by Dilly Court
He looked down at his hands clenched on the broken chair back and saw blood trickling from a cut. He could not meet Daisy’s eyes – she must hate him now for the coarse creature that he was. Choked with shame, he hurled the shattered wood at the wall and stomped out of the room.
Outside in the street, Bart found his way barred by a large crowd of onlookers who had gathered to watch the escalating contest between the two bellmen. When he had taken Daisy back to her room, the competition had seemed good-humoured, but now, with voices hoarse from shouting, it was a battle of words. The crowd seemed to be enjoying this spectacle, and they were joining in, encouraging the two men to even greater heights. Stupid fools! What did he care for the senseless rivalry between two hotels? He had just ruined his chances with Daisy. She had seen the worst of him and she would probably never speak to him again.
He was just about to move away when he caught sight of Tate’s coppery head. Bart pushed through the crowd towards him.
Tate saw him and grinned. ‘You’re just in time to see the fun. There’ll be a fist fight in a moment.’
‘What do I bloody care?’ Bart said, through clenched teeth.
‘What’s up with you? Didn’t she give you a good time?’
It was all he could do not to throttle Tate, but the crowd pressed round, hemming them in and making it almost impossible to move. The noise was deafening, but the violence around him seemed to counteract his own aggression. Bart shook his head. ‘It’s me. I’m always the one in the wrong.’
‘Women,’ Tate said, shrugging. ‘They do that to a bloke. Forget her for a moment and watch the spectacle.’ He pointed to the far side of the street. ‘See that bloke over the road, outside the Prince of Wales, that’s the barber. He’s shouting for Bully Hayes and the other bloke is Jimmy Lungs. He’s on the Buckinghams’ side.’
‘What’s it all about anyway?’
‘Shut up, it’s just getting interesting.’
‘And I tell you, ladies and gentlemen,’ roared Jimmy Lungs, ‘that the entertainment put on by the illustrious Buckingham family is not a half-crown swindle. Need I say more?’
‘Take that back you lying villain,’ shouted the barber, his voice cracking. ‘You can’t get away with saying that Captain Hayes is a swindler.’
‘I never said that, you horse’s arse. But what d’you expect from a bloke what’s had his ear chopped off for cheating at cards?’
A ripple of consternation mixed with amusement went round the crowd, followed by a buzz of excited chatter.
‘He’s done it now,’ Tate said out of the corner of his mouth. ‘You can’t accuse a fellow of cheating at cards and expect to get away with it.’
‘You’ll pay for that,’ the barber croaked, shaking his fist at Jimmy Lungs. He turned to the crowd, bellowing for their support, and then collapsed, falling to the ground.
The crowd roared, catcalled, cheered and some of them clapped their hands. Tate turned to Bart, shaking his head. ‘All this started with a woman, my lad. Young Rosie Buckingham from the Provincial Hotel went and married Bully Hayes. Her brothers don’t think much of the match, especially since she was their star turn. It’s going to turn nasty, mark my words.’
‘I don’t give a tinker’s cuss for the bloody Buckinghams,’ Bart said wearily. ‘I’ve had enough for one day, Tate. You can buy me a drink, that’s if you ain’t gambled away every last penny.’
‘As a matter of fact, I won.’ Tate slapped his breast pocket, grinning. ‘And what’s more I’ll buy you a steak dinner over at the Prince of Wales. I want to see what Bully makes of all this to-do.’
Separated from Tate by the rapidly dispersing crowd, Bart had no option but to make his way across the street to Hayes’s establishment. Tate went straight to the bar and Bart was about to follow him when Bully Hayes came striding into the room. There was an expectant silence as all eyes turned towards him.
Bully came to a halt, an impressive figure, bristling with rage but speaking in a well-controlled voice. ‘For your information, gentlemen, what you have just heard is nothing but a pack of lies put about by the Buckingham family in order to discredit me. I will see their bellman, Jimmy Lungs, in court. I want it further known that my wife and I are holding a private ball in this establishment on Friday evening, and I hereby invite all present here to attend.’ With a stiff bow, he strutted towards the door, pausing when he saw Bart. ‘We meet again, Mr Bragg.’
Bart inclined his head in a nod.
