Jane was thinking about the years spent inside the house, the familiar cracks patterning the walls and the view she’d always known. The river. She looked at the trees where the birds always sat. She thought about Honor Fletcher, and how she hadn’t said goodbye. School. ‘I’m taking nothing but my book,’ she told her sister.
‘That old book?’ said Agnes. ‘You can’t take the book, it would be like carrying a box of flat irons. Pack your sewing box and your best grey gloves, and what about your hairpins?’
‘Hairpins?’
‘Yes,’ said Agnes. ‘I could borrow them.’
‘Girls!’ their father bawled. ‘We are off! This minute! Now!’
Ignoring her sister’s advice, Jane pulled the book close to her chest, the brown paper rustling, though before they stepped through the door, Agnes had managed to push a few stray things into Jane’s empty pockets.
It was dark. Ivy was dragging a packing case. Arthur held a wooden chest, a present from his father, something that resembled a very small coffin, now full of odds and ends and a pair of (filthy) moleskin trousers.
By the time they reached the end of the wharf-side, Jane’s arms were already throbbing. She tried to shift the cumbersome weight of the book. On Lime Street she thought about losing some of the pages, Chapter 9 for example (‘Chemical Compounds’), or the index. Twenty minutes later she was kicking the book along the street, her eyes blurred with tears, watching the paper tearing in the lamplight, the puddles soiling it with water, oil and manure.
When they arrived at the terrace on Cross Street, with its row of small black houses where a man Arthur had met in the market had offered them a room for less than half the price of their old rent, the book at Jane’s feet was nothing more than a few shattered pages and some binding string. She had kept it safe for more than three years. When the door opened, they were greeted by the man’s wife, already in her night attire and not in the least bit pleased to see them. As the woman ushered them inside, Jane bent to pick the last remaining page from the ground. 37. The Cross Pollination of Roses.
It was a small, L-shaped room. Jane and Agnes were squashed into a corner. Arthur was lying on the thin mattress, his right leg over his wife as if he were pinning her down. The mattress was torn, and every so often a piece of straw would poke through the top like a nail.
The girls woke at dawn, when the blushing pink light make everything look softer. It was a generous light, turning the mould on the walls into peonies, wild horses and wide scraps of lace. From the glowing window they could see more broken houses and a scrubby patch of land where a few black hens pecked and fluttered.
‘No more school,’ said Agnes. ‘That’s one good thing about it.’
It was true. Miss Prosser was far away with the slates, the bookcases and the stuffed tawny owl. There would be no more marching, or hoop-rolling. Jane could no longer stand and stare at the map of the world curling on the wall. Honor would have to find a new friend to share her sweets with, though she might be leaving at Easter to work in her father’s shop.
Jane reached for the remains of The Big Book of Knowledge. ‘Choose a rosebud with outer petals that are just beginning to open and inner petals that are still wrapped around one another.’ The street was empty. Agnes pressed her nose to the window and yawned, then a man appeared wearing a long black cloak, and when it leapt from his ankles they could see its purple lining. Turning, he glanced towards the window, holding Agnes’s gaze before quickly moving away.
‘A priest,’ said Jane.
‘He doesn’t look like a priest,’ said Agnes.
Five
Like Nothing
THE DOME OF St Paul’s was pillowed in cloud, like a dirty celestial carpet, a well-trodden path to the heavens, though occasionally the sun would press through and offer something glittering. The doctor had left Jane a message. She was to meet him at a coffee house in Cheapside.
At Waterloo Bridge, Jane decided to take a detour, pausing to lean over the filthy balustrades to see the water churning, the shore scattered with bottles, papers and the skull of what might have been a small sheep or a dog, the water lapping slowly through the broken eye sockets.
‘Anything to spare for a brother?’
Jane turned. A cripple in a dog cart sat in a mess of brown rags, his hands appearing like flippers, pressing into the thin concave of his chest. He grinned at her, his mouth toothless and lopsided.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Jane. ‘I have nothing.’
