by Anna King
Ruby Chadwick
Table of Contents
Cover
Ruby Chadwick
Dedication
Acknowledgements
PART ONE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
PART TWO
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Copyright
Ruby Chadwick
Anna King
Dedication
In memory of my mother-in-law, Gladys Ruth King, who gave me the idea for this novel
Acknowledgements
With thanks to my sister-in-law, Pauline Masterson, who helped with the typing of the manuscript; and to Lord McColl of Dulwich and Dr Ian Hannah for their invaluable assistance relating to medical details in this book. Thank you also to my sister, Teresa Deere, who helped me to acquire a word processor, and to my brother, Tony Masterson, who taught me how to use it. A special thank you to my niece, Claire Guntrip, for keeping my children busy while I worked; and to the staff at Welling Library, for supplying me with reference books.
PART ONE
1887
Chapter One
Beneath the pile of blankets a silent form stirred, a small leg appeared through a gap in the bed-covers, encountered the icy cold and was swiftly pulled back into the warmth. The sounds from the street carried up to her window as ten-year-old Ruby Chadwick tried to hang on to the last vestige of sleep. A woman’s voice, shrill with raucous laughter, brought Ruby’s head from her soft warm pillow.
‘Blast!’ she swore softly, her hands cupping the sides of her face as her long chestnut hair, parted into segments with cotton curling-rags, tumbled around her shoulders. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she shivered slightly before pulling off the coverlet and wrapping it round her slight frame. Half running, half hopping, she made her way across the cold floorboards to her bedroom window to look for the person who had so rudely awakened her.
The woman stood on the pavement, her heavily-painted face illuminated by the huge wrought-iron gas lamp that hung over the pub entrance below Ruby’s bedroom. On her head she wore a huge hat bedecked with multi-coloured feathers, her tattered green dress cut low at the neck revealing her soiled, much used breasts. By her side stood a seaman, his cap pushed to the back of his head, a drunken grin on his face.
As Ruby pressed closer against the window, his voice came clearly to her: ‘Will sixpence do yer?’
The woman cocked her head to one side as if considering the offer, then, shrugging her shoulders, she nodded. Arm in arm, the couple walked forward towards the door directly underneath Ruby’s window. She watched as the sailor tried to pull the woman in the opposite direction.
‘Let’s ’ave a drink first, eh, love?’ wheedled the woman.
The sailor stopped in his tracks, his fuddled mind trying to come to a decision. He had docked only two hours ago after a year at sea, but his pay was almost gone and he still had to find somewhere to sleep tonight, unless he could find his way home to his wife in Stepney. Pushing away the woman’s arm, he stood back as if to see her more clearly, and then shuddered. His wife was no oil-painting, but at least she was clean and, more important, she didn’t cost anything.
‘Sorry, love, changed me mind. Got a wife an’ ten kids at ’ome. I ’aven’t seen ’em for over a year.’
Seeing the look that came over the woman’s face, he hastily backed away, looking fearfully over his shoulder in case she had an accomplice waiting in one of the dark alleys that lined the street. He wouldn’t be the first sailor to be found unconscious, a lump on his head and his pockets empty. Turning swiftly on his heel, he made off down the street, ignoring the stream of invective that followed him, anxious now to get to the safety of his home.
Still at her vantage place, Ruby watched the change in the woman. Gone now was the inviting smile; in its place came the face of an old woman, weary and drawn, a defeated look Ruby had witnessed many times from her window. Letting the lace curtains drop back, she scuttled back to her bed, muttering under her breath, ‘Doxy!’
The scene Ruby had just witnessed was a common occurrence, especially on a Saturday night. She lived over the King’s Arms public house in the Mile End Road and often bemoaned her misfortune at having to sleep in the bedroom directly over the bar and facing the street. If the noise from downstairs didn’t disturb her sleep, the passing traffic almost certainly would. As she snuggled back down under the covers, she wondered how her two brothers managed to sleep so soundly in the box-room next door.
Yawning loudly, she settled down in the feather-tick bed, closing her eyes. Within minutes she was asleep.
* * *
‘Three ha’pence of gin, Guv’nor?’
Bernard Chadwick looked into the wrinkled face of the old woman, and then down at the counter to make sure the money was there. Swiftly scooping up the coppers, he turned to the bar behind him and picking up a coloured glass from the shelf he proceeded to measure out the three-ha’pence-worth of gin from a yellow bottle. Returning to the counter, he set the drink down before moving on to his next customer.
The King’s Arms was one of the many public houses that lined the Mile End Road, but Bernard Chadwick liked to think that his establishment was a cut above its fellows. The bar was spacious, the floor covered in clean sawdust and sand every Friday morning, the coloured drinking glasses were kept clean and well polished, as was the large looking-glass that ran the length of the bar and reflected the yellow, green and red bottles that lined the shelves beneath. At this time of the evening, just an hour from midnight, all the wooden tables and chairs were taken.
