by Dilly Court
Jack caught each of them by the hand. ‘Please don’t fight. I love you both.’
Fancy gasped. ‘You love me, Jack?’
He smiled and raised her hand to his lips. ‘I’ve said so, haven’t I? Now, do me a favour, and stop quarrelling with me sister. She’s as prickly as a burr when she’s crossed, but she can be nice, when she tries.’
Reluctantly, Clemency smiled and ruffled his hair. ‘I’ll be nice if she will.’
Fancy shrugged her shoulders. ‘Likewise.’
‘Good. Now get out of them wet duds afore you both catches that fatal chill Ronnie spoke about.’
Augustus barred Edith’s way, placing himself in the doorway to Jack’s sleeping quarters. ‘Don’t take this wrong, madam. But can you cook? I don’t ask for myself, but for the other lodgers. I mean …’
Edith drew herself up to her full height and looked him in the eye. Clemency stifled a giggle at the look on Ma’s face. She already knew the answer.
‘If I wasn’t a lady,’ Edith said stiffly. ‘I’d smack you in the gob for your cheek. But as I am a lady, I’ll tell you, mister. I was serving in the bar of the Pig and Whistle, down Ratcliff Highway, when I met me old man, but mostly I worked in the kitchen doing the cooking. He said he was going to take me away from all that and give me a better life. The lying bastard. But yes, I can cook, and when you’ve tasted me steak and kidney pudding you can apologise for your bad manners.’ She pushed him aside and marched into the old storeroom, leaving Augustus gaping.
Clemency followed her, chuckling. ‘Well said, Ma. That put him in his place.’
*
Leaving Ma and Fancy to squabble over territory in the kitchen, Clemency took a cup of tea upstairs to Mrs Blunt’s room. She found her prostrate on the bed, still fully dressed, complaining that the light hurt her eyes and that she was suffering from a dreadful headache. The sight of her ashen face and pinched features was enough to convince Clemency that she was not exaggerating her symptoms, and she made her as comfortable as possible, telling her to stay in bed until she felt better. Downstairs in the kitchen, she walked into a scene that caused her to stop and stare in amazement. Ma was wearing one of Mrs Blunt’s old dresses with an apron tied around her waist, and her hair tucked into a white mobcap, with just a few wayward strands licking around her temples. It was as though a completely different woman now inhabited her mother’s body. Less than an hour ago she had been a hopeless drunk, terrified that Hardiman was going to find her and drag her back to a whore’s life on the streets: now she appeared to be full of confidence, and in complete control of the situation.
Clemency closed her eyes and then opened them, half expecting to find that she had been dreaming. But sure enough, there was Fancy standing at the table, grating a lump of suet into a bowl. Ma was wielding a sharp knife and expertly slicing a large beefsteak. Even Lucilla had been put to work. She was sobbing over a pile of onions, but it was difficult to tell whether her tears were of anger and frustration, or caused by the stinging zest from the onion skins. Jack and Tom had been banished to a far corner of the room, and, judging by the sounds emanating from the scullery – hammering, swearing and the occasional yelp of pain – Augustus and Ronnie were attempting to make a carrying seat for Jack.
Edith looked up. ‘Is she still sick?’
‘Very sick, Ma.’
‘No matter,’ Edith said, pointing the knife at her. ‘Make yourself useful, Clemmie. Fill a pan with water and put it on to boil. This pudding will take at least five hours to cook. I’ll give them a meal tonight that they’ll never forget. And Fancy, when you’ve finished with the suet, you can cut up the kidneys. I’ll make the pastry crust. I was known for me suet crust in the old days. Light as angels’ wings it was.’
By midday, the carrying seat was finished. It looked a bit odd, but Augustus and Ronnie were so proud of their efforts that Clemency had not the heart to say so. The broom handles had not proved to be such a good idea. They had split as soon as a nail was driven through them, and Ronnie had been forced to think again. He had gone out, returning later with two narrow planks and a rusty saw. After another half hour of sawing, and more swearing, the carrying seat was completed. They lifted Jack onto the chair and carried him round the kitchen, but when they attempted to turn, taking the corner too sharply, Jack fell off. Fancy screamed and dropped the sack of potatoes that she had fetched from the scullery.
