The Beggar Maid

by Dilly Court

  Duck’s Foot Lane was just wide enough for a horse and cart to squeeze through, leaving little room for error. The tall buildings leaned towards one another at crazy angles, and were linked by overhead walkways. Steel hoists protruded from the walls high above street level, and vicious-looking hooks dangled idly from ropes awaiting deliveries of raw materials next day. From dawn until dusk whole cargoes of imported goods, baled and tied or transported in wooden kegs, would be hauled skywards and dragged into the upper floors of the buildings by men who worked at dizzying heights with nothing to save them should they slip and fall. Accidents were common and fatalities occurred too frequently.

  Charity had grown up in this undesirable neighbourhood, but she had fond memories of her early years. Before her father died they lived in a neat terraced house in Chelsea. Her grandmother had looked after her and Pa and Grandpa left early each morning to catch a horse-drawn omnibus to the City, where Grandpa worked as a clerk in a shipping office and Pa followed the time-honoured profession of law writer. She remembered the distinctive smell of Indian ink that clung to his stained fingers when he returned home in the evening, and the lines of fatigue drawn on his face by an invisible pen that would not wash away. Tired he might have been but he always found time to take her on his knee and tell her about his day, or to read her a story from her favourite book. Early on in her life she had learned to love the sound of words and the rhythms and patterns of speech. Story books led her into an enchanted land of imagination like no other, and an escape into worlds that she would never otherwise have known.

  She quickened her pace. It had stopped snowing and the wind had veered round, bringing with it a strong smell of malt and hops from Barclay and Perkins’ Brewery south of the river, with just a hint of acidity from Potts’ Vinegar Works, and something much less pleasant from the tannery in Bermondsey. She plunged into the dark canyon of Duck’s Foot Lane. It was relatively quiet in the early evening, but it would grow noisier as the night progressed and seamen of all nationalities thronged the pubs and brothels, or sought solace in the opium dens. The snow had been trodden underfoot and churned up by horses’ hooves and cart wheels, turning it to filthy slush, and she picked up her skirts, treading carefully as she approached the tenement building where she and her grandfather lived.

  The front door was never locked as the landlord left security to each individual tenant, which meant that there was none. People came and went as they pleased and as long as the rent collector was paid his dues he did not bother to count heads. Charity almost fell over the prostrate body of a drunken woman who was slumped at the foot of the stairs. It was a common occurrence and not one to cause her any concern. What worried her more was the sound of raised voices emanating from the cellar. The door was open and she went to investigate.

  In the dim light of a single oil lamp she could just make out the shape of two men who seemed to be pinning her grandfather to the ground. She only knew who it was who was flailing his arms and legs by the sound of his voice as a torrent of abuse left his lips. When sober, Joseph Crosse never swore when there were women present, and Charity knew that he would be mortified when he sobered up, but she realised quickly that this was no ordinary fit of drunken rage. Her grandfather was plainly terrified and was fighting off some nameless beast, and the men who held him down were attempting to calm him. She hurried to his side, stepping over a couple of shapeless mounds sleeping soundly beneath piles of newspaper, cardboard and rags despite the commotion. ‘Grandpa.’

  ‘Get back, girly.’ One of the men lifted his hand and pushed her out of the way. ‘The old codger’s gone mad.’

  ‘Leave him alone. You’re hurting him.’ Charity tried to pull him away but he was a big man and muscular.

  ‘He tried to kill me,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Went for me with a chiv.’

  ‘No,’ Charity cried fiercely. ‘He would never do such a thing. Get off him, please.’

  The second man glanced over his shoulder. ‘You ain’t helping, miss. Stand back or you’ll get hurt. I seen this happen before. The drink has addled his brains. He’s been seeing things what aren’t here.’

  ‘He’s lost his head, all right. The best thing you can do for him is call a constable. Your granddad needs locking up for his own safety and yours.’

  ‘Aye,’ his companion said gruffly. ‘The Bethlehem Lunatic Asylum is where he should be.’

