by Dilly Court
Each morning when she left Pook’s Buildings to make the short walk to Hay Yard, Tilly would follow Bootle, glancing nervously over her shoulder every time she heard the rumble of cartwheels and the clip-clopping of horses’ hooves, fearing it might be Bert. Then common sense would assert itself: London was a big city and it would be a stroke of bad luck if their paths should cross purely by chance. Perhaps Bert had forgotten all about her or had found another victim to terrorise. Tilly put all thoughts of the Tuffins out of her head and concentrated on learning to be a type-writer, but it was far from easy. From early morning until evening, she sat in her dark corner of the office trying hard to master the machine. Although she had learnt her alphabet parrot-fashion at school it was little or no help, the keys of the typewriting machine having been arranged in a seemingly illogical fashion. Even when she found the correct letter, her fingers were stiff and she kept hitting the wrong keys. Bootle had shown her how to set out a business letter and all she had to do then was to transpose his neat copperplate into type, but she found that was easier said than done. Hunched over the typewriting machine and using just two fingers, Tilly peered at the handwritten material and then at the keyboard, searching for the right key and jabbing at it with cold sweat trickling down between her shoulder blades. The words were unfamiliar and she made so many mistakes that she wasted many sheets of expensive headed paper.
Bootle was kind and endlessly patient but the other clerks in the law firm were not; notably Jenks, a tight-lipped, acid-faced streak of a man, who was Mr Clarence Palgrave’s clerk. On her first day, Tilly discovered that the Palgrave in Palgrave, Jardine and Bolt was not Barney but his uncle, Clarence Palgrave, QC. Barney was just a junior barrister and his easy-going attitude to his work was only tolerated because of his relationship to Mr Clarence, so Bootle confided in an unguarded moment after a heated discussion with Bragg that had left him flushed and out of temper.
Bragg was clerk to Himself, the legendary Mr Jardine who only dealt with the most important cases and was only ever seen from behind, disappearing towards the Law Courts in a flurry of black robes topped with a snowy white wig. Bragg treated Tilly as though she were a nasty smell beneath his supercilious nose, directing his remarks to Bootle and making it plain that he considered Tilly’s employment in the law firm would not be a long one. With vitriol dripping off his tongue, Jenks never lost an opportunity to show how much he disapproved of having a young female working in the office, let alone one who was so patently useless that she was unworthy of being paid, even in brass washers.
Bootle listened politely to his complaints, smiled and nodded and somehow, with a talent that was all his own, he managed to change the subject, usually by throwing in a query about a particular court case. Tilly kept quiet in her corner, stabbing at the keys with her forefinger and pretending she was jabbing it into a part of Jenks’s body that would cause him the most pain. She was trying her hardest, but Jenks grumbled about the amount of paper she had wasted and the time it took her to type out even the shortest letter. Passing by her desk he would bump her chair so that she made a mistake, or he would send her work flying to the floor without a word of apology. Tilly began to hate Jenks almost as much as she hated Bert Tuffin, but his antagonism made her even more determined to master the machine and become a proficient type-writer, if only to spite him.
In the first few weeks she saw little of Barney. Her position in the firm being lowly, she was not allowed to venture into his office uninvited, although he always greeted her with a cheery nod and a wink. Tilly couldn’t help noticing that the female clients had a preference for Barney, and judging by the sounds of merriment coming from behind the closed door she guessed that he was more than sympathetic to their troubles. Well dressed, well heeled ladies, some of them Tilly suspected were not quite respectable, came to consult Barney. One day, curiosity got the better of her after Bootle had shown a woman of a certain age with suspiciously red hair and flashy clothes into Barney’s office.
‘Who was that?’
Bootle perched on his stool, peering at her over the top of his spectacles. ‘Just a client.’
‘What sort of client?’
Bootle smiled vaguely. ‘A wealthy one, Miss Tilly. We don’t ask questions, we just do our jobs.’
‘She didn’t look like a criminal.’
‘The lady runs a certain type of house that gentlemen, who have not the advantage of a happy relationship with a wonderful woman like Mrs Bootle, might want to visit. If you get my meaning.’
‘You mean a knocking-shop?’
Bootle winced. ‘That’s not a nice word for a young person to know, Miss Tilly.’