Clemency rushed forward to help, but he raised himself on his hands and to her intense relief, he was chuckling.
‘Are you hurt, Jack?’
‘Nothing but me pride.’ Jack held his arms up so that Tom and Ronnie could lift him back onto the chair. ‘It’ll take a bit of practice, boys. Maybe we could slip a couple of tumbles into the act. It would make the punters laugh.’
‘Don’t you dare,’ Clemency said firmly. ‘You wouldn’t think it so funny if you’d broken a bone.’
Fancy scowled at Tom and Ronnie. ‘Take better care of him, you fools. Or you’ll have me to deal with.’
‘Hush, Fancy.’ Jack grasped her by the hand. ‘I ain’t fragile, pet. I’m made of India rubber, I am. Didn’t you just see me bounce off the flagstones?’
The first afternoon out on the streets went well, but progress with the carrying chair was slow. Tom had his face hidden in a muffler and was not feeling very well, but Clemency had to give him credit for not grumbling. He didn’t even say anything when Jack hit the occasional wrong note.
They played to the crowds in Petticoat Lane, and went on to Fenchurch Street Station, but by then the sky had turned to ochre and the air was heavy with the sooty smell of a London particular. By five o’clock, the air was thick and green and they were on their way back to Flower and Dean Street battling though a solid pea-souper. Clemency could barely see Jack, even though she had her hand on his shoulder. Tom was just a shadowy shape as he shuffled along at the back of the carrying chair, and she could not see Ronnie, even though she knew he was at the front. Augustus and Lucilla led the way. Clemency could just make out the faint tapping of his cane as he walked like a blind man, using the stick to feel for walls and kerbs. Her ears felt as though they were filled with water, muffling the muted rumble of a train, or the slow, clip-clopping of a horse’s hooves as it plodded homeward. There was the occasional waft of warm air, laced with tobacco smoke and alcohol fumes, as an amorphous figure loomed from the fog, and disappeared through an open pub door. It was not a night to be out on the streets. The threat of the Ripper seemed even more menacing as they waded through the fog.
When they finally arrived outside the lodging house in Flower and Dean Street, Augustus came to an abrupt halt. ‘Who left that damned cart outside the house? I could have done myself a real mischief if I hadn’t stopped in time.’
‘It stinks of fish, Daddy,’ Lucilla complained. ‘Bad fish.’
‘It must be Connor,’ Clemency whispered in Jack’s ear. ‘I’ll bet he’s come to visit Ma. I thought he liked her when he took her to the pub. Although God knows why, when she wasn’t looking or acting her best.’
‘I think you’re imagining things. Anyway, Ned might have sent him,’ Jack replied in a low voice. ‘Could be he’s got news of Hardiman.’
Clemency felt her heart sink to her boots. What if Hardiman really had recognised her in the Crown and Anchor? She chewed the tip of her finger, waiting until Ronnie had hoisted Jack over his shoulder, and was carrying him slowly down the area steps. Augustus had gone on ahead to open the door, and Tom was attempting to manoeuvre the unwieldy chair on his own. ‘Give us a hand, Clem,’ he said. ‘It ain’t heavy, just awkward to get through the gate.’
She picked up the handles and helped him down the steep stone steps, with Lucilla stomping after them, grumbling beneath her breath and coughing.
The steamy atmosphere of the kitchen was fragrant with the aroma of steak and kidney pudding. The O’Malley brothers were just finishing off their meal before going out for the night shift, although Clemency heard Aug
ustus warning them that the pea-souper was as dense a one as he had ever seen. Edith was busy at the range, mashing potatoes in a saucepan, and, seated on a chair close to the fire, Clemency saw Mickey Connor. His cheerful expression changed to one of astonishment as she took off her cap, shaking her long hair so that it tumbled loose about her shoulders.
‘Holy Mother of God!’ Mickey said, staring at Clemency. ‘I’d never have known it was you.’
‘Did Ned send you to warn us about Hardiman?’
Mickey shook his head. ‘He did not.’
‘I saw Hardiman in the Crown and Anchor the other night. I thought he might have recognised me.’
‘He never mentioned the fellow, but young Ned is worried about you. He said you had a falling out and he asked me to make sure you was all right.’
‘You can tell him, I’m fine. And thank him for asking.’
