by Janet Woods
‘When did you do it?’ he said, taking the watch from her.
‘I lifted it when you shook hands with Benito.’
He sighed. ‘I really don’t think I can trust you now.’
‘I was showing off. I don’t usually steal from my friends. Did you like my poem, professor?’
His inclination at the thought of it was to laugh, but she wasn’t quite a woman yet. She was still a child – if a rather precocious one – and he didn’t want to hurt her feelings too badly. ‘I thought it was rather . . . well . . . florid, I suppose.’
Her eyes sharpened. ‘I haven’t come across that word before. Is that good or bad?’
‘It means it’s overwritten. That’s not good.’
A tiny exasperated sound left her mouth. ‘Now who’s being florid? If it’s not good then it must be bad . . . how bad is it?’
He gave her what she didn’t really need to hear. ‘It was terrible.’
Now he’d offered her the bald truth, he wished he hadn’t. She looked crushed by the observation. But then she rallied and spoke in defence of her composition. ‘The audience liked it, and you must remember it wasn’t written with a learned gentleman like yourself in mind.’
‘Oh, I’m not saying that the poem didn’t have its good points. It did. The rhythm of it was . . . unusual, but it worked as you recited the piece, which you put across well. Most of your audience could connect with the emotional content because poverty is something they all know about. You also know how to work a crowd.’
She nodded. ‘Before my sister arrived, my mother and I toured with a theatre company. After that she became a housekeeper. I was only young then, but I learned a lot. So what was so terrible about the poem?’
Now she’d put him on the spot again, not with any thought of embarrassing him, but because she seemed to have a genuine need to know. ‘The second verse was rather vulgar for a girl of your age, I thought,’ he ventured. ‘What do you know of men’s appetites and opium dens?’
‘I’ve been to Limehouse, haven’t I? Besides, that poem earned me two shillings today. And it will earn me two shillings tomorrow and another two the day after, and for the rest of the week. That’s ten shillings, which is better than one shilling and four pence from a publisher or a shilling for . . .’ She bit her tongue, mumbling red-faced, ‘Well, you know . . . at least . . . that’s what I’m told it costs.’
Hiding his shock, Thomas stopped to buy them a bowl of pea and ham soup and a thick chunk of bread to soak it up with. He carried his own mug and spoon with him, but Celia drank hers from the wooden bowl. When it was empty her tongue came out and lashed around the bowl as far down as she could stretch it, licking up the residue. She fished out the leftover shreds of ham with her fingertip. She sighed and smiled at the stallholder when she handed the bowl back. ‘That was good.’
Thomas wondered how many people had drunk from the bowl, and shuddered.
When they resumed walking, she said, ‘I’m sorry I entered your house without your permission. I liked your cat.’
‘Frederick is a good companion.’
‘Do you understand him when he talks back to you?’
‘In a way. Humans and animals communicate in the only method they can. Usually Frederick’s demands are small. He’s hungry, or he wants to go out into the garden, or to sit on my lap and have a fuss made of him. Sometimes he just wants to be amused and sometimes he’s a dreadful show-off and keeps me amused.’
A smile touched her mouth.
He remembered the gift he’d bought her. Taking it out of his satchel he held it out to her. ‘Here, this is for you.’
She undid the knot in the string holding the brown paper in place and gazed unsmilingly down at the book, then at him. ‘Robinson Crusoe? This is the one from the shop window. Why are you giving me this?’
‘Because it’s a book you wanted to read.’
‘And what do you want in return?’ She then moved on to display that she did have some knowledge of men’s appetites, pushing the book back at him. ‘The same as all men, I suppose. Well, I’m not about to sell myself for anything, and especially a book. I could easily . . . get one if I wanted one. Worse, somebody might think I stole this one from you, and you might say it’s true, unless I do your bidding.’
Thomas laughed at her indignation. ‘My dear child, you have too vivid an imagination for your own good. This is a gift, pure and simple, and with no strings attached.’