‘Mr Bootle, I come from Whitechapel. I ain’t one of your well brought up young ladies. I know what’s what.’
Polishing his spectacles on his handkerchief, Bootle went quite pink. ‘I should keep quiet about that if I were you, especially when Mr Jenks or Mr Bragg might be within earshot.’
‘I’m not daft, Mr Bootle. But I’d still like to know why these ladies want to see Mr Barney.’
‘A brush with the law in the matter of illegal goings on, or obtaining evidence in a divorce case; the more senior partners in the law firms might not be too eager to take on these cases. Best say no more on the subject.’ Tapping the side of his nose, Bootle put on his spectacles and picked up his pen.
Sighing, Tilly went back to the painstaking task of typing with two fingers. So Barney took on clients that no one else wanted. She was hardly surprised but she did look up when the door opened and Barney ushered his client out of the office.
‘I’ll leave the matter in your hands, Mr Palgrave, dear.’
‘Trust me, Mrs Jameson.’
‘Oh, I do, dear.’ Mrs Jameson raised her gloved hand to touch Barney’s cheek. ‘Thousands wouldn’t.’ Trilling with laughter, she stood back while Barney opened the outer door. With a cheerful wave to Bootle and a saucy wink, Mrs Jameson left the office. Tilly and Bootle exchanged glances as they listened to the receding footsteps and Mrs Jameson’s high-pitched laughter growing fainter until the front door closed behind her. Barney returned with a satisfied grin on his face and headed towards his office.
‘Shall I send for Pitcher, sir?’
‘Yes, Bootle, of course. Right away, please.’
As the door closed on Barney, Tilly shot a curious glance at Bootle as he slid off his stool. ‘Who is Pitcher?’ Whether he heard her or not, Bootle did not answer.
Minutes later, Pitcher arrived, the smell of unwashed body and the stables preceding him. Wrinkling her nose, Tilly watched him stride through the office dripping a trail of mud and straw off his boots onto the brown linoleum. She couldn’t see much of his face beneath the felt hat pulled low down over his brow, but he did not appear to have shaved for a week at least. He could have been a stableman, a crossing sweeper or a rag-and-bone man, but whatever his occupation he went into Barney’s office without knocking and closed the door behind him.
‘Don’t ask,’ Bootle said, bending his head over the document on his desk. ‘You don’t need to know.’
Pitcher left in the same manner as he had arrived, passing Jenks in the doorway with a surly grunt.
‘So he’s back,’ Jenks said, curling his lip. ‘I’ll have to inform Mr Clarence, Bootle. You know them above don’t hold with the type of cases Mr Barney takes on. You should do something about it.’
Bootle shrugged and got on with his work. Seemingly frustrated, Jenks sidled over to Tilly’s desk. ‘You’re rubbish, my girl. A child of five could do better.’
Biting her lip, Tilly tried to ignore him.
‘Pay attention when I speak to you, miss.’ Prodding her in the back, Jenks ripped the paper out of the typewriting machine.
‘Here, give it me.’ Jumping to her feet, Tilly made a grab at the paper but Jenks was head and shoulders taller than she and he held the piece of paper high above her head, sneering.
‘Not likely. This is evidence and it’s going straight t
o Mr Clarence.’
‘What have you got against me, Mr Jenks? I ain’t done nothing to you.’
‘I don’t hold with women taking a man’s job. You need to learn your place, my girl.’ Taking the letter with him, Jenks stamped out of the office.
‘Mr Bootle, are you going to let him talk to me like that?’
‘Jenks is a bad man to cross,’ Bootle said, shaking his head. ‘I’d advise you to keep your own counsel when dealing with the likes of him.’
Sighing with frustration, Tilly sat down and fed a clean sheet of paper into the typewriting machine. Working in an office wasn’t at all what she had imagined it to be, but she was not going to be beaten by the machine or by a mean-spirited, prejudiced man like Jenks.
Barney emerged from his office dressed for outdoors. ‘If anyone wants me, Bootle, I’ll be in court observing a case.’ He paused by Tilly’s desk. ‘How are you today, Miss True?’
‘Fed up with Mr Jenks, to tell you the truth.’
Laughing, Barney patted her on the shoulder. ‘Don’t pay any attention to old Jenks. He’s been here so long he practically has moss growing out of his ears. He’s just not used to having a pretty young lady around.’