The man narrowed his eyes. He was slavering. ‘We should stick together,’ he said. ‘You might be in a cart one day, waiting for your so-called pal to come rolling out of the tavern to push you to a corner, where the nuns often pass, throwing halfpence now and then, or more often than not a blessing that sounds sweet enough, but does nothing for your stomach.’
‘I really have nothing.’
‘Then push me,’ he said. ‘It’s all downhill from here.’
Jane looked at the cart with its thin wooden handles. The man was small, but the bulk of him looked heavy. She wanted to turn and walk away, because what a sight they would make, two poor cripples, a rolling, moving target. She could already hear the insults and feel the pelting of the stones.
‘I’m helpless,’ he said. ‘Look at me.’
Saying nothing, Jane took the handles, which felt huge in her hands, and tried her best not to moan as the cart careered towards the wall. She could feel the man bouncing, her boots slipping, every bump on the flagstones and the wind from the river brought tears to her eyes. Towards the bottom of the slope the cart built momentum; she could feel it running from her fingers as the man screamed pitifully, narrowly avoiding a crowd, finally crashing into the closed black door of a mission house.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jane panted. ‘It slipped from my hands.’
The man, who had miraculously managed to stay aboard the wretched dog cart, his cheeks now puffing and blowing, his hands flapping wildly, started laughing. ‘What a ride! What a great, wheezy ride!’
Rubbing her shoulders, Jane pulled the cart from the door, where it had splintered much of the paintwork.
‘I’ll be all right here,’ he told her. ‘The nuns are very reliable.’
Two men with a scabby-looking mongrel were heading in their direction, and Jane could feel her heart pounding as they approached, their heads shaved, their bony frames lolloping. She could feel herself shaking as she backed against the wall. Did the man in the dog cart look frightened? No! He was smiling and waving his hands.
‘Georgie! Digger! Butch!’
The men slapped him on the shoulders as the dog started nuzzling the man’s soiled rags and Jane began to sidestep, but the man with the dog walked towards her saying, ‘Are you after begging on his patch? This is Charlie’s patch. Everyone knows Charlie. Even the Old Bill throw him something now and then.’
‘No,’ she swallowed. ‘I was helping.’
‘That’s right,’ said the man in the dog cart. ‘She pushed me.’
‘Those carts are meant to be pulled.’
The other man spat between his boots. ‘Professional beggar are you?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Would you like to be?’
Jane shook her head. She could see a policeman in the distance. She thought about the doctor, and now perhaps she would be late.
‘Pity,’ he said. ‘I could find you a nice easy spot not far from Oxford Circus. We could cut up your clothes and have you acting up a palsy, perhaps a few sorry ribbons for your hair? In my experience,’ he said, ‘ribbons are heartbreakers, and the money comes pouring in like sunshine. It’s the guilt, you see, they’re after clearing their conscience, and it’s quicker than seeing a priest. You have lovely mournful eyes. Excellent eyes for begging. What do you say?’
‘No, thank you,’ she told him. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘So you should be,’ he hissed, and Jane could smell his rancid breath, could see the thin pink veins pulsing in his eyeballs. ‘Still, if
you do happen to change your mind, you could come and find Charlie and wait. We could make a very pretty profit, you and me.’
Nodding, she took her chance to leave, not walking too quickly. She could feel the tears coming, could hear the men laughing as a line of nuns appeared, their bone-white rosaries swinging from their thick black sleeves.
By the time she reached the coffee house she was exhausted. Hastily straightening her clothes she squeezed past tables and customers with cups in their hands to where the doctor was sitting. Much to Jane’s surprise he was sharing his table with the pomaded strutting dandy from the theatre.
‘Mr Treble,’ said the doctor, pulling back a chair, ‘this is Jane, the assistant I was telling you about. You might have seen her with Monsieur Duflot at the theatre?’
The man dropped his teaspoon with a clatter. ‘Your assistant? Really? She looks more like a crawler just freed from the workhouse.’
Biting her lips, Jane looked away, though now thanks to the dandy all eyes were on her. She could see a woman wiping a plate, pausing with the dishcloth, a girl cutting biscuits with her mouth agape, and at a table near the door all four occupants were staring indiscreetly.