The East End women sat holding their pints of gin as they conversed about the day’s events; their children, often left alone while their parents frequented the gin palaces; and the latest fashion. As most of the women present hadn’t had a new dress for the past 20 years or more, this conversation piece was somewhat academic, but to these women, born to a life of poverty, the public houses were their equivalent of the gentry’s drawing rooms. And so they sat in regal supremacy, their grimy dresses showing the tattered petticoats beneath, until it was time to return to the hovels they called home.
Their menfolk stood, tankards of ale held between strong, often calloused, hands, holding forth on the topic of the day. This usually fell between two subjects, politics and religion. The arguments would rage back and forth, for the most part in good-natured camaraderie, but it would be a very dull Saturday night if the evening didn’t end with a fight outside on the cobbled pavement. If the combatants were women, the entertainment was heightened considerably.
Daisy Chadwick stood at the far end of the bar counter, looking down on the dwindling plates of sandwiches and meat pies, wondering if she should replenish the food supply so vital to their trade. Raising her eyes, she looked down the length of the counter to try to catch her husband’s attention, but Bernard was at that moment serving one of their more respecta
ble customers, a costermonger and his wife from nearby Whitechapel market, their smart clothes singling them out from the rest of the crowd. Daisy could see Bernard’s face wreathed in smiles, the happy face he saved for his well-to-do clientele. She doubted if any of their regular customers had ever seen this side of his countenance, for in the past few years he had found it harder not to show the contempt he felt, had always felt, for the poverty-stricken people of the East End.
Daisy could remember clearly the first time she had seen him. She had been with her parents on a week’s holiday to Southend, and they had met while walking on the promenade. She could still remember his earnest face as he’d talked about his dream of owning a hotel and public house combined. The exact location of this dream home Bernard had never quite divulged, but Daisy had always been under the impression that it would be in her beloved Essex. Even after all these years, she still thought of Essex as her home. She still missed the green fields and clean streets – streets that didn’t run with filth – and clean people, especially clean people. They had married three months after their first meeting. Their short honeymoon had been a weekend in Brighton, and then he had brought her here to her new home. She had been so much in love that she had never queried where they would be living after the wedding; she had trusted him implicitly. The only thing she’d known was that they would be renting a moderately large public house from the brewery while they saved for a better place.
Her first glimpse of her new home had struck fear into her very being. As she’d walked down the pavement lined with shops and stalls of every description, she had stared in disbelief at the overcrowded tenements, the rotting refuse that littered the pavements and overflowed on to the cobbled road already caked with horse manure, the seemingly never-ending crowd of people, beggars and pedlars that had pushed and sworn at her as she’d walked on in a daze, tightly holding Bernard’s arm. The worst sight had been the children dressed in rags as they’d run back and forth, some directly in front of the horse-drawn vehicles, endangering their lives with cheerful impunity, their shouts mixing with the other street noises causing a cacophony of sound that had beaten on her eardrums. It was as the enormity of her situation had threatened to overwhelm her that she had looked up into Bernard’s white, strained, face. The sight of the silent plea in his blue eyes had filled her with love and shame. She had taken his arm and walked on, her back straight and her step firm.
That had been 14 years back, and although housing conditions hadn’t changed much, at least the homeless waifs that roamed the streets had found a benefactor in Thomas J. Barnardo. Many orphaned children destined for a life of crime and prostitution had found their way to the Barnardo’s Home in Stepney Causeway, lured there by the notice that hung over the building door: ‘NO DESTITUTE CHILD IS REFUSED ADMISSION.’
The sound of the piano-player returning to his seat brought Daisy back to the present. Moving away from the food counter to attend a customer, she forced a smile to her lips. Bernard’s dream of one day owning a posh hotel had never materialised, and it never would. They both knew that, but it was never discussed aloud: it was always ‘one day’. That kept her going; that and her children. She was 35 years old and it looked as if she would be spending the rest of her life in this god-forsaken place.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she smiled brightly as she handed the man his tankard of ale, then watched as he joined the crowd around the piano-player who was valiantly trying to make his music heard above the boisterous, bawdy songs that resounded to the rafters.
Looking down the bar again, Daisy regarded her husband as he worked. His slim body was clothed in fawn trousers and matching waistcoat. The white shirt she had ironed that morning was buttoned high to his neck, the starched collar biting into his Adam’s apple. Not for him the casual open-necked shirts and rolled-up sleeves adopted by his neighbouring landlords. Oh, no, appearances were very important to Bernard, and he insisted that his wife and children follow his example.
