The Beggar Maid

by Dilly Court

  ‘I haven’t got nits,’ Charity said firmly. ‘I’m not a guttersnipe, even if she treats me like one. I’m only putting up with all this because I want my grandpa to have a proper send-off. Otherwise I’d be out of here like a shot.’

  ‘Would you really?’ Dorrie picked up the kettle and hurried into the scullery. ‘I’d come with you if I could. I hates it here, and she hates me. I can’t please the old besom no matter how hard I try.’ She staggered back into the kitchen, slopping water on the tiles in her efforts to put the kettle on the hob.

  ‘Let me help you. After all, it’s for my benefit.’ Charity snatched a pan from the shelf and took it into the scullery. ‘I’ll do what I can for you while I’m here, but I’ll be gone by tonight.’

  Dorrie stood in the doorway, watching her. ‘Where will you go, miss?’

  ‘You don’t have to call me miss. My name is Charity.’

  ‘Where will you go, Charity?’ Dorrie grinned, revealing a missing front tooth.

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea, but it won’t be the workhouse. Maybe the old besom is doing me a favour with all this palaver. I might find work if I look clean and tidy.’

  Scrubbed until her skin glowed and with her hair washed and towel-dried, Charity peered at her reflection in the fly-spotted mirror above the mantelshelf. The clothes that Mrs Rose had selected from the missionary barrel were not meant to enhance her looks, but at least they were clean and in good condition. The navy-blue linsey-woolsey skirt was faded and the hem slightly frayed, but it was a reasonable fit, and the white cotton blouse was on the large side but there was plenty of wear left in it, as Mrs Rose was quick to point out. A grey hand-knitted cardigan that came down almost to Charity’s knees completed the outfit, and what it lacked in style it made up for in warmth.

  ‘You’ll have to make do with your own boots,’ Mrs Rose said, standing back to admire her handiwork. ‘But you’ll do.’ She reached out and lifted a strand of Charity’s hair, allowing it to run through her fingers. ‘Such dark hair, and yet you have blue eyes.’ She frowned. ‘You’re not Irish, are you?’

  ‘I’m as English as you or the doctor,’ Charity replied, stung by the implied insult. The only Irish she had ever met were itinerant navvies who had a reputation for drinking and brawling, although in her experience they mostly kept to themselves.

  ‘Well, it’s an unusual combination. Your looks will get you into trouble, Charity Crosse. You will have to take care or you’ll come to no good.’ She dragged the damp curls back from Charity’s face. ‘That’s better. I’ll find you a scrap of ribbon so that you can tie it back and look tidy. When you’re done I’ll take you to the doctor’s study. He has something to tell you.’

  Dr Marchant looked up from his desk where he was writing something in what looked like a diary. The book-lined study and clutter of files and correspondence reminded Charity of the house in Chelsea. She had been allowed into her father’s tiny study on infrequent occasions, as he seemed to spend all his spare time writing papers on what she had considered to be a very boring subject. As a diversion from work he liked to pore over books on archaeology, and had tried to explain his fascination for ancient Egypt, but she had been too young to understand. He had taken her to the British Museum, but she had been scared by the huge stone statues, and soon tired of peering at artefacts in glass cases. She hung back, waiting for Mrs Rose to speak.

  ‘Miss Crosse is here, doctor.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Rose. That will be all for now.’

  Mrs Rose opened her mouth as if to argue, but a look from the doctor silenced her and she swept out of the room with a disgruntled twitch of her shoulders.

  Dr Marchant took off his spectacles, gazing at Charity with a smile of approval. ‘You look rested.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you for taking me in, sir.’

  ‘It was the least I could do, my dear.’ He picked up a slip of paper. ‘I received this by messenger this morning. Your grandfather’s body has been released for burial. It seems the coroner was satisfied with my diagnosis of death from natural causes.’

  Charity blinked back tears, swallowing hard. ‘Thank you, sir. What happens now?’

  ‘An undertaker will do the rest, and I’m afraid it will be a pauper’s funeral.’

  ‘Can I see him, sir? I never had a chance to say goodbye.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Charity. Wouldn’t you rather remember him as he was before the drink destroyed him?’

  ‘He was all I had in the world. I got nothing now, and I would like to see him.’

