The Beggar Maid (10 page)

Wilmot puffed on his pipe, allowing smoke to trickle out of the corners of his mouth. ‘But we haven't even begun our talk. Let's start with your earliest memories. How far back can you remember, Charity, and where were you living then?'

It seemed churlish to insist on leaving when she had taken advantage of his hospitality. Charity thought hard. ‘I dunno where to start, sir.'

‘Where were you born? Can you remember the house where you lived, and what your father did for a living? You didn't start out begging on the streets; you told me that the first day we met, and I realised that you had come down in the world. When did your parents die? All these things are valuable social comment on our times. I have a huge respect for Henry Mayhew and his research into London's underprivileged classes, but his works were written more than forty years ago, and while they are of enormous importance, things have changed since the middle of the century. Start at the beginning, Charity. I'm eager to hear your thoughts.'

Once she had begun it was surprisingly easy to talk about her early years, and memories of her childhood in Chelsea came flooding back. Wilmot listened attentively, making notes and offering encouragement when she faltered. At one point he reached out and laid his hand on her knee, and although he removed it quickly she had been conscious of the warmth of his touch and the disturbing gleam in his eyes when he smiled. She was caught off guard and had begun to tire; a quick glance at the brass clock on the mantelshelf revealed that it was past midnight, and she leapt to her feet. ‘I've stayed too long, Mr Wilmot. I really must go.'

Daniel stood up and yawned. ‘Is that really the time? I was so interested in what you had to say that I didn't notice the minutes flying by.'

Wilmot turned away and knocked the ash from his pipe into the empty grate. ‘That was a very good start, Charity,' he said casually. ‘When will you be free to come again? I would like to keep going now we've begun.'

‘I dunno, sir. I just hope I haven't been missed.'

‘I'll see you home,' Daniel said, opening the door. ‘I'll make sure you don't get into trouble with Mr Dawkins.'

Charity put on her bonnet and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. ‘You and whose army, Daniel Barton?' she said, laughing.

It might be late but Gray's Inn Road was almost as busy as it was in daytime, and the night people had emerged to drink in the pubs or take refuge from life in the opium dens to be found in the narrow alleys and courts. Prostitutes hung about beneath street lamps, smoking and chatting to each other in a desultory fashion as they waited for a likely client. Feral cats roamed the streets, vying for food with rats which were even bolder, seeing off any unfortunate mongrel cur that happened to challenge their supremacy.

With a firm grip on her arm, Daniel escorted Charity to the service alley at the rear of Liquorpond Street, only to find that someone had locked the gate from the inside. ‘I'd forgotten what Violet said about climbing the wall.' She eyed it doubtfully. ‘I'm not sure if I can manage it without some help.'

Daniel took off his bowler hat and jacket and handed them to her. ‘I spent half my childhood climbing trees at home. Give me the key and let's see if I've still got the knack.' He took a few steps back and did a running jump at the wall. He failed at the first attempt but he tried again and this time he managed to get a grip and heaved himself onto the top. With a cheery wave he let himself down, landing on the other side with a dull thud.

The gate whined on its hinges as he opened it and let her in. ‘Thanks, Daniel,' she whispered. ‘I dunno what I'd have done if you hadn't come with me.'

He took his jacket from her and shrugged it on, placing his hat on his head at a jaunty angle. ‘To tell the truth I enjoyed the challenge. I'm not a city type, Charity. The first opportunity I get I'll go on a dig, preferably somewhere warm and sunny.'

‘You are so lucky being a man.' Charity stood on tiptoe and brushed his cheek with a kiss. ‘Goodnight, Daniel, and thanks again.'

He tipped his hat. ‘Always glad to help a lady. Goodnight, Charity. See you again very soon.' He left the yard and she closed the gate, locking it before making her way towards the back door. The whole house seemed to be asleep and for once there was not a sound emanating from the building or its neighbours, but as she entered the scullery she could hear dismal howls and banging, which grew louder as she entered the kitchen.