She dangled the string. ‘Then what do you call this?’
He sighed. ‘I’m talking figuratively . . . that is a length of string, literally.’
She examined it more closely before giving him a pitying look. ‘It looks like ordinary string to me.’
He stifled his chuckle. Now was not the time to explain. He led her to the stall of a letter writer, an ageing Jewish gentleman. He placed a coin on his desk. ‘I would like to hire a pen and ink, if I may, and perhaps you would witness me giving this young woman this book, so she cannot be accused of stealing it.’
‘The young lady may come to me for witness if needed,’ the scribe said with a smile.
Thomas wrote on the flyleaf, A gift for my dear friend, Celia Jane Laws. May her dreams come to fruition in the fullness of time. With sincere best wishes, Thomas Hambert.
Handing the book back to her, he said, ‘There, nobody can accuse you of stealing it now.’
She ran a finger gently over the lettering and a grin flirted about her mouth as she hugged it against her chest. ‘It’s the best gift I’ve ever had. I’ll give you my first book free of charge in return . . . that’s if you still want it . . . you didn’t like the poem.’
‘That doesn’t mean I’ll dislike everything else you write. I was too forthright, and I’m sorry if I upset you.’
‘You didn’t. I know it wasn’t good, but sometimes the words rhyme and the meaning of the words don’t.’
He offered her a little encouragement. ‘Actually, the more I think of the poem the more I like it. It worked very well at a performance level, you know.’
‘Perhaps I should just stick to stories. They’re easier to write.’
‘Have you started on the stories?’
She nodded. ‘It took me nearly two weeks to finish a story, and write the poem for Benito’s show. Then I had to make a copy like you said. I liked writing the story best.’
So, Celia had been bitten by the writing bug. It was a pity her education hadn’t continued, but what did he know about her circumstances? She was better educated than most people around here, in the basics at least. She obviously took every opportunity to earn enough money to exist on. ‘Do you have a title for your book?’
‘Famous Fictional Tales from the London Slums.’
‘An excellent title.’
Her smile was like the sun coming out. ‘It took me a long time to think of one. My mother helped me. She thought I should leave the first word off, though. She said it was showing off.’
‘It is in a way, but such initiatives must be taken if one’s work is to be noticed. If people think the stories are already famous they’ll buy them. I would rather like to meet your mother. Why don’t you bring her to my house to tea one day?’
‘Which day?’ she said eagerly before her face fell. ‘Her visiting dress is beyond repair so she might be too ashamed.’
‘It’s not her dress that will be doing the visiting, and I promise not to notice the patches. Bring her tomorrow if you can spare the time. Two p.m.?’
‘My sister will have to come too. Lottie is only three, and too young to be left behind by herself.’
‘Of course she is. I’m sure I can cater for Lottie.’
‘Why do you want to meet my mother?’
‘Because if we are to be friends she should be made aware of that friendship, and approve of it.’
Her look assessed him and she gave a wry smile. ‘You can come and meet her now if you have the time; then you can decide if you want to remain friends. Our ho
me is just round the corner.’
He glanced at his watch and nodded. ‘Yes, I do have time.’
It took them three minutes to get there. They went down a few stairs and she banged on a door and called out, ‘It’s me, Ma. I have a visitor. May we come in?’
There was a muffled reply.
Celia turned to him. ‘The ceiling is low so watch your head.’
Through a door of rotting wood and over a solid stone step designed to keep rain from trickling in, Thomas found himself in a damp cellar with a flagged floor. There was a small grate with a stewpot hanging from a hook.
‘Mr Hambert. This is my mother, Mrs Alice Laws.’
The woman stood, automatically bowing her head from the danger of the low ceiling. She had a pale, pinched face, in which gaunt traces of a former beauty could be found. ‘How do you do, Mr Hambert.’ She crossed to where Celia stood. ‘You’re not in any trouble are you, Celia?’
‘No. Mr Hambert thought he should meet you so you’d know he was respectable.’ Her hand went to her pocket and she handed over the two shillings she’d earned to her mother. ‘I earned this reciting a poem.’
