by Anna King
Bella’s thoughts turned again to Harry. He was so sure of himself, so confident. He would never know the misery of rejection or uncertainty for the future. Lifting her head she stared at the window. If she couldn’t find happiness then she would do all in her power to prevent Harry from finding any. A rush of pure hatred swept through her. ‘I’ll get even with you, you bastard,’ she whispered, her throat thick with tears. ‘You wait and see, you’ll be sorry you spoke to me like that.’ Anxious to share her misery she rose awkwardly to her feet and stumbled from the room in search of Hugh.
* * *
Hugh sat nervously on his bed listening to his sister’s soft entreaties to let her in, his eyes glued to the twisting door handle, praying that the chair he had placed beneath it would remain firm. When he heard the muffled footsteps walking away from the door he heaved a sigh of relief and rose unsteadily to his feet. Walking over to the full-length mirror he looked at his perspiring face and felt a deep sense of self-disgust at the way he had behaved. God! What a pitiful specimen of a man he was. He had heard the raised voices and could only guess at the reason behind the heated argument. When he had heard Harry leaving the house, followed quickly by the sound of Bella’s footsteps heading in his direction, he had barricaded himself in his room rather than face his sister’s fury. Waves of self-loathing swept over him, and with a muffled moan he sank back onto the bed.
Putting his head in his hands, he thought back to the conversation he’d had with Harry at dinner about his reasons for becoming a doctor, and laughed mirthlessly. Rubbing his hands over his face he dropped them into his lap and stared sightlessly at the far wall. He hadn’t worked and studied for over four years out of any noble calling; the reason was much simpler than that. From the time he was old enough to reason for himself, he had known that he would have to do something special with his life if he ever wanted to command respect and comradeship outside his immediate family.
Hugh was painfully aware of his lack of personality and character. He had decided at an early age to make something of himself, to be somebody, somebody that people would look up to and come to for advice – like they did with Harry. As the image of his brother came to mind Hugh shook his head sorrowfully. It wasn’t fair, Harry had never had to try to make people like him – in fact he could be downright rude at times. Yet in spite of his sometimes disinterested attitude, anyone who came into contact with him eagerly sought his company, whereas he himself didn’t have one single person, man or woman, that he could honestly call a friend. Colleagues yes, but friends, real friends that he could call upon at any time day or night, no. Shaking his head sadly he reflected on his life and the profession he had chosen. He had imagined that the status of a doctor would automatically bring forth respect; but he was honest enough to admit that a title alone wouldn’t bring about the recognition he craved so desperately, for the more he chased respect, the more it eluded him.
Getting heavily to his feet he reached for his pearl-grey jacket and slipped it on over the dark blue straight trousers, his reflection in the oval mirror giving him a much-needed boost of confidence. As he picked up his hat another fragment of conversation floated into his mind. He could see Harry clearly as he’d lounged casually in the chair and asked the question, ‘So where are you going tonight, Hugh, or is it a dark secret?’
How close to the truth Harry had come. And the truth was that Hugh Stewart, 24 years old and newly qualified doctor of medicine, was still a virgin. It seemed impossible that a man of his age had never known a woman, and yet, was it so unusual? How many men would admit to such a state? Certainly not himself. He had done his fair share of story telling among his fellow students, drawing on an active imagination to make his tales of conquests more plausible. Now he wondered how many of the hair-raising exploits he had listened to had been fact, and how many simply wishful thinking on the part of the story teller?
Drawing himself up to his full height he pulled his shoulders back and drew a deep breath. There was nothing he could do about his weak character or lack of personality, but there was a simple remedy to his virginal status. He knew where to find plenty of girls and women who would be only too happy to help rid him of this particular handicap, but until recently he had lacked the courage to seek them out.
Even now as he prepared to set out on his mission he wondered if he would back out at the last minute, but quickly put the thought from his mind. It was no longer something he had to do to make him feel more of a man; his body needed relief, and it was his natural urges, suppressed for so long, that had finally made up his mind. Checking his wallet to make sure he had enough money on him, he counted the four £5 notes and nodded. He had no idea of the going rate, but even in his ignorance he knew the money he had would be ample for his needs. Slipping the leather wallet inside his breast pocket, he carefully pulled the chair away from the door and peered out. The sight of the deserted corridor gave him the impetus he needed. Shutting the door softly behind him he made for the stairway and a new phase in his life.
Eight
Harry walked briskly over the cobbled pavement, his mind seething at the confrontation he had had with Bella. God damn the woman for sticking her nose into his business. Even the knowledge that her interference stemmed from loneliness didn’t make him feel any more charitable towards her. A passing hansom cab slowed hopefully alongside him and soon he was seated comfortably on the red leather seat, leaving his mind free to wander back into the past.
