by Carol Rivers
‘There was an orphan boy called Michael Wilson,’ she said suddenly. ‘Do you remember him?’
‘The one who’d been in trouble with the law?’
Ettie nodded. ‘Has he ever come back?’
‘Not that I know of. But doubt I’d recognize him. The old mince pies are not what they were. I’ll have to get meself one of them spyglasses.’
This made her smile as it brought back her childhood and the happy days she had spent in the care of the nuns. ‘Sister Patrick wore little round spectacles on the tip of her nose that misted up as she worked over the washtub.’
Arthur sat forward and narrowed his gaze. ‘If my memory serves me right – which it don’t much these days – you was always around them nuns, trailing after ‘em and working like stink in this very laundry. I used to think it weren’t much of a life for a kid.’
‘I owe my life to Sister Patrick,’ Ettie insisted. ‘She found me in my dying mother’s arms just outside this laundry on Christmas Day. Her name was Colleen O’Reilly and she was born in Dublin, a place named Henrietta Street, after which I’m named.’
‘ ‘Enrietta, Street, eh? You ever been there?’
‘No, but one day perhaps.’
The old man rose to his feet with a rheumatic groan. ‘Got something for you, gel.’
Ettie watched him hobble to the washtub. He beckoned her over. ‘Can’t get down on my knees these days. Reach inside and you’ll find something there.’
Ettie knelt and put her hand in the dark space filled with cobwebs.
‘Right at the back it’s hidden.’
At last she felt a package and drew it out. Brushing off the dirt and dust she handed it to Arthur.
‘It’s yours,’ he told her.
Ettie slowly unwrapped the faded newspaper covering. Piece by thin piece the layers dropped away until she held in her hand a shining silver crucifix.
‘Belonged to that bloody so-called bishop,’ Arthur wheezed. ‘Found it ‘afore the coppers came, buried in all the – well, what remained of the blighter. Reckon it’s got to do someone some good. Might as well be you.’
Ettie had forgotten that her purpose in coming here today was to ask the nuns for a crucifix. It was as if Heaven itself was answering her prayer.
‘I’ll give it to someone who needs it,’ Ettie said as she thought of Clara and the baby and the space on the nursery wall.
‘You do that. Hope it brings better luck to them.’
Ettie tucked it in her purse. ‘Arthur, would you take me to the place where you buried Sister Ukunda?’
‘Give me a minute to put on my coat and boots.’
When Arthur was dressed in his long overcoat and hobnail boots, he led the way from the laundry and down the incline to the bottom of the slope. There in the shade of the trees was a small hump of grass, bearing a hand-hewn wooden cross.
‘I carved it meself. Don’t read or write see. By the time I got ‘round to puttin’ it in the ground, the nuns had gone orf. But she knows it’s for her as I keep the grass short. Nice little spot, like she wanted.’
‘Thank you, Arthur.’
He gave a throaty cough and Ettie listened to him walk away, his heavy, laboured footsteps the only sound to join the song of the birds.
Ettie closed her eyes tight as she stood there and thought of her life with the Sisters of Clemency and the children of the orphanage. The tears that squeezed through her eyelids were ones of gratitude and love for the nuns who had taught her to put her trust in the Lord and to believe that there was always hope, no matter how hard the obstacles in life were. And though her faith had been tested, it was only dented a little.
Just a little.
‘Rest in peace, dear Sister Ukunda,’ she whispered. ‘I miss you. I miss you all. Amen.’
It was growing dark as Ettie made her way to the tavern and found the driver sitting outside the stables with a group of carmen and their horses.
‘Did you find what you was looking for?’ he asked when he saw her.
‘Yes, but the convent and orphanage burned down.’
‘Waste of your money coming all this way, then,’ he observed but Ettie thought differently. For the crucifix was tucked in her purse and she believed, had come to her by miraculous means. The fact that it had previously belonged to the bishop was a little disconcerting. But, she intended to hang it on the wall in the nursery, where it would do far more good than it had ever done in his possession.
