A Handful of Sovereigns

by A Handful of Sovereigns (retail) (epub)

  ‘Ma… what you doing ’ere?’ he asked in bewilderment, he was sitting up now, his face creased in pain. About to rise to his feet he sensed his mother moving towards him. Staring up at the face above him he flinched at the loathing in the normally loving eyes.

  ‘What’s up, Ma, why yer looking at me…’

  Ethel Simms moved nearer. ‘You bastard,’ she spat at him. Then her huge fist shot out, catching him squarely between the eyes, and for the second time in less than an hour, Jimmy Simms’ world went black.

  Fifteen

  Charlie was worried.

  When they had made the hurried flight from their former home to Mrs Simms’ for the night, Maggie had been full of plans for their future. Even when he had been trying to get some sleep on the sagging sofa in the overcrowded room, she had kept him awake going over and over about what they were going to do once she got them settled. She’d made no further reference to what had happened with Jimmy – it was as if the sordid episode had never occurred.

  The following day they had risen early, but instead of going to the rooming house in Whitechapel as originally planned, they had walked the darkened streets until coming to a halt outside a large, Georgian house with a board advertising ‘Lodgers wanted’.

  Once installed in the two large, comfortable rooms, Maggie had resumed her feverish talk, the brown eyes glittering wildly in her flushed face. Charlie had listened in silence, his eyes widening, feeling a growing ache of dismay in his stomach as she’d ranted on about opening a coffee shop somewhere up the West End. When he’d feebly protested that he didn’t want to work in a poncey coffee shop and would rather stay in the markets, she had rounded on him furiously, shouting that if he didn’t like it he could get out and fend for himself.

  As suddenly as her anger had flared it had died down, leaving her looking lost and bewildered. For a moment he’d thought she was going to cry, instead she’d closed her eyes wearily and fallen into a deep sleep. He could still remember the relief he’d felt, thinking that her rantings were merely due to lack of sleep; that was until she’d woken up some seven hours later, looked at him as if he were a stranger, then shaking her head made her way to the bedroom and stayed there until the following morning.

  Then the nightmare had begun. For instead of waking refreshed, she had greeted him with dull listless eyes before slumping silently into the armchair. For over two weeks now he had watched with growing alarm as the once ebullient young girl wandered aimlessly round the two rooms with the same apathetic manner she’d displayed the first morning in their new home. Whenever he asked what they were going to do, she’d look at him abstractedly and mutter, ‘Not now, Charlie, leave it till tomorrow.’ He’d even said he wouldn’t mind working in a coffee shop, if that was what she wanted, hoping that his offer would jolt her out of the trance she seemed to be in. But she’d only looked at him, her eyes puzzled as if wondering what he was talking about. Now he didn’t know what to do.

  Raising his head he looked over to where she sat slumped dejectedly in the armchair, then, almost fearfully he let his gaze drop to her lap. Oh, Gawd, she was at it again! Rubbing her hands up and down her skirt; hands that were red from constant washing, sometimes in water so hot that tiny blisters had erupted on the now raw skin. But her hands were the only part of her body she did wash, for the once fastidious Maggie had let herself go to such an extent that he hardly recognised her any more. He forced himself to look at her face and felt a gnawing fear clutch at his stomach. She looked awful. Her beautiful hair was lank and greasy; she was still wearing the black dress she’d worn for Liz’s funeral, refusing to take it off even to sleep. And she smelt. Maggie, who was always so particular about washing, now looked and smelt like a tramp.

  It couldn’t go on like this. This wasn’t the Maggie he’d known all his life. Even as a child he could remember her bustling around, looking after him and his brothers, helping their Mum with the never-ending washing that was always piled high in the scullery. The Maggie he knew could never sit still for long; she always had to have something to do, somewhere to go. His Maggie was nothing like the lifeless figure slumped opposite him. What was he going to do? He should be doing something instead of just sitting here day after day watching her slip further and further away from him, and worst, away from reality. He wasn’t a boy any more, he was fourteen, nearly a man. But he didn’t feel like a man; he still felt like the frightened young boy who had clung first to his mother, and for the past six years to his sister. Now it was she who needed someone to cling to, and he knew, deep down, that if he had been possessed of a stronger character he could have helped her.