‘
WHERE THE HELL
have you been, you little trollop?' Jethro lay on the flagstone floor close to his bed. His right leg was twisted at an ugly angle and his face, caught in a shaft of moonlight, was deathly pale. ‘Where were you when I needed you?'

Charity rushed to his side and knelt down. ‘What happened?'

‘Are you blind as well as stupid and immoral? You've been with a man. I can smell him on you.'

‘That's not true,' Charity said angrily. ‘How dare you say such a thing?'

‘You stink of tobacco smoke and Macassar oil. You're a worthless slut and I should have known better than to take you on.'

‘We should get you back to bed.' Charity made an effort to sound calm when really she felt close to panic. It was obvious that he had injured himself badly, but she was at a loss as to how to handle him.

‘Are you mad? I've broken my hip. I need a doctor. Give me laudanum and go for help.'

Charity reached onto his bed and picked up a pillow, placing it carefully beneath his head. ‘All right. I'll do as you ask, but please try not to move. You're only making matters worse.'

He bared his broken teeth in a scowl. ‘Don't tell me what to do.'

She rose to her feet. ‘I'll fetch your medicine, but you need to go to hospital.'

‘No hospital for me.' His voice rose to a high-pitched scream. ‘I won't go to one of those places. Never again.'

Having sedated him with a hefty dose of laudanum, and not knowing who else to call upon, Charity sought help from Bert Chapman who was the only man in the building strong enough to lift Jethro. She had to rouse him from his bed and he was sleepy, but comparatively sober. At first he was reluctant to lift a finger to aid a man he obviously loathed, but with a mixture of flattery, persuasion and a bribe of five shillings, Charity managed to persuade him and he lumbered downstairs after her. By this time Jethro was in a drugged state and barely conscious.

‘He says his hip is broken,' Charity whispered. ‘I think he must have fallen out of bed.'

‘It's a pity it wasn't his neck what broke,' Bert said unsympathetically. He bent down and hoisted Jethro into his arms as if he were a sack of feathers instead of a solidly built adult. ‘It's not far to the Royal Free Hospital. I'll carry the brute, but I'm not moving a step until you give me what you promised.'

Charity felt under Jethro's mattress for his bunch of keys and unlocked the cash box he kept hidden beneath his bed. She took out two silver crowns and placed them in Bert's hand. ‘There you are.'

‘Put them in me pocket, dearie.'

She did as he asked. ‘Now will you take him to the hospital?'

‘Give us a kiss first.'

‘What?'

‘I said give us a kiss, or I'll dump the old bugger on the floor and break his other hip.'

‘That wasn't in the bargain.'

‘It is now.' He leaned forward and Jethro's arms dangled limply like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Charity held her breath, closed her eyes and gave him a peck on the cheek. He threw his head back and roared with laughter. ‘That'll do for now, but I want a proper one when we get back. I fancy you, young Charity. You could have all the free beer you can drink if you'd be nice to me.'

A wave of nausea threatened to overcome her but she swallowed hard and backed away. ‘We'll talk about that later, Mr Chapman. You've got what you wanted so please let's get Mr Dawkins to hospital before the laudanum starts to wear off.'

Bert followed her through the shop and out into the street. ‘With a bit of luck the misshapen monster will die and go to hell. That's where his sort belongs.'

Charity said nothing and she quickened her pace, heading towards Gray's Inn Road.

Jethro was kept in hospital for six weeks. As its name implied, the treatment was free for the poor and destitute, but being a man of significant means Jethro had to pay in part for the care he received and Charity had to find the money. She would have been hard pressed to raise such a sum from the shop takings, but, quite by accident, she had found a secret stash concealed behind a false back in one of the kitchen cupboards. She had discovered it when cleaning up spilt sugar, a small luxury she allowed herself now that she was in charge of the housekeeping money. The wooden plank had fallen down to reveal a cocoa tin, which on further inspection was found to be crammed with five-pound notes. It must, she thought, be Jethro's life savings, and although she would not take a penny for herself she used some of it to pay for his stay in hospital.