It had been four years since his first excursion into the East End of London. Together with a crowd of young men friends he had entered the dimly lit back streets searching for adventure, but instead had met grim poverty and dire distress. The alleys and cul-de-sac packed tight with houses three storeys high and hardly six feet apart, the obnoxious smells wafting from the open doorways causing the smartly dressed men to cover their faces with white linen handkerchiefs had created in Harry a deep, overriding sense of shame. They had moved swiftly past the depressing sights and into the nearest tavern where they had ordered whiskeys and then stood uncomfortably in their new surroundings, their voices over-loud and hearty as they’d tried to disguise their unease amidst the hostile company that milled around them. They had nearly choked in their haste to finish their drinks, then with a great show of false bravado they had sauntered casually out of the pub and into the street.
Once outside they had run pell-mell down the narrow, winding alleyways until reaching the safety of the brightly lit high street. It was then that two of Harry’s companions found that they had been the victims of pick-pockets, and although they had tried to put a brave face on, the evening had soured. The party had broken up amid assurances that they must ‘do it again sometime’.
Harry had spent an uneasy night, the memories of the sights he had witnessed refusing to let him sleep. A week later he had found himself once more in the same pub, his heart racing nervously as he’d sipped his pint of beer. The evening had passed without incident, encouraging him to return the following night, and the night after that. For the first few weeks he had drunk his one glass of beer and left, not wishing to tempt fate by overstaying his welcome. Then the one pint of beer had given way to two, then three, until gradually he had felt himself becoming more and more at ease with his unlikely new companions. They in turn came to accept his presence, and once they had assured themselves he was neither ranter, reformer nor plain-clothed policeman, had taken to sitting with him and pouring out their troubles to the sympathetic young man who seemed genuinely concerned with their lives.
Many a guinea found its way into a dirty palm, but Harry was no fool and only gave to those he deemed to be genuinely in need of help. This in turn had led to bad feeling among some of the other clientele, in particular a man called Frankie Fields, a well-known pick-pocket and ruffian of the highest order. He had swaggered into the Black Swan one night, knocking all who stood in his path out of his way, his unsteady gait taking him towards Harry’s table. Resting fists as big as hams on the ta
ble, he had at first wheedled and then demanded £10, only to be met by a steely gaze. Infuriated by the toffee-nosed interloper’s lack of fear, the huge bull of a man had heaved over the table spilling Harry’s drink and sending the nearby occupants scuttling for the safety of the far end of the bar. Holding the man’s gaze, Harry had slowly risen to his feet. Without a word his arm had shot out, the iron fist connecting with the bullish jaw and felling the man to the floor. Stunned by the unexpected attack, Frankie Fields had lain prone on the floor while the rest of the room had held its breath. The last man to tackle Big Frank was now lying at rest in Highbury Cemetery. Shaking his head as if to clear it, the enraged man had let out a mighty bellow and charged the tall, slim man only to stop short at the sight of the dagger protruding from the end of the gold-tipped walking cane. His face red with fury he had stared hard into the cold blue eyes, then letting loose a barrage of curses he had stormed from the bar.
An astonished silence had settled on the room, then with a concerted rush the men and women of the East End had crowded round Harry, slapping him soundly on the back, their admiration for his courage shining from their grime-streaked faces. From that moment on he had become a part of their lives, his action earning him their respect and the affectionate nick-name ‘The Toff’.
In the years he had been among them, many a family had been saved from being thrown out into the street when they could no longer pay their rent by the intervention of ‘The Toff’. The calls upon his purse had been great over the years, but he was careful to temper his generosity, and was quick to send packing the loafers and street scavengers who thought him to be an easy touch. Word soon travelled round the tightly knit community. Generous he might be; a fool he was not. For his part, Harry had the greatest admiration for the indomitable spirit that kept the people of the East End going. They accepted their lot with fortitude, their attitude for the most part cheerful and optimistic. There were of course those who didn’t try to help themselves, resorting to thievery from laziness rather than necessity, and these Harry avoided wherever possible.
Harry had been content with his life until recently. For some months now he had been growing increasingly discontented with his day-to-day existence, experiencing a growing desire to make something of himself, to do something worthwhile with his days. It was all very well to help his friends on occasion, but his monetary aid was merely a temporary solution to their many problems. If only he could think of a way in which he could alleviate their poverty-stricken way of life – not only for them, but for himself too.
At 25 years of age, it was time he stopped his carefree, casual lifestyle, combined his sharp intellect and wealth and put both to good use. He had never imagined he would feel envious of his younger brother, not poor Hugh with his painful shyness and lack of confidence. Not the small boy who had looked up to his elder brother, obeying his every command without question, his eyes shining with adoration and respect. As for Harry, he had taken the fair-haired boy under his wing from the moment he could walk and talk. He had protected him from the playground bullies, collecting many a bruised eye and cut lip for his pains, while a wailing Hugh had looked on as his dark-haired brother received a beating meant for him.
But Hugh was a boy no longer. He would always need someone to lean on, to make life easier for him, yet in spite of his shortcomings, Hugh had done something with his life, he had achieved his goal, carving out a niche for himself in the arduous medical world. In doing so he had forced Harry to take a long, hard look at his own affairs. He remembered the undisguised look of pride on his parents’ faces as they had toasted the red-faced Hugh, and felt again a twinge of envy. The hansom cab jolted to a stop, jerking Harry out of his reverie. Alighting quickly he paid the cabbie, smiling reassuringly at the man’s worried face as he watched his passenger walk cheerfully into the dark warren of houses where even the police only went en masse.