Her driver stood up and bid farewell to his acquaintances, then led Ettie round to the stables. The little pony was munching on the last of its chaff and gave a snort of recognition when he saw them.
Ettie climbed up into the trap and settled herself for the long journey back to Soho. By the time they reached the Commercial Road and then Aldgate, the sky had become stormy with clouds hanging in swollen grey pouches. The Tower looked even more menacing. The River Thames had turned to gunmetal, whipped into white crests as the tide bore in from the estuary.
But Ettie’s thoughts were no longer on the scenery. They were with Sister Patrick and Mother Superior who were now far away in another land. She saw in her mind’s eye the charred embers and rusting bed frames that were the only remains of the convent and orphanage; a place where homeless children had found sanctuary, just as her mother had on that Christmas Day in 1880. It had been a refuge full of love and hope even though the life there was hard. The orphans had known that the nuns cared for them in a very special way. Ettie considered herself the most fortunate of all in having the affection of Sister Patrick. What had been written in her letter? Ettie wondered. What personal sentiments had it expressed?
She would never know. But Sister Patrick had considered it important enough to leave word for her and that in itself was enough to comfort Ettie.
As the cab turned into the city and followed along the shadowy banks of the river, her thoughts travelled to a small green mound at the bottom of the hill where Sister Ukunda was buried. It was as if, no matter what happened in the years to come, there would always be a guardian angel to watch over the holy space that the convent and orphanage had once occupied.
Chapter 31
A letter of a far different kind arrived later that month. Though the handwriting was Lucas’s and there was no mistake it was from abroad, Ettie felt there was something disquieting about its presence on the mat.
She held it in her hands for a few moments, before sitting on the stool as was her custom before drawing the blinds and checking the accounts and orders were correct. She kept a very close watch on the salon’s performance. It was important to vary the tobaccos, pipes and the boxes of snuff in the smoking room, so there was always fresh interest for the gentlemen. As a matter of routine, she completed the accounts each month with her own addition of five shillings, though last month she had kept aside a small sum for groceries.
But this morning her attention was riveted on the personal letter placed on the counter before her. What was so different about this envelope, she asked herself? The paper quality was the same as was the franking, yet her heart was racing with apprehension.
It was the way Lucas had written her name and the address; a little too wild, loops entangling and punctuation erratic. As if the joy and excitement that always comprised Lucas’s letters lately had been exchanged for speed.
Ettie took the knife from the drawer and slipped its tip beneath the fold.
Just one sheet fell out. The address. The date. A paragraph. A scrawled signature.
‘Dearest Ettie, I cannot write more than a few words. I am here, seated in the shadow of the towering mountains on the chaise longue, but Clara is not here today. She has been taken to the hospital wing of the sanatoria. Since June she has been a little unwell. Dr Ruegg has called in the very best specialists. I felt confident in their judgements and was positive of mind until yesterday when Clara had a painful spasm. In the night, another pain took her. Early this morning, Dr Ruegg and the specialists attended. I write in order
to ask for your prayers, to the God in whom you have such faith and who has answered you before. I am not a brave man. I am weak with fear. Pray for our dear Clara, Ettie, and for our little one. Your miserable friend, Lucas Benjamin.’
Ettie did not read the words again for they were too heart-wrenching. Instead she returned the letter to its envelope and for a few minutes more sat on the stool, her hands clasped together in prayer as Lucas had requested. But soon the first customer arrived, a young gentleman from a city office requiring swift attention.
When Terence called the next day with half a dozen freshly laid hen’s eggs still warm on the straw, for the first time Ettie showed little enthusiasm.
‘You’ve not been right since your visit to Poplar,’ he complained as she brewed the tea. ‘Are you still grieving?’
‘No, Terence. After all, what’s to grieve about? Buildings are nothing, really. It’s people that count.’
‘It was your home an’ all. Burned to cinders.’