It was a relief to be on her own, and she took full advantage of the unexpected freedom to do as she pleased, but she did not neglect her duty as far as the shop was concerned. She opened each day on time and closed at six o'clock in the evening. It was dark by then and winter was on its way, but she resisted the temptation to close at dusk and placed an oil lamp in the window to make sure that passers-by realised that they could still call in and browse or purchase a book on their way home from work. With Jethro safely ensconced in his hospital bed she was able to visit Doughty Street twice a week to have supper with Wilmot and Daniel, who had now resumed his studies. He would sit at the desk, supposedly working on his latest thesis, while Wilmot listened to Charity's account of what it was like to live on the streets and beg for money. When she had exhausted her own experiences she had many stories to recount of the dispossessed forced to live rough and dependent on the charity of others, or eking out a living by selling bootlaces or matches. Even worse off were the toshers who risked their lives searching the sewers for anything of value that might have been swept into the drains, and the pure finders who collected buckets of dog faeces which they sold to the tanneries.

Wilmot made copious notes and encouraged her to talk, and for her part Charity felt that she was the one who benefited most from these quiet evenings. The strange thing was that she had begun to speak in the well-modulated tones that came so easily to Wilmot and Daniel. She had gradually dropped the strident cockney tones she had adopted at a young age in order to melt into the background of her new surroundings. She had learned early on that to use a style of speech and an accent foreign to the denizens of the back streets led to trouble, and she had become one of them. Now, with the benefit of Wilmot's coaching, she had put the recent past behind her and had reverted to the ways of her childhood. Memories of her grandmother's strict edicts on table manners and etiquette came flooding back, and she wondered how she could have forgotten so much in so short a time. She felt as though she had been masked and wearing a cloak of invisibility, and now she had cast it aside and remembered who she was, but this also brought problems. She might be able to converse on almost equal terms with Wilmot and Daniel, but Violet accused her of turning into a stuck-up snob, and Bert was even more vocal.

Since the night she had asked for his help Bert Chapman had not allowed her to forget that she was in his debt. She had managed so far to avoid his clumsy advances, but at night she dared not venture outside to the privy in case he was lurking in the shadows. He had come into the shop on several occasions but, as luck would have it, there had been customers browsing the shelves and Charity had threatened to scream if he laid a finger on her. He had left with the promise that it was not over. He would catch her on her own sooner or later and then she would see what a real man was made of. It was something she hoped she would never discover, at least not from a brute like him.

Jethro's return in the middle of November thwarted Bert's attempts to make free with Charity, and for that she was grateful, but Jethro Dawkins was a bad patient and even more demanding now that he was more or less confined to his bed. He could stagger a few paces with the aid of a crutch, but it was plain that he would never walk unaided, and the doctors had discharged him with the warning that his bones were brittle and would break easily. The only way he could escape from the pain and misery of losing even more of his independence was with laudanum in ever increasing doses. Charity was now his nurse as well as his housekeeper and she worked in the shop, but was no longer in charge. Every evening she had to give the ledger and the takings to Jethro, and he would sit in his chair by the range checking every last penny, and making lists of the replacements they needed. Eventually, and with great reluctance, he allowed Charity to visit the warehouse in his stead.

On these occasions it was necessary to have someone in the shop and Charity immediately thought of Violet, who had learned to read and write and do simple arithmetic at a board school and would be pleased to have the opportunity to earn a few pennies. Violet said she would be happy to leave her younger brothers and sister in the charge of ten-year-old Emmie for a while, but Emmie was not the sharpest knife in the box and she might have to dash upstairs if anything went wrong. It was a solution that was reasonably satisfactory to everyone except for Jethro, who disliked change almost as much as he disliked Violet. ‘She's a common little tart,' he said bitterly when Charity put the idea forward. ‘I don't want her fingering my books and making eyes at my customers.'

‘But I have to go to the warehouse,' Charity said reasonably. ‘You can't manage the shop on your own, and it's only for a few hours.'

‘I want the door left open so that I can keep an eye on her. I won't have my business turned into a place of assignation for that cheap trollop.'