  Gnawing at his bitten-down nails his mind flew to the one person he knew of that might be able to bring Maggie out of the depression she had sunk into. Did he have the nerve though? He knew how Maggie felt about Mr Stewart. He didn’t know why she had changed her feelings towards the man she’d once been so friendly with, but right now that didn’t seem important. She’d probably go mad if he brought him back here, but he’d welcome her anger, at least it would show she still had some life left in her. Taking a deep breath he went to speak then changed his mind. Best get going before his courage deserted him.

  Once out in the street he stood by the railings, his legs trembling. What if he refused to come? After all, he hadn’t seen Maggie for nearly two years. Why should he drop everything and come running for someone who was no longer a part of his life? And what had caused the rift that sent Maggie into a rage whenever his name was mentioned? It must have been something serious. Oh, Gawd, what was he to do? In spite of the warm April morning he shivered as he debated about returning to the house. And then what? he asked himself furiously. Wait until she’s carted off to a nuthouse? Because that’s where she was heading for if she didn’t get some help. Somewhere, deep within him, Charlie felt a strength growing. Strength born out of fear and desperation, but mostly out of shame, shame at himself for being so weak and indecisive. If he didn’t do something now and anything happened to Maggie, he knew he’d never be able to forgive himself. Drawing his shoulders back he set off down the road, a determined look on his face. He knew where to go.

  The new Stewart houses were sited only 20 minutes’ walk away. He hadn’t been there himself, but had heard about them from the landlady who was afraid of losing future prospective lodgers to the man who seemed determined to rehouse the whole of the East End single handed. When he arrived at his destination he faltered for a moment, then, his face set, he walked on.

  * * *

  In April 1851, Lord Shaftesbury, horrified by the living conditions in the East End of London, passed an Act urging the local councils to remedy the situation by buying empty land to build on and convert old buildings into suitable accommodation. The councils replied by declaring that such an undertaking could never be profitable.

  The expansion of lodgings – or doss houses as they were better known – continued, financed solely by middle-class house buyers who employed warders to protect their property. Investors in lodging houses enjoyed regular returns on their capital, although the majority of them never came near their properties. It wasn’t until 1888, when the Ripper murders were causing a sensation all over the world, that the appalling living conditions of the masses was highlighted. The sensational publicity led to the escalation of new housing policies by shamefaced councils, while leaving enough land and old properties to be purchased and used by those men and women in a position to buy them. The infamous rookeries slowly became a thing of the past, as the newly born London County Council and wealthy entrepreneurs vied to create a newer and healthier environment for the oppressed people of the East End.

  One such man was Harry Stewart.

  * * *

  The two-century-old tenement buildings had been reduced to a heap of rubble. When Harry had signed the deeds, he had intended to restore them to their former glory. He had been greatly impressed by the size and location of the buildings. Unfortunately, he’d been in such a hurry to ac
quire his new property, he had agreed a price with the owner without inspecting the interior of the houses. That had been a grave mistake, and a costly one. Sadly, the interiors had been in such a state of neglect and dilapidation, he had deemed it wiser and more economical to demolish his latest acquisition and rebuild.

  The knocking down part had been comparatively easy, with Harry stripped to the waist working side by side with his men, swinging a heavy pickaxe with the ease of one who was born to it. Now had come the hard part. Aided with the advice of architects, carpenters and plumbers, he estimated it would be a year before the new buildings were completed. Confident that the work would run to schedule, Harry had placed an advertisement in The London Gazette stating that the new homes would be ready for occupation by July 1894; he had already received over thirty applications for the planned two-roomed apartments.