As she watched him stroll out of the office, Tilly felt her cheeks burning at the compliment. Emily was reckoned to be the good-looker in the family; it made her feel all warm and squishy inside to know that Barney thought she was pretty. She caught Bootle staring at her and bent her head over her work. ‘All right, Mr Bootle, I’m getting on with it.’
It was raining when Tilly and Bootle left Hay Yard; steady, drenching rain that had them soaked to the skin before they had even crossed Chancery Lane. By the time they entered the grim interior of Pook’s Building, Tilly was grateful just to escape from the foul weather and longing to get out of her wet clothes and into the old woollen dressing gown that Susan had loaned her. Mutton stew suddenly seemed the most appetising of meals and she could even put up with the Bootle children’s clamour if it meant getting warm again.
The noise hit her as soon as Bootle opened the front door, but there was a stranger in the living room: a thin girl with a complexion like sour cream and fair, spiky hair that stuck out all round her head in a fair imitation of a dandelion clock.
‘My little Ethel.’ Bootle dropped his hat and gloves on the floor and held out his arms. ‘What a wonderful surprise.’
Ethel hurled herself at him along with the six younger children and Bootle disappeared beneath a flailing mass of arms and legs.
‘Now, now, children,’ Susan said, waving the wooden spoon at them. ‘Put your poor daddy down and let him get to the fire.’ Her smile faded when she saw Tilly. ‘Goodness gracious, just look at you, Miss Tilly. You’re dripping all over me clean floor.’
‘S-sorry, Mrs Bootle.’ Tilly could hardly speak for her teeth chattering. ‘I-it’s raining.’
‘And who are you?’ Ethel demanded, glaring at Tilly.
‘I’m Tilly True.’
Ethel’s white eyebrows met over the middle of her pointed nose. ‘Tilly True. You’re the girl what worked for Mrs Blessed in Barbary Terrace.’
Tilly’s heart lurched against her stays. ‘No. I mean . . .’
‘You’re the one what stole her garnet brooch and attacked her with her own riding crop.’ Pointing a finger at Tilly, Ethel turned to her parents. ‘She’s a thief and the police are looking for her.’
Chapter Six
There was silence for a moment; even the children were quiet.
Clenching her teeth to stop them from chattering, Tilly stammered with outrage. ‘I never stole nothing and I never hit the old trout. It was her what beat me.’
‘Says you.’ Ethel gave a scornful snort. ‘That ain’t what I heard from the missis.’
‘That’s a serious accusation, Ethel love.’ Bootle’s kindly face puckered with concern. ‘You have to be sure of your facts afore you accuse someone of a serious crime.’
‘Now, Nat, don’t get on your legal high horse. It’s our little girl what’s talking here and I never knowed Ethel to tell a lie.’ Casting a suspicious glance at Tilly, Susan moved closer to Ethel.
Smirking, Ethel slipped her arm round her mother’s plump waist. ‘My missis takes tea with Mrs Blessed now that her old man has his own emporium. I heard Mrs Fletcher say as how she wouldn’t have had nothing to do with Martha Blessed when her Stanley was just a costermonger, but now he’s moved up in the world it’s a different matter, and she might be able to get a bit knocked off the price of a good second-hand sofa.’
‘Your missis can’t possibly know Mrs Blessed if she lives up West.’ Tilly wasn’t going to let Ethel get away with that one.
Ethel tossed her frizzy mop. ‘Mrs Fletcher lives in the best part of Islington, so there. She wouldn’t be daft enough to employ a common girl like you.’
‘I ain’t taking that from no one,’ Tilly said, balling her hands into fists.
‘That’s it, then.’ Pushing Ethel behind her, Susan took a menacing step towards Tilly. ‘You had me fooled, miss. I thought as how I’d taken a decent, law-abiding young person into me home. Now I can see that you pulled the wool over our eyes good and proper.’
‘And she’s dripping water all over your clean floor, Mum.’ Keeping well behind her mother, Ethel poked her tongue out at Tilly.
Bootle stepped in between his wife and Tilly. ‘Now, now, let’s not be hasty. A person is innocent until proven guilty. Let’s hear what Miss Tilly has to say.’