Harry pushed open the heavy pub doors and was immediately enveloped in a sea of noise, smoke and loud music and smiled broadly. Here was life – roaring, teeming vibrant life that made his nerve ends tingle. Walking briskly to the bar he was greeted cheerfully by the people that thronged the tightly packed tap-room. A tall glass of ale on the bar-top in front of him, he took a deep swallow and glanced around the room. Over in the corner sat the dilapidated piano, its well-worn keys being thrashed mercilessly by an old dock worker named Bob who earned a few extra shillings a week for entertaining the customers.
As he surveyed the boisterous scene an image of Bella’s spiteful face flashed before his eyes, and he gave a short laugh. What if he had given in to her entreaties and brought her along with him? He could imagine the reception she would have received, for if there was one thing the people of the East End wouldn’t tolerate, it was disdain, or worse still, well-meaning pity from people who were ill-prepared to do anything constructive to alleviate their plight.
The smile slipped from his face as he visualised his parents’ reactions if they ever found out about his twice weekly visits to this now familiar place. Yet would they be so horrified? His mother had spent many a day helping out in the many soup kitchens of London. She deplored snobbery, and often shed tears when reading of the numerous, poverty related incidents retailed eagerly in the daily papers. His father too, had no time for people who considered themselves better than others, but would he understand his son’s need to align himself with the very people who stood before him in the dock every day?
Harry took another swig of his ale. Many of the crowd present had probably been up before the Honourable Judge Stewart at one time or another, and it was the one fear in his otherwise carefree life that his friends would discover his parentage. He loved his father dearly, and respected him more than any other man he had ever known, but he doubted if the people here would share his view. Nobody knew his full name. He was known as Harry ‘The Toff’ and he hoped they would never learn his true identity. Finishing his drink, he beckoned to the bartender to replenish his glass, then leant his elbow on the stained bar-top, his eyes sweeping the packed room. His glass halfway to his lips he noticed a new face among the familiar crowd and paused. She sat alone in a corner, her face defiant and pinched, her small fists clenched in her lap as her eyes moved restlessly round the room. Placing his glass back on the bar-top Harry looked more closely at her and felt a stirring of pity swell inside his chest. God; she couldn’t be more than 15, and judging from the scared look on her face this was her first outing. Shaking his head sadly he turned away. There was only so much he could do, yet no matter how many times he witnessed such a scene, the feeling of helplessness never lessened.
It was on occasions such as these that he wished he had never entered this world. A world that could turn the old and the sick onto the streets and force the young, girls and boys, to trade their bodies for money to buy food for their starving bellies.
Still there were hundreds like her, and within a month the scared look would be replaced by a world-weary expression. If she was lucky she would be picked up by a costermonger, or some other such man willing to house her in a small room for his pleasures until he tired of her. But this happened rarely. At best she could hope for a few years before her looks faded and the light died in her eyes from the constant attacks on her body, at worst she would contact a venereal disease that would eventually kill her. His eyes bleak he stared at his empty glass, wondering whether to order another beer or take his leave. The sight of the young, vulnerable girl had put a blight on his evening.
Before he could make up his mind he heard a commotion break out over the raised voices gathered around the piano. Turning his head in the direction of the corner he felt his body stiffen at the sight of three heavily-painted women crowding in on the girl.
Hesitating for only a moment, he pushed his way to the table, and laying his hand on the arm of the woman nearest to him, he said cheerfully. ‘Here, what’s going on, Clara? Leave the girl alone, she’s not doing any harm.’
‘What the… Oh it’s yo
u, ’Arry.’ The woman addressed as Clara faced him, her hands planted firmly on her ample hips.
‘Now, stay out of it, ’Arry. You knows the rules round ’ere. We all got our own little patch to work, and we can’t ’ave outsiders coming in and pinching our trade. ’Specially little bits of girls like ’er.’
Turning her attention back to the girl she shook her fist in the startled face, shouting fiercely, ‘Go on, git out of ’ere afore yer gits yer pretty face bashed in. I ain’t gonna tell yer twice; get going.’
The girl got to her feet, her face set in defiance, the trembling of her bottom lip the only sign of her fear. Without uttering a word she walked through the jeering women, and as she passed Harry she stumbled and reached out blindly, her hand catching hold of his coat sleeve. Harry caught a fleeting glimpse of a pair of large brown eyes glazed with unshed tears and then she was gone, leaving him shaken by the encounter. For one wild moment he was tempted to follow her, but he quickly quashed the idea. In all the years he had been coming here, he had never availed himself of the services so readily offered by the steady stream of prostitutes that touted their wares openly in the bar; he wasn’t about to start now. He had a mistress tucked away in a comfortable house in Bow whom he visited every Wednesday and Sunday. In return for her favours he paid the rent on the house and left a ‘gift’ on her bedside table after every visit. There was no romance between them, simply a convenient arrangement that suited them both.