Daisy turned to face the looking-glass. Glancing swiftly over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching her, she returned her gaze to the mirror. Frowning, she leaned forward, her hands going to the back of her head where the braids she had plaited to the nape of her neck were in danger of coming loose. Her fingers worked deftly, and within seconds her black hair was firmly back in place, secured once again with her favourite tortoise-shell combs. Giving the braids one last pat with her hand, she turned to face the tap-room once more. It looked as though the heavy trade was over for the night. Those customers who still had a drink would nurse it for as long as possible before buying another to see them through to the early hours of the morning. Others would leave the bar to return later with the price of a drink and a meat pie. Where the extra money came from Daisy didn’t know, and she would rather keep it that way.
‘Are you staying all night, Mrs Chadwick? I can manage if you want to get off to bed. Proper tired you look.’
Lily Watkins stood before Daisy, her arms full of dirty glasses she had collected from the nearby tables. She was paid a shilling a night during the week, and one and sixpence at the weekend.
Looking at the 17-year-old’s grimy but nevertheless pretty face, Daisy wondered if collecting the glasses and helping behind the bar was the only type of work the blond girl occupied herself with, once she herself had left the bar. Not that she was unduly worried. She still loved Bernard, but these last few years, given a choice between a bit of loving and a good cup of tea, she would choose the latter. She derived more pleasure from it, and it lasted longer. Shrugging off the thought, she answered, ‘Thank you, Lily. I am tired. I’ll just have a word with Mr Chadwick and then I’ll be off to bed.’
Lily grinned at her mistress, then hurried over to the barrel that stood beside the large black spittoon and plunged the dirty glasses into the already murky water. It was part of her duties to keep the water in the barrel clean. Biting on her lip, she wondered if it was worth all the trouble of getting the barrel outside into the yard and emptying it, then the agonising wait for it to fill up from the old brass tap that seemed to relinquish its precious water, drip by drip. Shaking her head, she decided against such a drastic measure, then crossing her fingers she sent up a silent prayer that her employer wouldn’t come down this end of the bar and check up on her. If he did, and found the dirty water she was using to wash the glasses, he would sack her, she had no illusions about that.
He was a fussy sod, but good-looking with it. Dreamily she stared down the room at Bernard, her blue eyes travelling over his clean-shaven face, the dark hair parted in the middle glistening with pomade and the gleaming near-white teeth that were a rare occurrence in a man who must be nearing his fortieth birthday. Most men, or women for that matter, had lost most of their teeth by the time they were 30 and those that remained were often yellow, decaying into black stumps in later years.
Lily’s eyes moved to Daisy, her keen glance taking in the details of the dress she wore. A dark maroon colour, the skirt was cut full and heavily pleated into the waist, the three petticoats underneath giving it a hooped effect, which was as near to the current fashion as a working woman could get. The face above the white lace collar was plain, the features too large to be called attractive until she smiled, and then they would soften, giving the impression of a handsome woman.
Lily’s own dress was dirty and torn. Once a pale blue, it was now an indescribable colour, the cloth stained with years of neglect that no amount of washing would remove. For a moment she felt envy and a touch of hatred for her mistress. As a child, she had watched her mother work her life away, crouched over what had seemed to Lily a mountain of material. Her earliest recollection of her mother was of a woman with eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep, fingers often bleeding from the continual plying of her needle. Of her father she knew nothing, that erstwhile gentleman having absconded one night, taking with him his wife’s hard-earned money. Lily felt her eyes begin to smart as she recalled her mum sitting her on her lap and singing to her a
song written by someone called Thomas Hood. It was called ‘The Song of the Shirt’, and Lily remembered it vividly.
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rage,
Plying her needle and thread —
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,
She sang the ‘Song of the shirt’.
Work — work — work,
My labour never flags,
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread — and rags —
That shattered roof — and this naked floor —
A table — a broken chair —
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there.
Humming the song softly under her breath, Lily rinsed the glasses vigorously before putting them upside down to drain under the bar counter. A man pushed by her, squeezing her backside as he passed. Lily glared after him, hatred in her eyes. After her mum had died six years ago, two men from the workhouse had come to the one-roomed flat she and her mum had called home. She remembered them both. One had given her a lecture about how fortunate she was to be given a place in the already overcrowded workhouse. He had made it sound as if an honour was being bestowed upon her, while the small man had just stared, a lecherous look in his eyes. Children grew up quickly in the East End. They had to; it was a matter of survival. When the men had left, the neighbours had closed ranks around her, taking it in turns to feed and shelter her. For nearly three years Lily had dodged from one stinking, overcrowded, home to the next, always one step ahead of the men from the workhouse.
When she reached the age of 14, she had come to the King’s Arms looking for a job. It had been New Year’s Day 1885 when she had walked into the chaos of upturned tables and broken chairs in the tap-room. Smashed glasses covered the floor, while a dark-haired woman had valiantly tried to bring some kind of order to the place. Tentatively, Lily had stepped forward to offer her services, and when the woman had asked her age, she had quickly added an extra two years. After what had seemed an interminable wait, the woman had nodded her head, whereupon Lily had immediately rolled up her sleeves and waded into the mess. That had been over two years ago, and she had been here ever since.