  The old houses had consisted of four storeys; the new ones would have five, thus giving an extra 22 rooms to let. It would be his biggest undertaking to date, a prospect that both exhilarated and frightened him.

  Sitting behind an old, scarred desk in the hastily erected hut that served as an office, he surveyed the mountain of papers and documents that lay scattered before him and sighed. As his business had grown, so had the never ending mass of paperwork to be dealt with. Not for the first time, he pondered as to whether he should hire a clerk to deal with the irksome task of keeping his papers in order.

  When he had mentioned his dilemma at dinner one night, Bella had immediately volunteered her services, an offer he had hastily declined. Giving one last despairing look at the desk, he leant back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his neck. From the open window he could see his men grouped around an open brick fire, upon which rested the biggest kettle he’d ever seen. Moments later the boiling water was poured into a teapot of equally large proportions, then left to brew while the men studied their tin boxes to see what their wives had prepared them for dinner. These were the men who had been with him from the start, men he could depend on and trust.

  There were others, younger, single men who preferred to take their dinner at the nearest public house. Unhampered by wives and children to support, they could afford to pay for the hot, tasty meals provided by the pub landlord, unlike their married counterparts who had to be content with sandwiches and maybe a piece of fruit if they were lucky. The only drawback to the men visiting the pub was the consumption of beer that accompanied the meals. He’d had to fire three men in the past two weeks for coming back to work drunk.

  It really wasn’t good enough. Men should have a hot, nourishing meal during the day, especially men such as his who needed all their strength for the arduous job they performed. A rumbling in his stomach reminded him that he too needed to keep up his strength. Reaching under the desk he brought out a small, wicker hamper and lifted the lid. Inside lay two golden breasts of chicken, four red tomatoes, half a loaf of crusty bread cut in the middle and heavily spread with butter, two oranges and an apple, plus a bottle of white wine. The sight of the delicious food so lovingly prepared by Mrs Sheldon that morning brought forth the familiar feelings of hunger and guilt. Like a small boy fearful of being caught raiding the larder he picked up a piece of chicken and bread, all the while keeping an eye on the window lest one of his men should decide to come to the hut. His meal finished, he replaced the hamper, a wry smile on his lips. He’d better not mention the plight of his men regarding their meals at home. He wouldn’t put it past Bella to suggest setting up a soup kitchen, with her in sole charge of course. Draining the last of the wine, he set the glass down on the desk, his expression thoughtful. Poor Bella. Memories of Christmas Day flooded back to his mind.

  The day had started as normal, with presents exchanged from beneath the giant Christmas tree. Then, after the sumptuous dinner, the family had retired to the drawing room, the men settling themselves in the high-backed leather armchairs, a glass of brandy in their hands to await the arrival of the servants.

  Benson had entered the room first, then stood by the door while Mrs Sheldon, Gertie and Annie had received their presents from the mistress of the house. As was customary, Beatrice lavished praise on Mrs Sheldon for the excellent dinner and complimented the two girls for their help in the smooth running of the house. Once the women had left, their faces beaming with pleasure, Benson had stepped forward to receive his gift from the man he had served for over 30 years. The long, white envelope containing two £5 notes was taken gratefully, and with much bowing and profuse thanks, the elderly man had left the room to join the women in the kitchen for their own private Christmas dinner.

  A silence had settled on the room, until Hugh, throwing back his third brandy, had laid down his glass and announced his intention to marry. Lord, what a night that had been. Once the initial shock had worn off, the family had swarmed around the red-faced young man, asking questions, demanding to meet the woman who had captured the most eligible doctor in London. All the family that was, except Bella. Bella had remained seated, her face white with shock, her eyes filled with pain. There had been something else in her expression, something Harry hadn’t been able to identify until later, and then it had come to him: betrayal – she’d worn the look of a woman betrayed.