  Suddenly businesslike, Dr Marchant closed his diary with a snap and stood up. ‘Very well. We’ll pay a call on the undertaker before I take you on to a place where I think you might find gainful employment.’

  ‘It’s no good, sir. I tried to find work round here and they all turned me away.’

  ‘Not now, I think. Mrs Rose has done you proud, and I will stand by you. Can you read and write, Charity?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I know me tables too. Granny was very particular about learning.’

  ‘In that case I think my good friend Mr Dawkins might take you on, although I can’t promise anything.’

  ‘Who is this cove, sir?’

  ‘Jethro Dawkins owns a bookshop in Liquorpond Street. He struggles to look after himself and his shop.’ Dr Marchant gazed at her thoughtfully. ‘I think you two might be good for each other.’

  ‘In what way, sir?’

  Dr Marchant glanced out of the window. ‘It’s snowing again. You’ll need a shawl and bonnet, and gloves.’ He reached over and rang the bell. ‘I’ll ask Mrs Rose to go through the missionary barrel again, and then we’ll set off.’

  The undertaker’s office was as gloomy as Charity had imagined. Tucked away down a side street it was sandwiched between a pawnbroker’s premises and a second-hand clothes shop, where shabbily dressed women sorted through piles of garments that were little better than the ones they were wearing. Dr Marchant turned to a girl who accosted him, begging for a copper to buy milk for her baby, but when he demanded to see the needy infant the girl backed away, shouting obscenities which were taken up by a couple of women who had been arguing over a moth-eaten shawl. Dr Marchant hurried Charity into the undertaker’s office, closing the door to shut out the stream of abuse. ‘Poor souls,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Life is hard and they have so little, but we must not allow them to intimidate us.’

  A man dressed in black emerged from a door at the back of the room. His ingratiating smile broadened when he recognised the doctor, and he shook his hand. ‘Good morning, Dr Marchant.’ He glanced through the grimy window. ‘You seem to have upset the locals, sir.’

  ‘I’m up to their tricks, Mr Wiggins, and they know it.’

  ‘So what can I do for you, sir?’

  Dr Marchant laid his hand on Charity’s shoulder. ‘This young lady lost her grandfather last evening. I believe you have him here.’

  ‘What is the name of the deceased?’

  ‘Joseph Crosse,’ Charity said in a small voice. ‘I’d like to see my grandpa, if you please, sir.’

  Mr Wiggins gave her a searching look. ‘Are you sure about that, young lady?’

  ‘I’m sure, sir.’

  ‘Then come this way.’ Mr Wiggins ushered her into a dimly lit back room where an open coffin rested on a bier.

  Charity approached slowly, bracing herself for what she might see, but the shrouded figure looked like a wax effigy. The person lying in the coffin had her grandfather’s features but his spirit had gone, and for the first time in years, he looked peaceful. He had fought the battle with the demon drink and he had lost, but she could not in all conscience wish him back to continue the struggle. She leaned over and dropped a kiss on his cold brow. ‘Goodbye, Grandpa. I love you.’

  Dr Marchant put a comforting arm around her shoulders. ‘Come along, Charity. Your grandfather’s trials are over.’ He turned to Mr Wiggins, lowering his voice. ‘When will the interment take
place?’

  ‘We’ve got several clients for the Necropolis Company railway to Brookwood cemetery, leaving from Waterloo at midday. These trains are always packed and I wouldn’t advise the young lady to accompany the coffin.’

  ‘But I can’t let Grandpa make his last journey alone,’ Charity protested.

  Dr Marchant met her anxious gaze with a gentle smile. ‘He won’t be alone, my dear. I’m sure he knows that you will be with him in spirit, and the last thing he would want is for you to suffer more distress.’

  ‘Besides which, I doubt if you have the return fare,’ Mr Wiggins said pointedly.

  Charity looked from one to the other. ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘Your grandfather would want the best for you, Charity,’ Dr Marchant said softly. ‘The most important thing now is to find you paid work and somewhere to live. Will you trust me to guide you in this?’

  She nodded silently. ‘Forgive me, Grandpa,’ she said in a barely audible whisper.

  ‘Come along, miss.’ Mr Wiggins’ voice had a sharp edge which brought Charity back to reality with a sharp jolt. ‘I’m sure that the good doctor has much to do today.’

