by Dilly Court
The sun was warm on her face and the hedgerows were alive with the twittering of birds and the rustling of small animals. Catkins fluttered in the breeze and clusters of yellow primroses created pools of sunshine beneath the hedgerow, and tightly furled buds of hawthorn were just beginning to open. She walked on until she came to a stile, and climbing onto it she could see Robert leading the sturdy shire horse as it pulled the harrow over the newly sown soil. She called out and waved to attract his attention. He had seen her and she perched on the stile, waiting until he was able to join her. The damp earth had a rich smell resembling the Christmas puddings that Cook used to make at Portgone Place, and the warm breeze fanned her hot cheeks.
‘I’ve brought your lunch,’ she said as Robert came striding towards her. ‘I knew you wouldn’t stop until you’d completed your task, but you must eat.’
He sat on the fence beside her. ‘I don’t know how we managed without you, Stella.’
‘That’s just it, Bob. I wanted you to be the first to know that I’ve decided to move on.’
‘Not so soon?’
‘I’ve stayed much longer than I intended.’
‘Aren’t you happy here with us?’ He laid his hand on hers as it rested on the stile. ‘I thought you liked me, Stella.’
‘Of course I do.’ She avoided meeting his gaze. ‘But your father only took me in out of the kindness of his heart.’
‘I don’t agree. You came at a time when we were desperate men. You’ve done a wonderful job, and more than that. You’re part of the family now.’
‘No, Bob. It’s kind of you to say so, but that isn’t true. Even if it were I have to do what I set out to do in the first place. I can’t rest until I find Ma and the nippers and the longer I stay here the harder it will be for me to leave.’
He was silent for a moment and then he sighed. ‘I suppose it was always going to be this way.’
‘I told you so from the beginning.’
‘When are you planning to leave?’
‘As soon as you’ve found someone to take my place.’
‘No one can replace you, Stella.’
‘Of course they can.’ She curled her fingers around his hand.
‘I mean it, Stella. I’m not going to let you go off on your own to face the dangers of the city streets. What sort of chap would I be if I did that?’
‘It’s not your problem, Bob.’
‘I’m making it my business to look after you. Pa would say the same.’
She looked into his eyes and realised that he was in earnest, but she shook her head. ‘Your place is here and this is something I have to do on my own.’
‘But . . .’
‘No buts,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ll keep in touch, Bob.’
‘Let me at least drive you to the station.’
She smiled. ‘That would be very kind.’
‘And you will come back again, won’t you?’
‘Of course I will.’ It was a promise that she might be unable to keep, but she could not bear to dash his hopes. Mr Hendy had managed to procure an old copy of the Post Office London Directory of Trades and Professions from a friend who worked in the City. She had thumbed through it and found the address of her grandfather, Saul Wilton, a rag and bone man, dwelling in Bethnal Green. She had a vague memory of meeting an Aunt Maud, whose late husband had been an undertaker, and Clifford’s Funeral Parlour was situated in Artillery Street, which might also be a starting point.
Two weeks later she was saying goodbye to Bob on Romford station. The engine belched smoke and let off steam with a resounding snort as the guard blew his whistle and waved a green flag. She climbed into the compartment and Bob slammed the door. She let the window down and leaned out. ‘Wish me luck.’
‘I do. Let me know how things are going,’ he shouted as the train lurched forward.
‘I will.’ She closed the window and sat down in the corner seat, trying hard not to cry. It had not been easy to leave the Hendys, who had taken her in and treated her more like a member of the family than a servant. She would even miss Bertie a little, but the new housekeeper had a motherly manner even if her cooking skills left a lot to be desired. Stella settled back into her seat. They would all do very well without her and Bob would forget her in time, but whether or not she would be able to put them from her mind was another matter. She closed her eyes so that she did not have to talk to the garrulous little woman who was seated beside her.
‘That must have been her sweetheart,’ the woman said in a stage whisper, addressing a prim-looking lady who was dressed soberly in grey. ‘He didn’t want her to go. That was clear. I can spot a broken romance a mile off. What d’you think, miss?’