‘I have a good home here.’ Ever since receiving Lucas’s letter, Ettie had not thought about the convent, or Sister Patrick and Sister Ukunda or even the crucifix that was now hanging on the wall above the baby’s crib. Her head had been full of Lucas, Clara and the baby and what was happening all those many miles away in Switzerland.
She showed the letter to Terence. He read it and looked up at her, a frown on his forehead. ‘So the mistress is ailing?’
Ettie nodded. ‘The thought that she might be ill again and with Lucas so miserable, well, it upsets me.’
‘Now, now, lass, chin up.’
‘Do you think the baby is suffering?’
‘Dear me, no. Mother and child are in the best of hands. Specialists an’ all. The tobacconist said so, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, but Clara isn’t strong. And the baby …’
‘The best you can do for ‘em,’ Terence interrupted, ‘is say them prayers of yours. Over and over, say them. Just like you was asked.’
Ettie attempted to smile. ‘I’ll try, Terence.’
‘If I could say prayers, I’d join you. But me mind wanders like. Goes off at a tangent. Best thing I can do is ask my Gladys. She’s nearer to the Gov’nor than I am.’
They drank their tea together as usual, but this time Ettie found little to say and Terence even less.
That night Ettie said her prayers for the family as she knelt in the nursery under the crucifix. They were very intense, just as her prayers for the orphans had been. And the thought crossed her mind as she climbed into bed – a thought she felt guilty for even thinking – that despite all her praying, life had brought a catastrophe along one day and eased it briefly the next, only to repeat the cycle again.
Lucas’s next letter arrived only a week later and it sent her into a complete panic. Without putting on her bonnet, she ran down Silver Street, all the way to the butcher’s, where Terence was hanging out his rows of dead fowl. The late July sunshine was beginning to fry the cobbled streets, already stinking and fly-ridden.
‘Lord love us, what’s up?’ Terence asked when he saw her, an expression of alarm on his face.
‘Terence, I’ve had another letter from Mr Benjamin.’
‘It’s not his missus, is it?’ He pushed his grubby fingers over his dirty apron, then took a rag and wiped each one. ‘Or the baby?’
‘No, it’s not about my mistress or the baby,’ Ettie faltered. ‘Well, not directly, although it concerns the money …’
Terence held up his hand. ’Stop there a minute, lass. What money?’
Ettie felt her stomach drop. In order to ask for Terence’s help, which was the only way to carry out Lucas’s wishes, she would have to reveal her secret. But her mind still replayed the scenes of terrible mischief that had been done to her by Gwen and Lily. What if Terence had befriended her in order to wait until the day when he would learn something to his advantage?
‘Ah, don’t answer, my dear,’ said Terence before she could reply. ‘If it’s got to do with shekels or politics my advice is to keep schtum. Steer clear of two subjects that always get people’s heckles up.’
‘But Terence, I’m in a dreadful fix.’
‘I want to help you,’ Terence said calmly, ‘but I can see it’s tricky. You know I’m your friend?’
Ettie felt herself blush to the roots of her hair. ‘I know, yes I do, but …’
‘But some friends are not what they seem, like them circus rotters?’
Ettie hung her head. She was ashamed of the distrust and caution inside her, as though it was a poison left behind by the green fairy.
The buzzing of flies around the open mouths of the dead animals and the shouts of the marketeers erecting their stalls, caused Terence to grasp her arm and wheel her into the cool of the shop. Ettie saw that the slabs of meat had not yet been laid out for his customers’ inspection. She guessed that even Terence’s patience might be tested if she dithered.
‘Now Ettie,’ he said firmly as they stood on the sawdust floor, as yet unsullied by trade. ‘You can trust me, yes, course you can. I’m just an old fella who’s been grateful for the friendship you’ve given me – a young lady who didn’t bat an eyelid when I told her of my indiscretions with them lying, deceiving women. But I’m too old to do a moonlight flit. Too fond of you to tell a tall story. Too respectful of your Christian nature to deceive you, my dear. No, no. I wouldn’t. But you must make up your own mind. Weigh up what you know about Terence the butcher. Put the good and bad on the scales and judge for yourself.’
