inclination was to head to where the coal was stored. In large houses, most coal cellars were accessed through wooden shutters set into the pavement or immediately against a house, separate entrances from the rest of the property.

  Hopefully, the cellar would be empty.

  He stumbled through the gloom until he heard the sound of something crunching underfoot. Hopes rising, he lifted the candle. Coal glistened, caught in the flickering glow. Like a small mountain, it was piled high.

  Originally, he had planned to smash open the dual doors, get Abigail to stand on his shoulders so she could get out, pass the children up to her, then climb out himself purely by bracing his arms against the opening and heaving himself out. He had initially thought that too much coal would be an obstacle. Now he counted it a blessing. We can climb up over it, he decided.

  He was just about to go back to Abigail and tell her, when something caught his eye. Bringing the candle to bear, he studied the heap of coal. Smoke filtered through and over the mound. Fear once again clawed at his heart. The cellar had become hotter. Sweat dripped from his forehead, nose and chin. To his horror, he realized that the cellar walls and ceiling were conducting heat from the fire blazing above them. He had no doubt that soon the pile of coal would ignite, the fumes killing them before the fire did.

  Then he noticed that only one side of the coal heap seemed to be steaming. On the other side, the smoke seemed to be less virulent; in fact, he decided on closer scrutiny, it was a different colour.

  Frowning, he swiftly considered the reasons for this. Perhaps it was the candle. Perhaps it was different coal causing a different colour. He sniffed. It smelled damp, not the dampness of coal, but the mildewed dampness of wet walls, a river… a canal! It wasn’t smoke he could see and smell, but steam. The walls were wet!

  Scrabbling over the coal, he dug with his bare hands, praying that the wall would be so wet he could dig through. He dug with his bare hands, his fingernails bloodied as they snapped off against the rough stone, more blood trickling from his knuckles and fingers. And yet he made little progress. It was useless. He needed something to dig with, and instantly remembered the shovel at the bottom of the steps.

  He immediately felt his way back and retrieved the shovel, before turning to Abby and the children. The relief shone in their eyes.

  ‘I think I’ve found a way out.’ He thrust the candle into his wife’s hand. ‘Follow me. And keep close together.’

  They made their way to the coal mound.

  ‘This wall,’ he explained. ‘It’s wet. We may end up in the river on the other side, but I’m betting we won’t.’

  Wife and children watched as he swung the shovel. Its sharp edge smashed into the wall. He had expected the coal dust with which it was coated to fill the air, revealing the bricks or stones beneath. Once they were revealed, he would have chipped at the mortar joining them with the sharp edge of the shovel. It would have been a long task without the use of a pickaxe, but it would have been their only hope. But there were no bricks or stones. To his great surprise a low wooden door, unrecognizable through years of disuse, sprang beneath the first blow, then splintered.

  ‘It’s a door,’ he cried, and rained blow after blow until it was no more than matchwood.

  ‘The candle,’ he shouted, flinging the shovel to the ground.

  Abigail passed it to him.

  Samson held it out in front of them, saw the flame flicker in a cold draft of air.

  ‘It’s a tunnel,’ he said, swallowing his relief and wiping the tears from his face. ‘It’s a tunnel.’

  * * *

  Toilet facilities on Aggie’s boat were pretty primitive, consisting as they did of a large enamel bucket with a lid. She never bothered with it when travelling the more secluded canals, merely lifted her skirts over the side of the boat after making sure no one was around. But moored at a city berth was different.

  She’d awoken from her sleep needing to go, used the bucket, then went out of the door. The clouds had disappeared and the moon was out. After she’d tipped the bucket over the side, she settled herself down on top and lit up her pipe.

  She sighed contentedly as the sweet-smelling smoke of black navy shag curled up into the night air, then she settled herself into a comfortable corner. The only sound was the hum of the distant city and the snuffling and shuffling of small cre
atures running through the reeds or slipping into the water, their entry barely disturbing the surface.

  She sniffed the air pleasurably, sensed something was different and frowned. There was too much smoke in the air and it certainly wasn’t coming from her pipe.

  Her gaze was drawn to the windows of her sister’s boarding house. The downstairs window glowed orange. As she watched, a cloud of black smoke poured out of the door.

  ‘Rosie!’

  Despite her painful knees, she struggled over the side of the boat and onto the quay.

  She shouted again. ‘Rosie!’

  She became aware of people jostling her, pointing and shouting for a fire engine to be called. Someone suggested forming a human chain of buckets, taking water from the canal to throw onto the flames.

  A few men hung back. One of them, a nasty type named William Summer, whom Rosie had warned her about, had a gloating look about him. She recalled seeing him follow the West Indian family earlier. His sneer melted when he saw her looking.

  Aggie’s eyes watered as she stared at the flames. No matter that she and her sister were getting old and likely to depart this life before very long, they’d both hoped to die in bed, or at least doing what they’d always done. She knew, somehow, that Rosie was dead, and that it was no accident.

  Chapter Eight

  Daisy Draper left The Three Tuns in the early evening, her mood as foul as her breath. She’d run out of money and the landlord had refused to put it on the slate.

  ‘I’ll remember you,’ she’d shouted at him as he’d seen her off the premises. ‘You’ll see!’

  To anyone listening, her threats sounded hollow. To anyone who knew her, including the landlord, they were anything but. Daisy had a reputation for retribution. Cross her and she would take revenge.

  There was a yard at the back of The Three Tuns. A wooden gate with peeling paint was set into the brick wall surrounding it. Before entirely taking her leave, Daisy eased it open.

  A line of fresh white washing was blowing on a clothesline: two sets of combinations; three pairs of drawers almost big enough to be tablecloths; a few shirts; and some children’s clothes.