The Beggar Maid (2 page)

She recoiled angrily. ‘Hold on, guv. Who said I live in the gutter? Me and Grandpa live in a room. We pays our rent and that's what I'm trying to earn, so sling your hook and let me get on with it.'

‘I'll give you my visiting card and you will see that I'm telling the truth.' He slipped his hand into his pocket and took out a small silver case. He paused, staring at her with twin furrows on his brow. ‘I don't suppose you can read . . .'

‘I can read and write, guv. Just because I'm poor don't mean I'm ignorant. I can add up and recite me times tables with the best of 'em.'

‘I'm sorry.' He managed a faint smile. ‘I stand corrected, but that just shows how much I'm in need of your guidance. My card, Miss Crosse.' He handed it to her with a curt bow.

She tucked it into her stays next to the silver sixpence. ‘I'll think about it. Now I'll be obliged if you'll let me go on me way.'

‘Sixpence an hour,' he said hopefully. ‘If you will come to my house in Doughty Street, I'll pay you that for each hour or part of an hour.'

‘And what do you expect from me?'

‘I just want you to talk, and I'll make a note of what you say.'

‘And that's all?'

‘It is.'

‘And no funny business?'

‘Certainly not. I told you, I'm an academic. I'm Professor Wilmot Barton.'

Charity shrugged her thin shoulders and walked away, but the temptation to look over her shoulder to see if he was watching her was too great. She turned her head, and saw him striding off in the opposite direction with a feeling of pique. ‘So much for the professor,' she muttered. ‘Didn't trust him anyway.' She set off in the direction of Cheapside and St Paul's, where she often lingered on the steps, hoping that a pious worshipper might take pity on her. Flakes of snow had begun to flutter from a pewter sky, but by the time she reached the cathedral people were scurrying for shelter and she might as well have been invisible. She wrapped her shawl around her head and shoulders and continued on her way. Fleet Street was buzzing with activity as reporters hurried into the newspaper offices, clutching their notebooks in a race to be first with the latest story to hit the headlines. Covent Garden market was busy, although the first rush of the day was over, and the flower girls long gone. The few crushed blooms that lay wilting on the cobblestones glistened with lacy snowflakes, but their diamond brightness would soon fade, leaving them slimy and unrecognisable. There was no profit to be made here.

A sudden wave of nausea washed over her and she felt faint, but she managed to stagger into the shelter of the colonnades. She leaned against one of the pillars, taking deep breaths until the world righted itself. It was only when the warm aroma of baked potatoes assaulted her nostrils that she realised she must eat or collapse with hunger. She peered through the lace curtain of falling snow and saw a man with a handcart who was selling baked potatoes served with a generous dollop of butter, and mugs of tea. She had intended to use the sixpence to pay the arrears in rent, but she knew that she would never make it back to Duck's Foot Lane in her present state. She hooked the coin from its warm hiding place and made her way across the slippery cobblestones to the stall.

A burly young porter stood in the queue beside her. ‘Care to join me, love? I'd share my murphy with you any day.'

She managed a weak grin. ‘Ta, mate, but you got nothing that interests me.' She held her money out to the vendor. ‘Baked tatty, please, and a cup of split pea.'

The young porter tipped his cap to the back of his head. ‘Come and sit with me then. I promise to keep me hands to meself.'

‘Ta all the same, but I prefer to eat on me own.' She took her change and counted it carefully, despite the trader's protests that he was an honest man.