‘And you’ll go and see him?’
‘Not if he’s going to lecture me again about dressing like this. I only does it for the performance, not because I like it.’
Mickey looked her up and down with a nod of approval. ‘’Tis fine you look. In my humble opinion, more young ladies should wear breeches.’
‘You will stay for supper, won’t you, Mickey?’ Edith cast him a sideways glance beneath her lashes.
‘Sure, I was thinking you were never going to ask.’ Mickey flashed a disarming smile at her, topping it up with a saucy wink.
Edith giggled and gave the potatoes an extra thump with the wooden spoon. Clemency shot a curious glance at her mother. It was strange to see her smiling and flirting with a man. And she seemed quite sober too. Not a hint of the gin bottle about her. Ma’s eyes were clear and bright, her hair was piled up on top of her head in a coronet of copper curls, and there were spots of colour on her thin cheeks.
Edith turned to her, suddenly businesslike. ‘Clear the table and set fresh places, Clemmie. I’ll make up a tray of supper for Mrs Blunt and then we’ll eat.’ She raised her voice. ‘Fancy! Where is that girl?’
‘She’s looking after Jack, Ma.’
‘That’s all very well, but it ain’t what she’s paid for.’ Edith ladled soup into a bowl and took it to the table where she thrust it into Fancy’s hands. ‘You’ve work to do, girl. Take this tray up to Mrs Blunt.’
‘Your ma is a fine woman,’ Mickey said. ‘I admire a woman with spirit.’
‘She’s had a hard time since me dad went away. Sometimes she …’ Clemency hesitated – she had to make certain that Mickey understood Ma’s weaknesses. ‘Sometimes she drinks a bit too much, but she’s off the booze now. Whatever you do, please don’t let her go near a pub.’
‘You can trust me on that one. In fact, I’m thinking I might ask her to step out with me on Sunday.’
‘That would be good,’ Clemency said, with feeling. ‘But don’t go to any place where you might bump into Hardiman.’
Mickey’s eyes followed Edith’s slim figure as she bustled about, fetching bread from the crock and cutting it into wafer-thin slices. He frowned. ‘What is this man to her?’
‘He’s a devil, that’s what Hardiman is. A devil what took advantage of a widow woman with a crippled son and a young daughter to raise on her own. Make no mistake, Mickey. He’s a bad man to cross. Just keep out of his way.’
The O’Malley brothers got up from the table, praising Edith’s cooking. Augustus, Ronnie and Tom took their places, passing the dirty crockery and cutlery to Lucilla, who protested that she was not a servant. For the second time that day, Augustus raised his voice and spoke sharply to her, ordering her to clear the table. Clemency almost felt sorry for the spoilt brat, but then if anyone had it coming to her, Lucilla did. Tom looked as though he wanted to say something in her defence, but a frown from Augustus was enough to subdue him.
‘You haven’t heard a word I was saying.’
Clemency glanced down at Mickey, startled. ‘What?’
‘I said that Edie told me about the carrying chair they made for Jack. Now it don’t take a genius to see that you couldn’t get far with a contraption like that.’
‘That’s true.’
‘So it is. I’m lodging not far from here, in Frying Pan Alley, and I’m thinking that you could use me cart in the evenings. That’s if the boy don’t object to the smell of herrings and haddock.’
‘Why would you do that for us?’
He leaned back in the chair, his thumbs hitched in the pockets of his waistcoat. ‘Would it not put me in your ma’s good books?’ He tapped the side of his nose and winked.
Before Clemency could answer, Edith came towards them with her hands full of cutlery. ‘I thought I told you to lay the table, miss. Not to stand about gossiping with Mickey.’ She thrust the knives and forks into Clemency’s hands.
‘Don’t scold her, Edie. Weren’t we just praising your cooking? And didn’t I tell her she was lucky to have such a lovely woman for her mammy?’
Clemency held her breath. Ma would surely tell him off for talking a load of tommyrot, but Edie smiled and slapped Mickey’s hand in a playful manner. ‘Oh, you Irish!’