‘The invitation is open to you as well, sir. I’ve no doubt a handsome young fellow such as yourself has a lady that he would like to bring with him. Mrs Buckingham would be pleased to meet her, I’m sure.’
Bereft of speech, Bart nodded again, but Hayes had already left the building, no doubt, Bart thought, to demand the arrest of Jimmy Lungs. Slowly he made his way to the bar. Tate pushed a foaming pint of beer along the bar counter towards him.
‘Here, you look as though you could do with this. What’s up?’
‘Nothing,’ Bart said, taking a long draught of cool beer. He couldn’t bring himself to speak of what had passed between him and Daisy, but he had already made up his mind to seek her out and apologise. He would go down on his knees if he had to and beg her forgiveness for his display of temper. He would ask her, humbly – he would beg her if necessary – to accompany him to the ball.
‘You look bloody down in the dumps about nothing, mate,’ Tate said, giving Bart a knowing look. ‘Forget the little trollop. There’s dozens more like her to be had round here.’
White-hot light flashed in front of Bart’s eyes and he grabbed Tate by the throat. ‘Take that back, you bastard. Take that back.’
Tate’s eyes bulged from their sockets and he nodded. Bart released him, but with murder still in his heart. No one could talk about his Daisy in that way. There was a sudden silence as the other customers turned their heads to stare at them. Bart picked up his glass with a shaking hand and swallowed a long draught of beer.
Tate eyed him warily, rubbing his throat. ‘You’re a mad bugger, Bart Bragg. Best get some victuals inside you afore you do someone a mischief.’
Bart pushed his glass towards the barman. ‘Same again.’
‘Make that two, mate, and we’ll order two steak dinners as well.’ Tate turned to Bart, frowning. ‘Keep that temper of yours under control or you’ll get us chucked out.’
‘I’ll not eat with you. You insulted my Daisy.’
‘She’s a fine woman – no insult intended.’
Staring moodily into his glass, Bart shrugged his shoulders.
Tate perched on a bar stool next to him. ‘Listen to me, mate. You need to be careful of Hayes. He’s got a reputation as an all-in fist and boot fighter. You don’t want to get mixed up in his family squabbles. Best watch your step, or you’ll end up with more than an ear missing.’
Bart shrugged his shoulders and stared moodily into his glass. ‘What do I care about the Buckinghams, or Hayes come to that, when I’ve lost me girl?’
Tate produced a leather pouch from his pocket and tipped some of its contents on the bar counter in front of Bart. ‘I can see as how you don’t know much about women, mate. Hire yourself a fancy suit and take Daisy to the ball on Friday. She’ll be eating out of your hand.’
‘Where did you get that gold?’ Bart demanded, staring at the coins. ‘You never stole it, did you?’
‘I told you, you daft bugger. I won it fair and square at poker. Take it.’
‘But we need it for our stake money.’
‘You can’t shag a sack of flour. If she’s the one you want, get in there, fellah.’
On the night of the ball, Bart stood outside the door to Daisy’s room. In spite of the fact that she had generously accepted his apologies for his outburst of temper, he was a little nervous about taking her to such a public function. He knew he was a clumsy fellow, with few social graces, but he desperately wanted to prove to her that he could behave like a proper gent. He ran his finger ro
und the inside of his starched collar. The hired evening suit had been made for a shorter but fatter man; the trousers were too short and the crutch was uncomfortably tight, but at least the jacket fitted properly over his well-muscled shoulders. He was about to knock again when Daisy opened the door. He caught his breath at the sight of her. In her flame-coloured dress, with her waist corseted in to a hand’s span and her fine bosom accentuated, but tantalisingly concealed beneath a waterfall of lace, Daisy slanted him a wicked look beneath her thick, doll-like eyelashes. ‘My, you do look smart, Bartie.’
Horribly conscious of his shabby boots and inwardly cursing the store for not stocking proper shoes in his size, Bart prayed that Daisy would not look down at his feet. ‘You look beautiful, Daisy. Good enough to eat.’
She tucked her hand through the crook of his arm. ‘Just you behave yourself tonight, Bartie. The other girls are mad with jealousy that my fellah is taking me to Bully Hayes’s ball.’