‘Mistakes happen,' she said tersely and walked away, carrying the potato wrapped in newspaper and the mug of tea to the church on the far side of the piazza. She thought at first the young man might follow her, but he had gone to join his mates, leaving her to eat her meal in peace. She sat on the cold stones, sheltering from the snow beneath the portico, and munched the hot, buttery flesh of the potato with relish, savouring each mouthful and trying not to feel guilty. Grandpa would be hungry too, and he would be desperate for a tot of gin. It was all very well for people to tell her not to give him money for drink, but it was the only thing that stopped the terrible tremors which affected his whole body, turning him into a gibbering mass of humanity who could hardly string two words together. A jigger or two of blue ruin would stop the shaking and he would be able to function again, albeit in a limited way. His use of the harsh spirit had wreaked a terrible revenge on him, taking away the power of rational thought and robbing him of memory. It took more and more of it to settle him down these days and he often became violent. He had never struck her, but sometimes, when he returned from the pub very much the worse for drink, she was afraid of him. The drunken stranger who inhabited Joseph Crosse's body would start fights over the most trivial matters, and had to be restrained by the men who shared their lodgings. The humiliation of seeing her grandfather carted bodily into the yard and having his head held under the pump was not something she cared to witness, but it happened all too often these days.

Fortified by the hot food and sweet tea, Charity stood up and stretched. She took the battered tin mug back to the stall and started on the long walk back to Duck's Foot Lane, hoping to pick up a penny or two on the way. But the weather was not such that it made people feel generous and she was largely ignored. On a couple of occasions she received a mouthful of abuse, and as she drew nearer to her destination she had a sudden and terrible premonition that something was wrong.

It was late afternoon and already dark by the time she reached Upper Thames Street. The snow was thick underfoot and beginning to freeze, and as her feet crunched its brittle surface the ice penetrated the holes in her boots, stabbing her toes and causing her to yelp with pain. Above her head snowflakes danced dizzily in the yellow gas light, and the sounds of the river filled her ears as she neared the place she called home. The hoots of steam boats and the creaking of wooden masts were almost drowned out by the grinding and groaning of cranes as ships discharged their cargoes onto the wharves. The great River Thames never slept, nor did the denizens of the tightly packed buildings that crowded its banks. Narrow alleyways threaded their way from the main streets to the wharves at the water's edge. These dark and dangerous conduits were lined with warehouses, manufactories, pubs, brothels and tenements housing workers and their families, as well as the dispossessed. Communal cellars often filled with water and sewage during a particularly high tide, and rats the size of cats lived alongside the human occupants in the most unsanitary conditions imaginable.

Duck's Foot Lane was just wide enough for a horse and cart to squeeze through, leaving little room for error. The tall buildings leaned towards one another at crazy angles, and were linked by overhead walkways. Steel hoists protruded from the walls high above street level, and vicious-looking hooks dangled idly from ropes awaiting deliveries of raw materials next day. From dawn until dusk whole cargoes of imported goods, baled and tied or transported in wooden kegs, would be hauled skywards and dragged into the upper floors of the buildings by men who worked at dizzying heights with nothing to save them should they slip and fall. Accidents were common and fatalities occurred too frequently.

Charity had grown up in this undesirable neighbourhood, but she had fond memories of her early years. Before her father died they lived in a neat terraced house in Chelsea. Her grandmother had looked after her and Pa and Grandpa left early each morning to catch a horse-drawn omnibus to the City, where Grandpa worked as a clerk in a shipping office and Pa followed the time-honoured profession of law writer. She remembered the distinctive smell of Indian ink that clung to his stained fingers when he returned home in the evening, and the lines of fatigue drawn on his face by an invisible pen that would not wash away. Tired he might have been but he always found time to take her on his knee and tell her about his day, or to read her a story from her favourite book. Early on in her life she had learned to love the sound of words and the rhythms and patterns of speech. Story books led her into an enchanted land of imagination like no other, and an escape into worlds that she would never otherwise have known.

She quickened her pace. It had stopped snowing and the wind had veered round, bringing with it a strong smell of malt and hops from Barclay and Perkins' Brewery south of the river, with just a hint of acidity from Potts' Vinegar Works, and something much less pleasant from the tannery in Bermondsey. She plunged into the dark canyon of Duck's Foot Lane. It was relatively quiet in the early evening, but it would grow noisier as the night progressed and seamen of all nationalities thronged the pubs and brothels, or sought solace in the opium dens. The snow had been trodden underfoot and churned up by horses' hooves and cart wheels, turning it to filthy slush, and she picked up her skirts, treading carefully as she approached the tenement building where she and her grandfather lived.