‘I think it’s none of our business.’
The woman subsided into silence and Stella continued to feign sleep until they reached Liverpool Street. She lifted her valise from the luggage rack and alighted from the train before the talkative woman had a chance to start up another conversation. She headed for the barrier with her ticket clutched in her hand, but having given it to the collector she experienced a feeling of panic. She was quite literally on her own now and what had seemed an easy thing to do from the security of the farmhouse kitchen was now all too real and frankly terrifying. She had grown used to living in the country and had almost forgotten what it was like to live in the metropolis. She stood motionless while people rushed past her, seeming to come at her from all directions. Costermongers cried their wares in raucous voices, competing with the noise from the shunting yard. Ragged children hung around on street corners, some of them eyeing her as if they were deciding whether she was worth robbing, while others were attempting to sell matches, bootlaces and bunches of watercress to passers-by. Their cries mingled with the clip-clip of horses’ hooves and the rumble of cartwheels.
A blind beggar clutched her arm as she walked past an open pub door. ‘Got a penny to spare, lady?’
She fumbled in her reticule and took out a halfpenny, which she thrust into his outstretched hand. ‘I’d give you more, if I had it.’
‘Ta, lady. You’re a good ’un.’ He lurched back into the fuggy atmosphere of the pub and Stella was enveloped in a gust of warm air laden with the smell of beer and tobacco smoke. She walked on, quickening her pace and staring straight ahead. Memories of being mugged for her purse and the simnel cake she had intended as a gift for her mother were still fresh in her mind, and she was not about to let it happen again.
She had formed a vague plan of action while she was working at the farm and her first task would be to find her father’s family. Her mother had told her about the family feud that had made her great-grandparents turn against their only son, and for all Stella knew they might both be dead. She knew that her mother’s parents had perished during the Crimean War, and having given it considerable thought she decided to try the funeral parlour first. Maud Clifford was said to be a kindly soul although by now, if indeed she were still alive, she would be a very old lady. Stella had a half-remembered notion that there was a stepson who had inherited the business when his father died, and with luck he might still be the owner.
She hurried on, quickening her pace. It was a long walk but she did not want to spend any of her hard-earned savings on a cab. The day was fine and the sun had even managed to penetrate the dark canyons of the city streets. She tried to be optimistic, but she knew that after so many years it was going to be difficult to trace her mother’s family and even then they might not be able to help.
She reached Artillery Street soon after midday, and found Clifford’s Funeral Parlour at the far end of the road in the shadow of the brewery, and only a little way from the shunting yard. She stood outside the shop front deafened by the roar of steam engines and the sound of iron wheels on iron tracks. She wrinkled her nose as the odour of boiled hops and malt erupted in great gusts of steam from the mash tuns. Peering through the thin layer of grime that veiled the funeral parlour window she could see an oak coffin draped in black crêpe. It
was laid on a bed of dingy-looking white satin, which was sprinkled liberally with dusty paper roses. A feeling of sadness brought tears to her eyes and she was tempted to walk away, but she had come this far and it would be foolish to give up now. Stella could just about remember Aunt Maud, but she had never met Ronald Clifford who, according to Ma, was a nasty piece of work. When he had inherited the family business he had lost no time in ousting Maud from her comfortable home, and forced her to live in rented rooms. Stella took a deep breath and opened the shop door. The bell jangled on its spring and a man dressed in funereal black slithered towards her, clutching his hands together as if in prayer. His lined face was set in a smile that curved his lips but did not quite reach his eyes. His hooded eyelids gave him a reptilian appearance and he looked her up and down as if assessing whether or not she could afford to pay for his services. ‘Good afternoon, miss,’ he said in a treacly voice. ‘How may I help you?’
‘Are you Mr Ronald Clifford?’
His smile faded and his eyes narrowed to a basilisk stare. ‘I am. How may I assist you?’