As he led her down the dark corridor and out into the street, Bart felt his heart swell with pride. No other man would have a partner half as lovely as his Daisy. ‘We’re going up in the world,’ he said, his voice breaking with emotion. ‘You and me together, girl.’
She tossed her head so that her gold earrings jiggled and flashed in the light of the naphtha flares that pooled on the boardwalk. ‘It’s going to be the do of the century and it won’t half put the Buckinghams’ noses out of joint.’
Bart could hardly believe his luck. Here he was, a penniless prospector, going to the social event of the year with the most beautiful woman in the world. As they reached Bully’s establishment, Daisy paused, staring across the street at a sign placed on the boardwalk outside the Provincial Hotel, advertising a one-act farce, entitled ‘The Barbarous Barber of the Lather and the Shave’.
‘Look, Bartie. Bully won’t like them making fun of him like that. I wonder how it’s all going to end.’
‘Badly,’ Bart said, taking her by the arm. ‘But it don’t concern us, ducks. We’re going to have the time of our lives tonight.’
Inside the hotel lobby, Bully Hayes, resplendent in a black tailcoat and gold-embroidered waistcoat, stood beside his heavily pregnant wife. ‘Rosie, my love, this is Mr Bart Bragg from London,’ Bully said, shaking Bart’s hand.
‘And this is my fiancée, ma’am,’ Bart said proudly. ‘Miss Daisy Dawkins.’
Rosie held out her hand to Daisy, smiling. ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Dawkins. But I think we’ve already met at my brothers’ hotel across the road.’
‘We won’t mention them tonight, my dear,’ Bully said, frowning. ‘Take your lady into the ballroom, Mr Bragg. Feel free to enjoy the Hayes’s hospitality.’
‘Maybe we’ll have time to chat later, Daisy?’ Rosie said, casting a sidelong glance at her husband. ‘If you don’t mind, William.’
‘Anything that makes you happy, my bird.’ Bully leaned down to kiss her on the cheek and then turned to the next couple. ‘Good evening and welcome to the ball of the century. May I compliment you on your good taste in boycotting that farce across the street.’
Bart led Daisy into the ballroom that was bright with the light of hundreds of candles and filled with the sound of music and laughter. ‘There’s just one thing, Daisy,’ he whispered.
‘What’s that, dear?’
‘I can’t dance.’
Daisy’s laughter, that sounded to Bart’s ears like the tinkling of fairy bells, made the people in their vicinity turn around and smile. Standing on her tiptoes, she kissed Bart’s cheek. ‘Never mind, neither can most of these great galumphing miners. Just put your arms around me and hold me tight, Bartie. Pretend we’re making love and it’ll all come natural-like.’
By the end of the evening, with many cups of punch inside him and intoxicated with love for Daisy, Bart was as good a mover as any man in the room except perhaps for Bully himself, who was exceptionally light on his feet. The ball went on into the early hours of the morning and became very lively and quite rowdy by the end. When at last they left the hotel, emerging into the frosty night air, Bart felt that he was the happiest man in the universe as he walked Daisy back to her room.
‘I could have died laughing when you said I was your fiancée,’ Daisy said, chuckling. ‘But I have to say it made me feel a bit grand.’
‘I meant it, Daisy. I’d give you the world all wrapped up in a satin ribbon if I could.’
‘You are a love, Bartie. I really believe you would.’
‘Will you, Daisy? Will you be my wife?’ Hesitating in the doorway, Bart hardly dared put the question for fear of being turned down again. They had not made love since the day they had fallen out, and although he wanted her quite desperately, he was afraid to make the first move.
‘Yes, I think I will after all.’ Daisy danced into the middle of the floor and stood in the shaft of moonlight, holding out her arms and swaying as if to the music of a hidden orchestra. ‘Well, what are you waiting for, Bartie? Come in and close the door.’
Next morning it was raining; cold sleety rain that soaked through Bart’s clothes before he was halfway to the camp. The tops of the mountains were already tipped with snow and the cold air went down into his lungs like shards of ice. He hoped that Tate would have a fire going and a billycan of boiling water to make a brew of tea. The unaccustomed amount of alcohol that he had drunk had left him with a headache as well as a parched throat and mouth, but it had been a most wonderful night and it was not only the ball that he remembered. Making love with Daisy had taken them both to new heights of passion and delight. His last sight of her was indelibly imprinted on his memory: he had left her sleeping soundly, with her flaxen hair spilling over the pillow like spun silk and her red lips swollen from kissing and parted slightly, as though she was smiling.