  It had occurred to Harry that maybe his brother was marrying out of desperation, and if that were the case, could he blame him? Bella had always been possessive of Hugh, but over the past two years, Harry had watched in alarm as Bella had slowly but skilfully adapted to the role of wife to the brother she adored. Hugh could no longer leave the house without telling her where he was going and with whom. Often she would insist on accompanying him, brushing aside his feeble protests as one would with a querulous child. She’d even started getting up early so they could breakfast together, and was always waiting for him when he returned home. Harry had pleaded with Hugh to tell her to go to hell, but Hugh would simply shake his head miserably, declaring that he couldn’t hurt her feelings.

  Bella’s abnormal behaviour hadn’t gone unnoticed by their parents. They too had watched and worried. Efforts had been renewed to find their ageing daughter a husband, but all to no avail.

  Now at last Hugh had taken the first steps to a normal life, and this time next year, when he slipped a gold band on the finger of Miss Lotte Winters, he would finally break free from Bella’s possessive hold. And once Hugh was safely married, he, Harry, would start looking for a place of his own.

  Again the words ‘Poor Bella’ came to mind. He still didn’t like the woman, but could now feel pity for her and the life that stretched before her. A life empty and devoid of any purpose. Twice in the last week, she had come to the site, purporting to have been ‘just passing’. The first time he had taken her to luncheon at a nearby restaurant had been a mistake.

  She had come again yesterday, but this time she hadn’t made her presence known to him, preferring instead to wander among the men, chatting amiably as if attending a garden party. The men had been embarrassed, as had he – embarrassed and annoyed. Her unexpected arrival had meant him leaving his men, getting washed and changed and escorting her to the nearest hansom cab. He wondered briefly if her mind was becoming unhinged, then shook his head impatiently. She was lonely, desperately so, especially since Hugh had become engaged, thus depriving her of the only male company she’d had. Now she was trying to latch onto him and he wasn’t going to put up with it. He felt sorry for her predicament, but any affection he may have once had for her had long since died. She was being pleasant to him at the moment, but he wasn’t fool enough to imagine her change of attitude to him stemmed from rediscovered sisterly love. The only reason she had sheathed her claws was due to her desire to visit the site and mingle among the half-naked men. God! It had been pitiful to see her yesterday, smiling and attempting to make conversation with the embarrassed men while her eyes raked their sweating, dust-covered bodies.

  Well, it couldn’t be allowed to continue, she had made a spectacle of herself once; he would make sure it didn�
��t happen again. He’d already had a discreet word with his mother last night, and she’d promised to speak to Bella, her face filled with sorrow as she realised the depths her daughter was prepared to stoop to in order to gain a husband.

  The sounds of laughter brought him out of his reverie, and, glancing quickly at his pocket watch he hurriedly donned his jacket. He had an appointment with his solicitor at two o’clock. Luckily the offices were within walking distance. The laughter started again, louder this time, causing Harry to frown. He knew all too well the difference between natural mirth and drunken laughter. His face grim, he was about to open the door when out of the corner of his eye he saw Bella, her hand placed provocatively on her hip, while the other twirled a parasol casually above her head. Harry swore softly beneath his breath.

  Damn the woman! Couldn’t she see she was making a fool of herself? The two men with her were new, and obviously drunk. His regular men were watching the spectacle, their attitudes awkward as they witnessed the governor’s sister’s antics. Joe Pearson, the foreman, had sprung forward and was trying to get the two young men back to work, but they were having too much sport with the plain, middle-aged woman to take any notice. Harry watched in anger as one of the men began to make faces behind Bella’s back, his antics making his companion roar with laughter. Furious now, Harry wrenched the door open, only to be knocked back as a tall, wiry figure burst into the hut.

  ‘Charlie!’ he exclaimed in surprise, the problem of Bella momentarily pushed from his mind.

  The carefully rehearsed words Charlie had been repeating in his mind on his journey vanished. His whole face twitching in agitation he burst out, ‘I’m sorry for disturbing you at work, sir, but Maggie’s bad. Can you come, sir? Please, I ain’t got no-one else I can ask.’