  ‘No, please.’ Charity moved closer. She was horrified to see her grandfather’s features twisted into a rictus grin and his face was turning blue. ‘Let me deal with this. I know how to handle him.’

  Suddenly, Joseph relaxed and went as limp as a rag doll. The men released their hold and sat back on their haunches. ‘He’s passed out,’ the younger man said, wiping the sweat from his brow. ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘I ain’t so sure.’ His friend leaned over and felt for a pulse. He shook his head. ‘Sorry, love. I think he’s a goner. Must’ve had some kind of fit.’ He scrambled to his feet. ‘Let’s get out of here, mate. We don’t want to be mixed up in this.’

  Charity fell to her knees beside her grandfather. ‘Grandpa, speak to me.’ She chafed his hands and laid her head on his chest, but she could not hear a heartbeat. She looked up and found herself alone except for the ones who were dead drunk or under the influence of opium and had slept through everything.

  She sat for a moment, too stunned to cry and too frightened to move. She had seen dead bodies often enough in the street, but this was different. This lifeless corpse had once been her much loved grandparent. He was her last link with her family and now she was alone and very scared. She was suddenly eight years old again, and had been told that her father had succumbed to the dreaded disease of cholera only a few hours after it had claimed her grandmother. She leaned over and shook her grandfather, uttering a cry of horror as his head lolled to one side and his sightless eyes gazed blindly into space.

  Before she realised what she was doing she found herself outside in the street, retching and gasping for breath. The cold air filled her lungs and her head began to clear. The enormity of what had happened filled her with horror and she went in search of help.

  The doctor lived in Old Fish Street and to her relief he was at home, having his supper. His housekeeper refused her admittance but her cries of distress brought the doctor himself to the door.

  ‘I only got fourpence, doctor,’ she said breathlessly. ‘But I’ll work until I paid off your fee. It’s me grandpa. I think he’s dead.’

  ‘Then it can wait,’ the housekeeper said firmly. ‘Do you know how many times Dr Marchant has been called out today?’

  ‘It’s all right, Mrs Rose,’ Dr Marchant said, slipping on his overcoat. ‘Keep my dinner warm and I’ll be back before you know it.’ He put on his top hat and picked up his medical bag. ‘I seem to remember you, young lady. Didn’t I treat you for mumps not so long ago?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He placed his hand on her shoulder. ‘I remember now. Duck’s Foot Lane, and you live with your grandpa. It’s not a good place for a girl like you, Miss, er . . .’

  ‘Crosse, sir. Charity Crosse, and I think Grandpa’s dead. He had some kind of fit . . .’

  ‘We’ll see. The quicker we get there, the better.’

  Charity waited in the narrow hallway while the doctor examined her grandfather. It did not take long. He returned moments later and guided her out of the building into the street. ‘I’m afraid he has passed away,’ he said gently. ‘I’ll make the necessary arrangements.’

  ‘What did for him, sir? Was it the drink?’

  He nodded his head. ‘Without a doubt, Charity. I’ve seen it all too often.’

  ‘I can’t pay you the full amount, and I got no money for the undertaker. My grandpa will have a pauper’s funeral.’

  ‘You need not worry about my fee, but as to the latter I’m afraid there’s no alternative, unless you have relations who would help.’

  ‘I got no one, sir. Grandpa was all I
had.’

  ‘Have you any friends who will take you in?’

  ‘None, sir.’ Charity met his anxious gaze with a defiant lift of her chin. ‘But I’ll be all right. I’ve lived by my wits since I was a nipper. I don’t need no one to look after me. I can manage on me own.’ She hunched her shoulders against the cold and started to walk away.

  ‘Miss Crosse – wait.’

  Chapter Two

  CHARITY GLANCED OVER her shoulder. ‘Yes?’

  Dr Marchant hurried to her side. ‘You’ve had a terrible shock, my dear. I insist that you come home with me. Mrs Rose will look after you – just for tonight, you understand.’