‘I’m not here to arrange a funeral,’ Stella said hastily. ‘It’s a personal matter that I wish to discuss with you, Mr Clifford.’
He recoiled, pulling his neck back like a snake about to strike. She almost expected to see a forked tongue dart in and out of his mouth, but he recovered quickly and pasted the professional smile back on his angular features. ‘Won’t you take a seat, Miss . . . I’m afraid I do not know your name.’
She sank down with a sigh on the plush-covered seat of a chair set in front of a mahogany kneehole desk. Her feet hurt and she was sure she had blisters on both heels, but her need for information was greater than her pain. ‘My name is Stella Barry. If you are Mr Ronald Clifford then we might be related by marriage.’
He slid into a chair behind the desk, taking time to arrange his frock coat before leaning his elbows on the tooled leather surface, steepling his hands. ‘Now then, young lady, I vaguely recall the name, but I don’t know you. Perhaps you will enlighten me further.’
‘My great-grandmother was Agnes Wilton and, unless I’m mistaken, your stepmother is her sister.’
‘That is true, but there was a rift in the family over some trivial matter, or so I’ve been told.’
‘I believe so, but I think Aunt Maud, if she is still alive, might be able to help me find my mother. Fred Wilton was my grandfather, but I never knew him. Both he and my grandmother died in the Crimea.’
Twin furrows appeared between his black eyebrows. ‘I never met Fred Wilton, but I heard that he had taken up with a Spanish woman and that was why no one wanted anything to do with the fellow.’
‘That lady was his common law wife. They only had one daughter, and she is my mother, Jacinta Barry. I think you met her at least once.’
He leaned back in his chair. ‘What has all this to do with me, Miss Barry? Why do you think I might be able to help you?’
She clasped her hands tightly in her lap and looked away, not wanting him to see that her eyes had filled with tears at the mention of her mother. ‘I thought perhaps you or your stepmother might know where Ma and the nippers went when they left Broadway Wharf.’
‘You’ve lost your whole family? That seems rather careless.’ His tone was mocking rather than humorous.
‘It’s no laughing matter, Mr Clifford,’ she said angrily. ‘You must know that my father was lost at sea?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Your family seem to be dogged by ill fortune.’
‘My mother struggled to cope as she found it difficult to get work. I was sent into service when I was eleven, and a year later when I went to visit my family on Mothering Sunday, I found that they were gone without a trace.’
‘That must have been some time ago, as you are considerably older than that now.’
She resisted the urge to get up and leave. His flippant attitude annoyed and hurt her, but he was her only link with her family. ‘When I found my mother had gone I was left penniless and alone in Limehouse. I tried to find her but I fell ill and if it hadn’t been for a kindly man and his wife I might have perished in the gutter. They looked after me and took me back to my employers in Essex.’
‘And you made no other attempt to find your mother?’
‘I was just twelve years old, Mr Clifford. I was a scullery maid earning ten pounds a year. What was I to do?’
‘And your mother never contacted you?’
‘No.’
‘Has it occurred to you that she might have moved in with another man?’
‘Never! She loved my pa and she had Freddie and Belinda to look after. They were only nippers then.’
Ronald pulled a face. ‘So they named their only son after his grandfather. That is very amusing considering the mess Fred Wilton made of his life.’
‘You seem to find the whole affair amusing, Mr Clifford.’
His expression darkened. ‘The Wilton family were a rough bunch and Maud’s brother-in-law, Saul, was the worst of the lot. I’ve had nothing to do with any of them and I want to keep it that way.’
Stella rose to her feet. ‘I can see that you know nothing. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’ She made for the door but he called her back.
‘Wait. Perhaps I have been a bit hard on you, Stella. I can’t help you but perhaps my stepmother can.’
She hesitated with her hand on the door handle. ‘Aunt Maud is still alive?’
‘Alive, but not entirely in the land of the living. She prattles on, but I rarely listen to anything she says. I’d have cut her off years ago but for my father’s dying wish that I take care of the old woman.’