‘Good, that means we have enough to pay the rent with this week.’
Thomas was getting a crick in his neck so he went down on his haunches and spoke to the small child who was gazing at him. ‘Hullo, my dear. What’s your name?’
The infant gave a soft giggle.
Mrs Laws smiled. ‘Her name is Charlotte, but we call her Lottie. Would you take a seat, Mr Hambert? You will be much more comfortable.’
Thomas was horrified by the accommodation, but he realized it was as clean and tidy as one could make such a place. The tiny fireplace gave out very little heat, and in places mould slimed the walls where dampness had risen from the ground and was progressing upwards. Such cellars were not designed to accommodate anything but wine and rats, and it had a peculiar odour. His nose wrinkled. It was not one he wanted to identify.
He took a seat at the rickety table and found his notebook. ‘Would you mind if I sketched the interior of your home? It’s for a paper I’m writing about social conditions of our time.’
Mrs Laws gave her permission and took the child up on her lap. Celia bent to stir the stew.
He chatted to Alice Laws while he worked, introducing topics she might be familiar with. She was intelligent, but ill at ease, appearing embarrassed by the squalor she was forced to endure.
Footsteps pattered overhead and dust drifted down.
Bit by bit he dug her story from her. A hasty marriage followed by desertion. She was middle-class and down on her luck, a country girl taken advantage of, but doing her best to survive. She had a persistent cough too, which boded ill for her future. Thomas wondered if she’d seen a doctor about it.
‘I’m so pleased that Celia was able to return the watch she found, Mr Hambert. Thank your housekeeper for giving her a reward. I understand that you were absent at the time she went to your house to return it, so where did you make the acquaintance of my daughter?’
He shifted his glance to Celia, who had the grace to look ashamed as he was forced to find the wit to lie. ‘I sought her out. Celia was pointed out to me on the street and I introduced myself.’
‘Mr Hambert has bought me a copy of Robinson Crusoe.’ She handed it to her mother. ‘See, he has written a message inside.’
She read the inscription and looked him straight in the eye. ‘That’s kind of you, sir. How odd that you picked the very same book that Celia has always coveted.’
This woman was no fool, but she had a disillusioned air about her. She was nicely spoken and everything Celia had said she was. As far as he could tell the slums had not sucked either her or her children completely into its social maw yet.
‘I would offer you tea, but we have none.’
‘I’m not thirsty, Mrs Laws. I’m here because the information Celia gave me about you piqued my interest. I wanted to reassure you that your daughter will not be in any danger in my company.’
The woman gave her daughter a searching look. ‘Celia has a vivid imagination and she is prone to exaggeration.’
‘I’ve noticed.’
‘What do you want with her?’
Thomas didn’t really know. It was unlike him to become involved in the life of those he observed. ‘I might be able to help you to better yourself.’
She shrugged. ‘I would prefer my independence than be under an obligation to any man.’
‘I want nothing from you. Let us be frank with one another. It seems to me that you and your children have nowhere to go but down. Celia is on the brink of womanhood. She’s got a good brain on her and already has quite a bag of tricks at her disposal; most of them dishonest, for even begging is illegal. She’s also an accomplished liar.’
Celia gasped.
‘I can only guess at how you are able to support your children, Mrs Laws, but if Celia is any indication they haven’t got much of a future. I’m not without influence. Perhaps if I were to inform the parish of your circumstances—’
‘They would give me a place in a workhouse and deprive me of my children. They would then be worse off because they’d be hired out to anyone who would offer for them, and would be at the mercy of people who didn’t care what happened to them. Have you seen the children starving, or frozen to death on the streets? I don’t want that to happen to my children.’
‘And if anything happens to you?’
She avoided his eyes. ‘Celia is better educated than most, and she’s old enough and sensible enough to care for Lottie.’
‘So are you, my dear, but you can’t earn enough to afford decent lodging.’