  ‘There’s no need, sir. I’ll be all right.’

  ‘I can’t allow a young girl like you to roam the streets in weather like this. I wouldn’t get a wink of sleep if I let you go now.’ Dr Marchant took her firmly by the arm. ‘Mrs Rose has a brusque manner, but beneath the hard shell beats a heart of gold. She’ll find you a bed.’

  ‘You can sleep there, under the kitchen table.’ Mrs Rose folded her arms across her ample bosom. ‘Dorrie lies down by the range and that’s her place. I don’t expect to come down in the morning and find any different.’

  Charity shot a wary glance through the open door which led into the tiny scullery. Dorrie, who could not have been more than eight or nine years old, was standing on a box struggling to cope with the washing up.

  ‘Do you understand?’ Mrs Rose demanded angrily. ‘Or have your wits gone begging too?’

  ‘I understand, and I’ll be off first thing. You won’t need to be bothered with me any longer than necessary.’

  Mrs Rose took a step closer, staring at her with narrowed eyes. ‘I know exactly how much food there is in the larder and I count the cutlery every morning, so don’t think of taking anything that doesn’t belong to you. I’ve warned the good doctor about his charitable actions, but he has a soft heart and people take advantage of his good nature. If you abuse his trust I’ll have the law on you so quick that your head will spin.’ Mrs Rose waddled across the room to stand in the scullery doorway. ‘Hurry up, Dorrie. Make sure you dry the dishes properly and put everything away. I’m going to my bed now but you’ll be for it in the morning if I come down to a mess.’ Taking the oil lamp with her she stamped out of the kitchen, closing the door behind her with a thud.

  Charity took a spill from the jar high up on the mantelshelf and lit a candle, placing it on the kitchen table. The fire in the range had been banked up for the night, but the kitchen was warm and the aroma of mutton stew lingered in the air. For all her faults, Mrs Rose was a good cook, and it was obvious that the kindly doctor was well cared for. Charity had eaten well for the first time in months, although nothing could take away the pain of bereavement and the shock of seeing her grandfather breathe his last. She was physically exhausted, but she doubted if she would be able to sleep. The fact that she would be lying on the cold, hard floor did not come into the equation. She had slept on worse, and at least it was warm and dry in the doctor’s kitchen, unlike the damp cellar in Duck’s Foot Lane.

  She walked into the scullery and was just in time to catch a plate as it slipped from Dorrie’s fingers. The child was half asleep and in danger of falling into the stone sink where a thick scum of grease floated on the surface of the rapidly cooling water. Charity patted her on the shoulder. ‘Wake up, little ’un.’

  Dorrie opened her eyes and blinked. ‘I’m doing it, miss. I’m working as hard as I can.’

  Charity lifted her from the box and was shocked to feel how little the child weighed. ‘You’re soaked to the skin. Have you got a change of clothes?’

  ‘Who are you?’ Dorrie eyed her suspiciously. ‘You ain’t gonna take me back to the workhouse, are you, miss?’

  ‘Certainly not. I’m only here for tonight because I’ve nowhere else to go, and in the morning I’ll be gone. But that’s neither here nor there – you need to get out of those wet things and go to bed.’

  ‘She’ll skin me alive if I leaves a mess. I got to finish the dishes and put everything away. You heard her. She’s a terror when she’s roused.’

  Charity rolled up her sleeves. ‘I’ll do the dishes, and I’ll put them away. Now do as I say or you’ll catch your death of cold.’

  Dorrie backed away. ‘I dunno. You’re not going to steal stuff when me back’s turned, are you? One of the doctor’s charity cases took six silver spoons and an egg cup.’

  ‘I’m not going to do anything of the sort. Now go to bed like a good girl. You need your beauty sleep. That’s what my granny used to say to me.’ Charity’s eyes filled with tears as she thought of her old home and she turned away quickly. ‘Go on, Dorrie. Do as you’re told.’ She busied herself washing and drying the remaining dishes, and when she took them into the kitchen to put them away she found Dorrie curled up on a crocheted rug by the fire and already sound asleep.