‘She told my mother that you turned her out of her house.’
‘It was my house, and I put her in very comfortable accommodation. She might recall something that would be of use, but don’t count on it.’
‘The smallest clue would help.’
Ronald stood up, reaching for his top hat which hung from a coat stand behind his desk. ‘My stepmother lives not far from here, in Quaker Street. She’s in her dotage but sometimes her mind is lucid, and at other times it isn’t. I’ll take you to see her but I can’t promise anything.’ He tugged at a bell pull and a young boy emerged through the door at the rear of the parlour.
‘You rang, master?’
‘Watch the shop, Spike. I won’t be gone long so don’t think you can loaf around and get away with it. Polish the brass handles on Alderman Puckett’s coffin and keep the door open so that you can see if anyone comes in.’ He cuffed the boy round the head causing him to yelp and stagger backwards, his crooked legs seeming too weak to hold his weight. ‘That’s for nothing, see what you get for something.’
‘Yes, master.’ Spike cowered in a corner, his bottom lip trembling.
‘Let’s go and see if the old fright is sensible or not.’ Ronald grabbed the door handle just as someone outside tried to gain entrance. He peered through the grime-encrusted glass. ‘Go away, Rosa Rivenhall. We’re closed.’
Chapter Six
‘LET HER IN, master,’ Spike muttered, cowering in the workshop doorway. ‘We need the wreath for Alderman Puckett’s coffin.’
Ronald raised his hand. ‘Another word from you, boy, and I’ll send you back to the workhouse. Come along, Miss Barry. We’re wasting time here.’ He wrenched the outer door open. ‘What have I told you before, Miss Rivenhall? Tradespeople go round to the rear of the building.’
The young woman pushed past him, her skirts billowing as a sudden breeze hurtled down the street whipping dust, straw and scraps of paper into miniature tornadoes. She slammed the door and a flurry of snow-white rose petals fell from the basket she was carrying and fluttered to the floor. ‘Bother,’ she said, unhooking a wreath of white paper roses from her arm and laying it carefully on the desk. She dropped to her knees and began scooping the petals into her basket. ‘Drat it. Wretched weather. One moment it’s fine and now it’s starting to rain. My hard work will be ruined.’
‘Let me help you.’ Stella knelt beside her and picked up the petals, taking care not to crush them. ‘The wreath is very lifelike and these are really lovely. Did you make them?’
Rosa sat back on her haunches and her blue eyes sparkled with humour. ‘For my sins, yes.’
‘Your sins will be punished by God,’ Ronald said impatiently. ‘We were on our way out. Please get up and allow me to open the door.’
Rosa pulled a face. ‘If you open the door the wind will blow them all over the place again. Be patient for a moment. We’re doing our best.’
‘Spike.’ Ronald beckoned to the boy. ‘Help them or we’ll be here all day.’ He leaned his shoulders against the half-glassed door, glaring at Rosa as if he would like to pick her up by the scruff of the neck and eject her from the building, but she seemed oblivious to his displeasure.
Spike went down on his knees and his deformed bones creaked liked those of an old man. Stella gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘We’re almost done,’ she said, feeling nothing but pity for the skinny child, who looked as though he had never had a square meal in the whole of his eleven or twelve years. ‘But thank you all the same.’
‘Yes,’ Rosa said, springing to her feet. ‘Thank you both.’ She thrust the full basket at Ronald. ‘Here you are, Mr Clifford. That’ll be one shilling, and that includes payment for the wreath.’
‘I’ll pay you at the end of the week, as we agreed.’ He picked up a petal and examined it. ‘This one is dirty. I can’t allow dirty rose petals to be scattered at a baby’s funeral. It wouldn’t be proper.’
Rosa stood her ground. ‘If your floor had been swept clean it wouldn’t have dirtied the paper. I’m not leaving until you pay me what’s owed. I’m sure a successful man like you can afford to pay twelve pennies for all my hard work.’