Every day after that, with the exception of Sundays, Tom and Ronnie took Jack in the carrying chair to the pitches that were close to Flower and Dean Street. In the evenings, Mickey brought his cart round, and in return, Edith gave him supper. The use of the handcart enabled the troupe to go further afield. Now they could perform outside the theatres in the Strand, entertaining the crowds queuing for seats. Jack had soon mastered the flute, and, Clemency thought, he could now play it far better than Tom. Augustus had bought a second-hand concertina from Minski, and Tom could squeeze out a basic tune, although, it had to be said, not very well. He blamed the instrument, insisting that some of the internal reeds were broken, and it did wheeze rather more than it played, but the sound added a lively touch to songs like ‘Old Towler’ with its chorus of huntsmen’s calls and halloos. With Ronnie’s help, Clemency soon had the whole repertoire off by heart, from sentimental ballads to comic songs. She had learnt to play the part of a young boy and never, never to try to upstage Lucilla, who trilled away in her frilly frock, with her hair in ringlets and her plump cheeks slightly rouged. Privately, Clemency thought she looked more like an overstuffed, painted doll than a pretty young lady, but she knew when to keep her mouth shut. As long as Lucilla thought she was the star of the show, she behaved like a reasonable human being; but if Clemency received louder applause, Lucilla’s bottom lip would stick out so far that a parrot could have used it as a perch.
It was all too easy to offend Lucilla, but Clemency had discovered her weakness for sweets and cakes. If she upset the temperamental nightingale, a bag of brandy balls, almond rock or a stick of barley sugar would be certain to bring a smile back to Lucilla’s face. And she would do almost anything for a box of chocolates. Clemency knew for a fact that Tom had found this out long ago. Augustus might think his little petal was untouched and pure as a lily, but Clemency often stayed up late in order to practise her reading skills. When there was no one about to disturb her, she would sit, poring over the reading primer that Ronnie had bought second-hand from a stall in Petticoat Lane. When her eyes were too heavy to keep them open any longer, and the words began to dance about the page, she would creep upstairs to bed. On several occasions, she had seen Tom padding barefoot from the ground floor, where the men shared a large back room, up the stairs towards Lucilla’s room. Judging by the noises that began as soon as the door closed on him, Tom had not come upstairs for a chat.
As the cold, foggy days of winter warmed into an early spring, it seemed to Clemency that the house was filled with lovers. Lucilla and Tom might keep their intimate relations a secret from Augustus, but Fancy was openly affectionate towards Jack. On one occasion, late in the evening when most of the household had gone to bed, Clemency had gone outside to the privy in the back yard, and on her return had found Fancy’s sleeping place empty. The door to Jack’s room had been left ajar and she had not been ab
le to resist the temptation to peep inside. In a shaft of moonlight filtering through the little window high up in the wall, she had seen Fancy, fully clothed, lying down beside Jack with her arms around him as he slept. They had looked so sweet and innocent, like the babes in the wood, that it had brought a lump to her throat. She had tiptoed away, not wanting to break the spell.
After that, Clemency had tried to be extra nice to Fancy, if only for Jack’s sake. But it was not easy. Fancy was prickly as a hedgehog, jealous and touchy. Sometimes Clemency wondered if they would ever really be friends; she just had to keep reminding herself that Fancy was genuinely fond of Jack, and that he was happier now than he had ever been, in the bad old days when they had lived in Stew Lane.
Then there was Ma, who had been stepping out with Mickey every Sunday afternoon for two months, and during that time had not touched a drop of strong drink. Mrs Blunt’s nerves had never recovered fully from Jared Stone’s announcement that he was thinking of selling the property. Sometimes she seemed to be her old self, in charge of everyone, but at other times, she retired to her room and spent days there, locked in and seeing no one. Ma had continued to do the cooking, even when Mrs Blunt was having a good spell. The lodgers were happy, and Clemency had never seen Ma in such high spirits. Released from Hardiman’s evil influence she was a different person. The yellowish tinge had left her skin and she had filled out a bit, developing curves that seemed to make it difficult for Mickey Connor to keep his hands off her. It was a fact that Ma stayed with Mickey in Frying Pan Alley most Sunday nights. The first time it had happened, Clemency had been frantic with worry, and had been ready to go to the police station next morning, half expecting to find that the Ripper had claimed yet another victim. Then Ma had breezed into the kitchen, with a big smile on her face. There had been no need to ask where she had spent the night. Clemency had gone outside to the privy and cried with relief.