Celia put an arm around her mother and gazed fiercely at him. ‘Was it your intention to insult us when you came here?’
‘Hush, Celia. Mr Hambert has never been in the position we’re in, while I have the advantage of being familiar with his. He’s attempting to educate himself under the guise of educating us . . . is that not so, Mr Hambert?’
Thomas squirmed at the resounding put-down. That’s exactly what he’d done. How could he have been so patronizing? ‘You’re right, Mrs Laws. I’m not usually so crass, and I hope you will forgive me, and come and have tea with me tomorrow. As Celia so rightly reminded me, that’s why I came here . . . to meet you, and invite you.’
Would misplaced pride make her refuse the offer of a free meal, though?
The woman gazed down at her dress and sighed, but said nothing of her poverty. ‘Afternoon tea . . . it’s been a long time . . . yes, I think I’d enjoy that.’
‘I’ll get along home, then.’ Flustered, he stood up too quickly and banged his head on the roof.
Celia smothered a laugh.
When Thomas told James of the invitation his nephew flopped into a chair, looking clearly astounded. ‘You’ve invited a family of thieves to tea? Good Lord, Uncle . . . whatever next? The people in the square won’t appreciate your home becoming a meeting place for such people.’
Thomas ignored the suggestion. Bedford Square was mostly inhabited by artisans, writers and scholarly people like himself. Some took in lodgers to help pay the rent. ‘You’ll like Celia when you meet her. Her mother is unusual in that she was a teacher in a church school before she fell on hard times.’
‘A likely story.’
‘James, you’re being much too cynical. Please reserve your judgement until after you’ve met them.’
His eyes lit up with amusement. ‘You mean that you expect me to attend your tea party in an effort to further my social interaction?’
‘Damn it, James, yes, I most certainly do,’ Thomas growled. ‘You must be obliged to mix with all classes of people in your legal profession, so I’m sure you’ll carry it off admirably. In fact, I’d be interested in what you make of them. If nothing else it might encourage you to appreciate your own circumstances and opportunities a little better. Besides . . . I thought the family might be a suitable study for the paper I must pres
ent to the Anglican Philanthropic Society I belong to.’
‘Ah . . . so that’s it. Perhaps I’ll be able to keep an eye on the teaspoons for you if I join you then. Have you told Mrs Packer that you’re expecting beggars as guests tomorrow?’
‘I’ve told her I’m expecting guests for tea, and to light a fire in the drawing room. That’s all she needs to know. I’ve asked her to buy some muffins from the vendor in the morning, and she has promised to bake a madeira cake.’
James’ laughter rang out. ‘It’ll be worth coming to your tea party just to see her face when she sets eyes on them.’
Four
The walk to Bedford Square tired Alice Laws more than she cared to admit. Celia strode on ahead, her sister carried warmly under her cape. Lottie rode astride Celia’s hip, small and thin.
‘Celia, wait.’ She stopped to catch her breath and was overtaken by an irrepressible urge to cough. Her handkerchief displayed tiny flecks of red afterwards. Alice knew what that usually signified, though she’d avoided thinking about it so far. She’d just turned thirty-eight, yet she felt like an old woman. It occurred to her now that she must make arrangements for the welfare of her children. She had no doubt that Celia would manage without her, but it was how her daughter would manage that worried her.
An offer had been made recently that her daughter didn’t know about. Celia possessed a certain quality that had attracted the notice of a gentleman. Innocence! Through a broker he’d offered a great deal of money for the girl, trying to tempt Alice to hand her over.
Alice had turned the offer down, but she suspected that she was simply postponing the inevitable. It wouldn’t take much to snatch Celia from the street. Children of all ages disappeared every day, some turning up on the Thames river mud a few days later, their bodies broken.
Alice always worried when Celia went out, just going about her business and looking for work to help them provide for their daily needs. Her daughter was lovely and drew the eye.
Concern in her eyes, Celia came back to where she stood. ‘Are you all right, Ma?’