‘Hey, Tate,’ Bart called as he neared the shack that they had constructed with canvas and stones to withstand the winter storms. ‘Wake up, you lazy sod.’ There was no sign of life and no sign of smoke from a campfire. He was cursing Tate for being a lazy bugger when it occurred to Bart that something was wrong. It was quiet, too quiet, with just the sound of the rushing waters of the Arrow River but no obvious movement inside the shack. As he lifted the flap of canvas that served as a door, Bart stifled a cry of horror. Tate was lying on the floor with a dark stain of blood, already congealing, from a knife wound in his chest. His eyes were open but glazed and his skin had a bluish tinge. Bart had pulled enough corpses out of the Thames to know that he was dead.
Chapter Eight
Working in the pie and eel shop for fourteen hours a day was not Eliza’s idea of bliss, but she had to earn her keep. With Freddie gone, there was no one to give her a reference and, unless she wanted to pick oakum for a few pence a day or work in one of the manufactories, there was little choice. She had come upon this job by chance, at the end of the dreadful day in the courtroom when Uncle Enoch had denounced Freddie as a kidnapper and an evil seducer of young girls. His accusations had been backed up by Beattie Larkin’s hysterical outburst, and after that it had been obvious that the judge was not going to be lenient. Freddie had been sentenced to seven years’ deportation to the penal colony in Australia. Eliza could barely remember what had followed, apart from the fact that she had leapt to her feet, screaming that the verdict was unjust and unfair. Freddie had turned his head and smiled directly at her, a special smile with a hint of sadness, and he had shaken his head, putting his finger to his lips, as if he were asking her to hold her peace. But she had not kept silent. She remembered raving at Uncle Enoch, Beattie and the judge, until two court ushers carried her bodily out of the courtroom and deposited her on the pavement.
Later that day, Ted had gone to the City Police Office to find out where they had taken Freddie. When he had returned home Eliza had sensed that it was not good news and Ted had confirmed her worst fears: Freddie had been taken to one of the prison hulks downriver, to await deportation. If only she could have visited him in prison, at least she w
ould have been able to say goodbye properly. She would have told him that she would be waiting for his return, whether it was seven years or seventy. At that moment, Eliza had felt her heart turn into a lump of stone inside her breast. She could not weep and she could not confide her deepest feelings to anyone; Millie had been sympathetic but she was only a child and could not possibly understand what it was to love someone, as Eliza loved Freddie, and to lose him in such a cruel and barbaric fashion. After receiving the dreadful news, Eliza had run from the house and had come to her senses hours later, walking aimlessly on Execution Dock. But this time there was no Freddie to come and comfort her, and no Davy to take her home to his mother. The mewling cries of the seagulls overhead had exactly matched the misery in Eliza’s soul and she wished that she could fly away with them; fly to the hulk where Freddie was chained like a common criminal and follow him into exile. In the end, it had been Millie who had come to find her. She might not have understood fully, but she had seemed to sense Eliza’s distress. She had tugged at her sleeve, complaining that she was hungry and there was no food in the house. Dolly had been so upset that she had retired to her bed and Ted had gone back to the sail loft to make up the work he had lost during the day. The fire had gone out – it was cold at home – and she was scared. That had brought Eliza abruptly back to the present and she had taken Millie to the pie and eel shop. There was a sign in the window – HELP WANTED, APPLY WITHIN.
The pieman had taken her on with no questions asked. Since then, Eliza had arrived each morning at seven o’clock to start peeling sackfuls of potatoes ready for boiling. After the potatoes were done there were pounds of onions to be peeled and chopped, which she did shedding tears and sniffing as the pungent juice burned and stung her eyes. After a week or two she was called upon to do the job that made her shiver with disgust – skinning eels. Gritting her teeth and swallowing the bile that rose in her throat, somehow Eliza managed to get on with this horrible task, but she vowed never to eat a plate of eels ever again.