  Dr Marchant held out his hand. ‘Come,’ he said briskly. ‘I’ll take you to Liquorpond Street.’

  ‘I ain’t too sure about this,’ Charity said doubtfully.

  ‘It won’t hurt to have a look, my dear. Anyway, Mr Dawkins ordered a book for me some time ago and it should be in stock by now.’ He paused in the doorway. ‘You’ll find him a little odd at first, Charity, but don’t judge a man by his outward appearance. Jethro Dawkins is a good fellow at heart and in dire need of someone to help him.’

  Charity would have questioned him further but her benefactor was already out on the pavement, flagging down a passing hansom cab. ‘Dawkins’ bookshop please, cabby. Liquorpond Street.’ Dr Marchant climbed into the cab, holding out a hand to help Charity negotiate the iron stirrup that served as a step, which was a considerable feat for a girl wearing a long skirt and a red flannel petticoat. She sat beside him and he closed the half doors to protect them from the worst of the weather. The cabby flicked his whip and they were off.

  Travelling in a cab was a luxury that Charity had not enjoyed since she and her grandfather had been forced to flee from their old home, but the image of him lying cold and stiff in the cheap pine coffin filled her thoughts, spoiling any pleasure she might have experienced while being driven in such style. His send-off would not include a glass-sided hearse pulled by plumed black horses, and there would be no engraved headstone to mark the place of his burial. She gazed out at the city streets but her vision was blurred by tears. She was suddenly a frightened eight-year-old, travelling into the unknown with a much older man, only this time it was the kindly doctor and not her beloved grandfather.

  ‘We’re here, Charity.’

  She blinked and dashed her hand across her eyes, realising with a start that they had come to a halt outside the workhouse in Liquorpond Street. She turned to Dr Marchant in horror. ‘I’m not going in there. I’d sooner freeze to death on the pavement than put a foot inside that place.’

  Dr Marchant shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t do such a thing.’ He pointed to the buildings on the other side of the street. She peered through the thin veil of snow that had begun to fall again in tiny flakes.

  ‘Reid’s Brewery?’ The name stood out in bold letter over the arched gateway.

  Dr Marchant climbed down to the ground, holding out his hand. ‘Not there either.’ He helped her down from the cab and tossed a coin to the cabby, who tipped his cap and drove off. ‘See there, tucked in between the shop selling exotic birds and reptiles and the ale house.’ He led her across the road, coming to a halt outside a bow window filled with an untidy jumble of leather-bound books. ‘Come in out of the cold.’ He opened the door and somewhere deep inside a bell clanged.

  Charity stepped over the threshold and her nostrils were assailed by the musty smell of old books, dry rot and the acrid odour of burnt toast. Outside the world was dazzling white with snow but the interior of the shop was dark, like stepping into the underworld. Then, out of the gloom, a horrific figure lumbered towards her. His head seemed too large for his misshapen body and he walked with a pronounced limp, dragging one leg. His pale face seemed to glow in the dark and his features had been affected by some cruel palsy that gave him a lopsided appearance. She stood, frozen to the spot, too terrified to scream and unable to run.

  Chapter Three

  ‘JETHRO, MY DEAR fellow, how are you today?’ Dr Marchant rested his hand on the man’s shoulder.

  ‘Your book’s here.’ Jethro’s voice was gruff and seemed to come from deep within his twisted torso. He shot a suspicious glance at Charity. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘This young lady is Charity Crosse, and she recently lost her only living relative.’

  ‘Why bring her here then? Has she come to mock a poor cripple?’

  Dr Marchant let his hand fall to his side. ‘Now then, Jethro, that’s not the way it was at all. Don’t go frightening the poor child. She’s had enough to bear without you adding to her troubles.’

  Charity backed towards the door. ‘This is a mistake, doctor. I ain’t staying here.’

  ‘Who asked you to stay, young lady?’ Jethro turned his back on her. ‘I don’t need anyone, least of all an orphan child.’

  ‘I’m not a child,’ Charity said with dignity. ‘I’ll have you know that I’m sixteen and I’ve been supporting both myself and my grandpa for years.’

  Jethro limped over to the counter and snatched up a heavy tome. ‘That will be half a crown, doctor. Pay up and take the girl away. This is no place for the likes of her.’