The front door was never locked as the landlord left security to each individual tenant, which meant that there was none. People came and went as they pleased and as long as the rent collector was paid his dues he did not bother to count heads. Charity almost fell over the prostrate body of a drunken woman who was slumped at the foot of the stairs. It was a common occurrence and not one to cause her any concern. What worried her more was the sound of raised voices emanating from the cellar. The door was open and she went to investigate.

In the dim light of a single oil lamp she could just make out the shape of two men who seemed to be pinning her grandfather to the ground. She only knew who it was who was flailing his arms and legs by the sound of his voice as a torrent of abuse left his lips. When sober, Joseph Crosse never swore when there were women present, and Charity knew that he would be mortified when he sobered up, but she realised quickly that this was no ordinary fit of drunken rage. Her grandfather was plainly terrified and was fighting off some nameless beast, and the men who held him down were attempting to calm him. She hurried to his side, stepping over a couple of shapeless mounds sleeping soundly beneath piles of newspaper, cardboard and rags despite the commotion. ‘Grandpa.'

‘Get back, girly.' One of the men lifted his hand and pushed her out of the way. ‘The old codger's gone mad.'

‘Leave him alone. You're hurting him.' Charity tried to pull him away but he was a big man and muscular.

‘He tried to kill me,' he said breathlessly. ‘Went for me with a chiv.'

‘No,' Charity cried fiercely. ‘He would never do such a thing. Get off him, please.'

The second man glanced over his shoulder. ‘You ain't helping, miss. Stand back or you'll get hurt. I seen this happen before. The drink has addled his brains. He's been seeing things what aren't here.'

‘He's lost his head, all right. The best thing you can do for him is call a constable. Your granddad needs locking up for his own safety and yours.'

‘Aye,' his companion said gruffly. ‘The Bethlehem Lunatic Asylum is where he should be.'

‘No, please.' Charity moved closer. She was horrified to see her grandfather's features twisted into a rictus grin and his face was turning blue. ‘Let me deal with this. I know how to handle him.'

Suddenly, Joseph relaxed and went as limp as a rag doll. The men released their hold and sat back on their haunches. ‘He's passed out,' the younger man said, wiping the sweat from his brow. ‘Thank God for that.'

‘I ain't so sure.' His friend leaned over and felt for a pulse. He shook his head. ‘Sorry, love. I think he's a goner. Must've had some kind of fit.' He scrambled to his feet. ‘Let's get out of here, mate. We don't want to be mixed up in this.'

Charity fell to her knees beside her grandfather. ‘Grandpa, speak to me.' She chafed his hands and laid her head on his chest, but she could not hear a heartbeat. She looked up and found herself alone except for the ones who were dead drunk or under the influence of opium and had slept through everything.

She sat for a moment, too stunned to cry and too frightened to move. She had seen dead bodies often enough in the street, but this was different. This lifeless corpse had once been her much loved grandparent. He was her last link with her family and now she was alone and very scared. She was suddenly eight years old again, and had been told that her father had succumbed to the dreaded disease of cholera only a few hours after it had claimed her grandmother. She leaned over and shook her grandfather, uttering a cry of horror as his head lolled to one side and his sightless eyes gazed blindly into space.

Before she realised what she was doing she found herself outside in the street, retching and gasping for breath. The cold air filled her lungs and her head began to clear. The enormity of what had happened filled her with horror and she went in search of help.

The doctor lived in Old Fish Street and to her relief he was at home, having his supper. His housekeeper refused her admittance but her cries of distress brought the doctor himself to the door.

‘I only got fourpence, doctor,' she said breathlessly. ‘But I'll work until I paid off your fee. It's me grandpa. I think he's dead.'

‘Then it can wait,' the housekeeper said firmly. ‘Do you know how many times Dr Marchant has been called out today?'

‘It's all right, Mrs Rose,' Dr Marchant said, slipping on his overcoat. ‘Keep my dinner warm and I'll be back before you know it.' He put on his top hat and picked up his medical bag. ‘I seem to remember you, young lady. Didn't I treat you for mumps not so long ago?'