  Having made certain that everything was as it should be, Charity glanced at the space under the table where she was supposed to make her bed and decided instead to sit in the rocking chair by the range. She knew it was where Mrs Rose chose to sit, but she had no intention of sleeping on the bare tiles. Tomorrow she would be gone, and in the morning she would face the world on her own. She sat down and took off her boots. Her feet were filthy and it was at least two weeks since she had treated herself to the public baths. It was only now that she was away from the foetid stench of her old lodgings that she realised there was a distinctive and unpleasant odour emanating from her person. It was little wonder that Mrs Rose did not want her to sleep in one of her clean beds. Shame and humiliation added to her raw emotions. She was tempted to leave the doctor’s house and disappear into the night, but the fact was that she had nowhere to go. And even worse, her grandfather would now be lying on a cold stone slab in the dead house, awaiting the coroner’s verdict before he could be interred. At the very worst, his lifeless body might have been taken illegally and sold to a medical school for anatomical dissection. The thought of that happening made her feel sick, and made it all the more important for her to remain at the doctor’s house until she knew what arrangements had been made to give her grandfather a proper burial, even if it had to be in an unmarked pauper’s grave.

  She slept at last, only to be rudely awakened by someone shaking her by the shoulder. ‘Get out of my chair. What did I tell you about where you had to sleep?’

  Charity opened her eyes and found herself looking into Mrs Rose’s irate face. She slid off the chair and stood up. ‘I’m sorry – I must have dropped off.’

  The cold light of a snowy dawn filtered through the kitchen window and a gust of icy air blew in through the scullery door as Dorrie struggled into the room hefting a bucket of coal. ‘Shut the door,’ Mrs Rose ordered in stentorian tones. ‘And get the fire going, you stupid child. You should have been up half an hour ago.’ She turned her attention back to Charity. ‘As for you, miss. I have to say it – you smell. And your clothes are filthy. Take them off now.’

  Charity shook her head. ‘I got nothing else to wear.’

  ‘The doctor is known for his work amongst the poor and needy and there are generous people who donate clothes for the missionary barrel.’

  ‘I ain’t going to the women’s refuge, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ Charity said, sticking out her chin. ‘I got me pride, ma’am, and I ain’t no pauper.’

  ‘But you are happy to take from others by begging, so I see very little difference in your station in life. You and your kind are a burden to society.’ Mrs Rose took a step towards her. ‘Now either take those filthy clothes off, or leave this house and don’t return because the door will be slammed in your face.’

  ‘But I got to know what happened to Grandpa. The doctor promised me he’d see to everything.’

  ‘It’s your choice, Miss Crosse.’

  Charity knew when she was beaten. She could not let her grandfather down now. ‘All right,’ she said slowly. ‘But at least
give us a blanket or something. I ain’t standing here naked for all to see.’

  A triumphant smile lit Mrs Rose’s grim features for a second and then was gone. ‘At least you have some sense of decency.’ She wagged a finger at Dorrie. ‘Hurry up and get the fire going again, and fill the kettle and the largest pan with water. Miss Crosse is going to take a bath. I’ll fetch a towel and a change of clothes.’ She fixed Charity with a hard stare. ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness – always remember that.’

  She bustled out of the room, leaving Charity to undress.

  ‘I’ll get the fire going and it won’t take the water long to heat up,’ Dorrie said with a shy smile. ‘Ta for what you done last night. I won’t forget it in a hurry.’

  ‘It was nothing. Anyway, it’s too much work for a youngster like you.’

  ‘I’m eight, miss. Or at least I think I am. That’s what they told me in the workhouse.’ Dorrie riddled the embers and added more coal to the fire. She took the bellows and pumped them until flames shot up the chimney. ‘Tell her you can bath yourself,’ she said in a whisper. ‘If she gets the loofah to your skin you’ll end up red raw, and don’t let her pour neat vinegar over your head. It don’t half sting your eyes.’