Ettie smiled hesitantly. ‘I do trust you, Terence.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘I’ve been given a duty to perform and can’t do it alone.’
‘And it concerns this – money?’
Ettie nodded.
‘Can the problem wait until after business? There will customers appearing soon and there won’t be a sausage out for them to inspect.’
Ettie knew that Lucas’s request was of the utmost urgency. He had written in large letters ‘I BESEECH YOU ETTIE, DO THIS WITHOUT HESITATION’.
‘Will you visit me this evening?’
‘Indeed I will.’
‘I’ll wait for you.’
‘Good, m’dear, good. I’ll not let you down. And don’t go worrying yourself. We’ll get a result, so we will, whatever it is.’
But all day, Ettie was on tenterhooks. Between the customers coming into the salon, she read the short letter over and over again. Every minute that passed by seemed to be wasted. Every customer a distraction to the plea that Lucas had written with such urgency.
Chapter 32
The butcher arrived at a few minutes past seven o’clock. Ettie drew the blinds securely and beckoned him into the salon where, in the light of a single candle, she passed him Lucas’s letter.
‘My dear,’ said Terence with a puzzled frown after reading it, ‘I see it quite clearly now. The tobacconist writes with some urgency I agree, and I can only assume it’s of some financial importance. Says here he has written ahead to advise them of your visit to deposit a sum of money. In view of the request, I recommend a sturdy purse or portmanteau and the hire of a reputable cab.’
‘Terence, I can’t call a cab. And neither a purse or portmanteau would be of use.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Because …’ Ettie had little doubt now that she must reveal the hiding place. For she could not transport the cast-iron chest herself, or even transfer it to a large bag as Terence had suggested. ‘Because Terence, well – I’ll show you.’
Checking again that the blinds were securely drawn, Ettie went to the shelf and the lever. Operating the mechanism took only a few seconds and when the wooden panel was released, Terence gave a muffled gasp.
‘My dear, what’s this?’
Ettie lifted the floorboard. She took out the key and unlocked the chest. When the lid was fully open, Terence let out an astonished gasp. ‘Good grief, good grief! By all the saints!’ Terence stared at her
and back to the chest brimming with leather moneybags. ‘Are my eyes deceiving me?’
‘No, Terence. Every bag is full.’
‘By gad, business must have been good?’
‘Yes, very good indeed.’
‘And you’ve stored it all here in the wall?’
‘Just as Mr Benjamin told me to.’
‘But you could be raided!’ suggested the butcher fiercely. ‘Them circus harlots might have fleeced you. Might even have done you in. Your tobacconist needs his brains tested. Leaving a little ‘un like you to guard his fortune!’
Ettie shook her head. ’Mr Benjamin’s brains are full of his wife’s condition. He has no one else to help him.’
‘Even so, this is a liberty,’ blustered Terence. ‘The man should engage an accountant or solicitor to oversee his profits! Why there must be a hundred pounds or more in that box!’
‘Three hundred and thirty pounds, ten shillings and sixpence to be precise,’ Ettie said quietly. She had counted every coin to make sure.
Terence made a choking noise. ‘Three hundred and …’ he coughed and spluttered, flapping his hand wildly.
‘Including the return of my wages to settle my debt.’
‘Your debt?’ he repeated aghast. ‘My dear, you have no debt to settle! It’s the tobacconist who is in debt to you!’ He brought out his handkerchief, a little cleaner than usual and tipping back his hat, pushed it over his sweating face. ‘Ettie, you are but a child and he a grown man! And though I know you think the world of your employer, he has saddled you with a dangerous duty. Transporting this chest – well, how would you do it? Every eye in Silver Street would be on you. Any cab driver, a rogue. Perish the thought, but you might be held up and robbed!’
‘But I have to try, Terence,’ Ettie wailed. ‘This letter is different – it’s desperate!’
‘There, there, don’t upset yourself.’ The butcher’s gaze softened as he studied her with care and concern. He raised his hands in defeat and slapped them on his knees.