‘You’re too good for this world by half, Nat. But what happens if the police come a-looking for her? What happens if Mr Clarence finds out we’re harbouring a criminal? What happens . . . ?’
‘And,’ Ethel said, tossing her head, ‘she ain’t having my bed so that’s that.’
Susan nodded in agreement. ‘She’ll have to go. I ain’t having a felon under our roof.’
‘Felon, felon, felon.’ The children, who had been quiet up until this moment, watching the scene wide-eyed, suddenly found their voices and began dancing round Tilly as though she were a maypole.
‘Have a heart, ducks.’ Running his hand over his shining bald pate, Bootle cast an imploring look at Susan. ‘You can’t turn the girl out on a night like this.’
‘Shut up!’ Tilly shouted at the children and they froze on the spot, fingers plugged in mouths, staring at her wide-eyed in shock. ‘I wouldn’t stay another night in this place if you paid me. I’m sick of your badly behaved brats, Mrs Bootle, and your bloody mutton stew makes me want to puke.’
‘Oh! You ungrateful bitch.’ Susan sat down suddenly as if her legs had given way beneath her. ‘Get her out of here, Bootle, afore I do something I’ll regret.’
‘Yes, get her out of here, Daddy,’ repeated Ethel, fanning her mother with her apron. ‘Take her to the police station and turn her in.’
Jamming his hat on his head, Bootle cast an apologetic look at Tilly. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Tilly, but you can see how it is.’
Susan began to cry, hiding her face in her apron, and the children joined her, wailing in a cats’ chorus.
‘You’re going to hand her over to the rozzers then, Daddy?’ Ethel’s face lit up with glee.
‘Never you mind. Come along, Miss Tilly.’
‘Where are we going?’ Tilly demanded as she ran to keep up with Bootle. ‘I never done it, I never stole nothing and I ain’t going to the police station.’
‘And I’m not taking you there. Just follow me.’
There was nothing that Tilly could do except follow Bootle as he hurried along Chancery Lane, his chubbiness causing him to walk with a sailor’s rolling gait, as if he had spent his whole life on the pitching deck of a ship. The rain was still tumbling out of the sky in stair rods, bouncing off the pavements and flowing along the gutters in rivulets that plunged with gurgling sounds down the drains. Tilly could hardly see for water running off her hair into her eyes and her teeth were chattering uncontrollably. They were heading along Fleet Str
eet towards the City, but, as she was not very familiar with this part of London, she simply had to follow Bootle, keeping as close to the buildings as she could to avoid the spray sent up by the wheels of passing hansom cabs and hackney carriages. Gaslight from narrow shop fronts sent ragged beams of light onto the wet pavements; in one of the windows, a cobbler sat at his bench with his bald head bent over a last as he hammered hobnails into a boot. Barely able to see in the driving rain, Tilly hurried on, narrowly missing being run down by an organ grinder pushing his cart with a bedraggled monkey huddled on his shoulder. Further down Fleet Street, clouds of onion-scented steam belched from a wagon selling hot pies and tea to the newsmen working all night to keep the presses printing the morning papers. With her head down, Tilly almost tripped over a foot sticking out of a doorway. A child, barely older than Dan, huddled with his head tucked between his knees, his bare feet purple with cold and chilblains. With a lump in her throat, Tilly thrust her hand into her pocket and brought out a threepenny bit, tucking it into his clawed hand.
‘Here, love, get yourself a hot pie.’
Lifting his head, the boy opened his eyes, but they were expressionless as if all hope and feeling had left his emaciated body; with a vague nod of his head, he resumed his hunched position. It’s a wicked world, Tilly thought as she hurried on after Bootle; some have it all while children starve to death or freeze in shop doorways. She broke into a run as Bootle disappeared into an abyss between two tall office buildings. The alleyway was dark and narrow, barely wide enough for two people to pass each other without walking sideways. Something brushed past her legs that could have been a cat or a rat and the cobbles were littered with soft, slippery matter but thankfully it was too dark to see what she was treading on. She could see Bootle’s shape now as the alley opened out into a cobbled yard. Slivers of light from the odd window here and there gave the impression of tall, terraced town houses crammed together around a small square. Following Bootle up a flight of stone steps, Tilly stood shivering while he rapped on the door.