  Dr Marchant put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a leather purse. He placed a silver half-crown on the counter. ‘When did you last have a decent meal, Jethro Dawkins?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with you?’

  ‘Just as I suspected.’ Dr Marchant beckoned to Charity. ‘This man can’t even toast a slice of bread without burning it, as I think you’ll have guessed from the smoke and the smell coming from the back room.’

  ‘An unfortunate slip of the toasting fork,’ Jethro said defensively. ‘I know you mean well, doctor, but I haven’t got the time or inclination to take in a young female.’

  ‘But you do need someone to help you.’ With a sweep of his hand Dr Marchant encompassed the untidy state of the shelves and the books spilling onto the floor. ‘Charity can read and write and she needs a roof over her head. She is eager to improve herself and you have a wealth of learning here in the shop. You might be able to help each other.’

  ‘Hold on,’ Charity said sharply. ‘I haven’t said I’ll stay here. He doesn’t want me and I think I’d rather go back to begging on street corners than live in a hole like this.’

  Jethro took a step towards her, squinting myopically. ‘She says what she thinks. I like that. What else have you got to say, girl? Spit it out. Tell me why you don’t want to live here.’

  ‘You want me to say it’s because you’ve got a hunchback and there’s something wrong with your face,’ Charity said angrily. ‘I think you enjoy scaring people and making out that you’re a mean old man, but Dr Marchant says you’ve got a good heart, although I don’t see much of it showing. No wonder people avoid you, if this is how you always behave.’

  A sharp intake of breath from Dr Marchant brought her to a halt. ‘I won’t apologise, sir. I’ve dealt with worse than Mr Dawkins in my life, and I’m not afraid to speak my mind.’

  Jethro stared at her blankly for a moment and then a growling noise in his belly suddenly erupted into a loud guffaw. He staggered and clutched at the counter for support as his laughter echoed off the book-lined walls. ‘She’s a one!’ he gasped breathlessly. ‘I like her, Henry. I haven’t laughed like that for years.’

  Dr Marchant stared at him in overt amazement. ‘Well, I never did!’

  ‘Is he all there?’ Charity asked in a
whisper. ‘Is he all right in the head?’

  Jethro clutched his hands to his chest, drawing deep breaths. ‘I’m as sane as anyone in this shop, but you’ve tickled me pink, young Charity. I would be happy to give you work and a roof over your head.’ His smile faded into a scowl and he wagged a finger at her. ‘But you’ll earn your keep, young lady. Make no mistake about that. I’m not a rich man.’

  ‘There,’ Dr Marchant said with a sigh of relief. ‘That sounds like an offer you can’t afford to refuse, Charity. What do you say?’

  She looked round the dingy shop. Dust hung heavily in the air, coating the shelves and the piles of books that littered the floor. Cobwebs festooned the beams and the floorboards that were visible to the naked eye were ingrained with dirt. But a quick look outside at the wintry scene, where the snow lay ankle deep and the sky was heavy with the promise of yet more to come, was enough to convince her that she had little choice. At least she would have somewhere to stay until she found something better and there was obviously plenty to do. She hardly dared imagine what state the rest of the rooms were in, and she did not ask. She nodded her head. ‘All right. I’ll give it a try but if I don’t like it I’ll leave. I’m not afraid to live on the streets.’

  Dr Marchant turned to Jethro. ‘You will pay her a wage, won’t you? And you must promise to treat her well.’

  ‘I’ll pay her four shillings a week, all found.’

  ‘That sounds fair enough.’ Dr Marchant took Charity aside. ‘Use this opportunity to improve your education, my dear. There is a wealth of knowledge on these shelves and Dawkins is an honest and trustworthy fellow. You’ve obviously got his measure and you can see that he needs someone to look after him, as do you yourself.’

  ‘I’ll be all right, sir.’

  ‘I believe you will.’ He held her hand, squeezing her fingers. ‘But if you ever need help in the future you can always come to me. I’m a regular customer anyway, so I’ll see you again quite soon.’ He picked up his book, tucking it under his arm. ‘Goodbye, Jethro. I’ve no doubt that I’ll be back to browse your shelves in the very near future.’ He opened the door and a gust of cold air blew in from the street creating eddies in the dust, and then he was gone. Charity was left alone with the crippled bookseller.