‘Now, whatever you might think,’ the doctor told him, ‘the girls always warm to her, seeing past her crooked bones. Jane will sit with them for hours if she has to, talking and calming them down. I am certain you will find her very useful.’
‘I will?’
‘Yes,’ the doctor said, though Mr Treble was now busy admiring the ladies loitering at the counter, cocking his head, slowly licking a finger before passing it over an eyebrow.
‘I think they recognise me,’ he said. As the doctor now explained, Mr Treble was no ordinary gentleman. Mr Treble happened to be ‘Mr Johnny Treble, Cockney Song and Dance Man’, the most popular act of the season, especially with the ladies.
‘Perhaps,’ the doctor whispered, ‘we should be a little more discreet?’
‘What’s that you say?’ Johnny threw a wink towards the girl in the pretty white bonnet, a Bath bun poised between her small open lips.
‘What I meant to say,’ the doctor continued, ‘is perhaps we should not bring quite so much attention to ourselves?’
‘You’re the boss,’ said Mr Treble, looking disappointed. Pouting, he leant back in his chair. ‘Frankly, I can’t wait for this whole awful mess to be finished with. I dream about it,’ he said, staring into the dark brown depths of his coffee cup. ‘Her family are there, it’s always raining, and they’re always after shooting me.’
A few days later at Gilder Terrace, the doctor started to fidget. He looked uncomfortable. He stuttered and played with his cufflinks. In the hall, he beckoned Jane towards him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, looking at his boots. ‘I’m sorry about the coffee house.’
‘Sir?’
‘Mr Treble’s rude behaviour,’ he said, placing a hand gently on Jane’s shoulder. ‘You must take no notice, he is simply a young man in an awkward situation, but I’ve had words with him, and not only does he send his humble apologies, but this very good ticket for the stalls.’
Jane looked at the ticket pressed between his fingers, and though she had always loved the theatre, the thought of seeing Mr Johnny Treble in all his cockney glory seemed more like a punishment than something to look forward to. But the doctor was smiling, expectant, and how could she refuse it?
‘Thank you, sir,’ she managed, pulling the ticket from his fingers, folding it into four and thrusting it into the dark, crumby depths of her pocket.
It was almost eight o’clock and Jane was on her way to the Alhambra, where at that very minute she supposed Mr Treble would be putting the finishing touches to his greasepaint, combing through that jet-black pomade, fending off the hoards of female admirers – unless they appeared particularly attractive, in which case he would invite them into his room for a tipple and what are you doing later on? Jane assumed Mr Treble was in need of the doctor’s services. Some poor girl would be swallowing the tincture. Or perhaps there’d be a queue of them.
Jane didn’t mind going to the theatre alone, though when she saw the couples billing and cooing, and all dressed up like bright fantastic birds, she felt a pang of envy. She was wearing her blue dress. Mrs Swift hadn’t offered her the loan of a sash, or the brooch, and though she rarely thought about her own appearance – something in her opinion not worth thinking about, if your bones didn’t grow straight, or your hair sat like a nest of brown feathers – tonight she felt like disappearing, like swallowing herself into nothing. Squashed between the outskirts of the crowd and the cold iron ribs of a radiator, she watched strings of families, bickering, laughing, whispering, making her think about the old days, when her family might have done the same.
When Jane was eight or nine, they had been to see a theatre troupe in Battersea Park. Arthur, still holding the tickets, had disappeared with a man he knew from some tavern or bar-room; Ivy limped, her new boots chafing her heels, eventually slumping under an elm tree and peeling the offending, stinking leather from her feet; Agnes and Jane rushed about anxiously, as people with tickets in their hands strolled towards the canvas awning where the stage was set and music could be heard. Where had their father got to? Didn’t he want to see the Paradise Singers, the Blazing Minstrels, or Pip the Dancing Dalmatian? Eventually, with almost no time to spare, they saw the shadow of him meandering over the hill. Ivy managed to get to her feet, though she refused to put the boots back on, much to the girls’ embarrassment, and by the time they’d rushed to buy cones of toffee and had found their seats, which were thankfully on the end of a row, the music started and everything was forgotten.
Inside the Alhambra there was a thick woolly heat. Girls selling nuts and cards of cheap matches walked down the aisles, yawning and indifferent. A programme-seller was being harassed by a man in a squashed felt hat. The stalls were not as boisterous as the gods, and though Jane had a very good view of the stage, she missed all the banter of the cheaper seats. Here the women gave her filthy sidelong glances, though the men didn’t care to sneer at the cripple sitting alone – She’s quiet enough and clean enough, isn’t she? – waiting as they were for Miss Sally Albright, the charming blonde soubrette with big saucy eyes and shapely ankles. Shopkeepers’ wives talked loudly about days at the races and their daughters’ elocution lessons. A woman called Joy had just lost her wedding ring. ‘I wouldn’t care,’ she said, with tears in her eyes, ‘but I’ve only had that ring five minutes.’
Jane could hear the murmurings behind her, the voices blending into a rumble from the floor to the heavenly ceiling. She lifted her eyes. The painted sky was darkening and the stars began to sparkle, as if they were really sitting outside. The conductor tapped his baton, the band started up, and some of the audience quickly sprang to attention, though plenty carried on with their chattering and cajoling, or went stepping over people’s legs to get to the girl selling chocolate, who had only just appeared.
As soon as the curtain opened, sweeping the dust from the stage, Jane was quickly sucked into the pleasure of it all. What on earth had she been thinking? All right, so Johnny Treble might have strutted like a prize-winning cockerel and hurt her feelings, but look at all the magic! She had a free ticket (Edie and Alice would have grovelled for it), the evening off work, and sixpence from Mrs Swift for refreshments.
The stage was filled with coloured light, and girls dressed like blooming spring flowers danced complicated patterns, pink tulips gliding between rows of nodding daffodils, heralding the spring. Some of the men were already starting to whistle, and it seemed that even in the stalls they liked to show their appreciation long before the curtain call, laughing at the long-nosed comedian with the suit made from dust rags, gasping at the girl who juggled sharp meat knives. And when Johnny Treble appeared, the theatre started roaring, and even Jane felt giddy as he strode to the front of the stage in a chequered suit, tipped his hat, revealing the black oily slick of his hair, and sung about his sweetheart,
who (according to the song) he hadn’t even met yet. ‘I wonder where she is? I wonder what’s she doin’?’ By the end of the number, all the girls were on their feet shouting, ‘I’m here, Johnny!’, ‘Here, Johnny!’, ‘Me!’
At the interval Jane remained in her seat, brushed by those on their way to the bar, the hairy overcoats, dusty skirts and the overdone lace so frothy that when one woman hesitated to call out to her friend, Jane thought she might be suffocating. Didn’t they know how old-fashioned they looked? If Agnes had been with her, they would have been laughing at these so-called ladies all night.
When her row had all but vanished with their oranges and cheroots, their fat velvet purses and well-thumbed programmes, most of which had been concertinaed into make-do fans, Jane could stand and stretch, could wiggle her feet and look high into the gods, which by now were very nearly empty.
Eventually, the orchestra reappeared, the crowds hurried back, some with beer stains on their jackets or ash on their neckties, and the second half flew. Some of the men, now half cut from their visit to the bar or the nearest public house, were swaying on their feet as Miss Sally Albright twisted her pinkie into her dimples and fluttered her buttery lashes, her singing voice like a six-year-old lisping, her dance steps simple, mechanical. As she pulled the sides of her dress to make a childish curtsey, those still in their seats leapt to their feet with a cry.
When the next act appeared, an oriental illusionist, the crowd seemed deflated, fidgeting, rifling through their toffee bags, lighting fresh cigars, and this restlessness continued until Mr Johnny Treble appeared for the finale, reaching his white-gloved hand to a swooning woman in the front row (how Ivy Stretch would have envied her!), singing, swaggering, dancing and clicking his heels, until the theatre was in uproar and Jane’s hands were so sore from clapping she had to rub them over her arms.
Little Bones Page 8
