‘“That’s new, now, eh? What’s gone with that red ’eaded bit o’ goods, Louie What’s-’er-name? She was a proper saucy young kipper till the owd man took ’er in ’and!”
‘“’Nother orf-nidge brat, I lay,” quoth Mrs Tillett, craning to follow the progress of the small figure down the darkening street. “Alwis gets ’em. from there, old Lidgett does. Don’t trust any of the kids round ’ere to keep their tongues shut abart his business!”
‘“Nahsty old beast, ’e is,” repeated Mrs Birch thoughtfully, making patterns with the wet foot of her tumbler on the counter. “Funny, come ter think of it; funny, ’ow orfen ’e ’as ter change? What ’appened ter Louie, now?”
‘Mrs Tillett’s fat brow wrinkled. “Now you’re askin’ Matter of fact I never ’eard,” she admitted. “Suppose she went back to the orf’nidge—’e wouldn’t stand no sort of nonsense, old Lidgett wouldn’t. Larst year there was a kid called Lilly—’arf a Chink she was, and a temper somethink awful . . . got away one night and ran yelping down the street, callin’ out abaht the old man and ’ow she was bein’ treated—somethin’ chronic it was. My old man went out—’e took ’er side and there was a rare row with old Lidgett. I never know’d the rights of it, but Tom ’e fetched the girl in ’ere and said ’e’d take ’er to the police ’isself in the mornin’ and get the old man locked up. Quite mad she was, an’ talkin’ all sorts of looney. But there, wot can yer do wiv a Chink? In the mornin’ she’d crep’ out and gorn back to old Lidgett’s and w’en Tom saw ’er arfter and arst ’er why, she just stared at ’im blank-like and said she didn’t remember—she was all right where she was! I tell yer, my Tom swore at ’er proper for givin’ ’im such a scare for nothin’. . . . Oh, she wer’ all right after that, only quiet-like, like this ’un. Come ter think of it they all gets that way—suppose old Lidgett gets ’em down with ’is grum face. Ugh, makes me all of a shiver sometimes, ’e do!”
‘“I know—goes all dahn yer spine,” assented Mrs Birch, putting her empty glass lingeringly down, and beginning to wind her shawl round her spare form, for a thin drizzle was falling outside and the air was damp and cloudy with the mist from the great sullen river that lapped so close to the Alley. “Sime time, it do seem ’ard on the kids, y’know, alwis bein’ with ’im and that . . . pore little souls. . . . This one—funny light ’air, and no colour . . . ’neemic, I s’pose.”
‘Though Mrs Tillett was yawning frankly, she could not let this pass unchallenged.
‘“’Neemic!—not on yer life, Jine Birch! She’s ’ealthy enough, but she ain’t got no colour, not in ’er ’air nor nothink! ’S funny, but the curick at the mission larst week tole me ’e’d seen another just like er—a man. All right y’know, but white ’air and pink eyes—reely!”
‘Mrs Birch’s eyes were wide with astonishment and interest. “Fancy! I never see such a thing! Never looked at ’er, though—always creepin’ abaht in the dirty white apern—pink eyes? Can she see wiv ’em?”
‘“You bet she can. Oh, she’s all right enough, an’ all that. On’y funny-like to look at, y’know. Ain’t no beauty, pore kid!”
‘Mrs Tillet’s fat laugh, conscious of having been the belle of Slink’s Alley ere she married, many years ago, re-echoed in the ears of her friend as, shivering, the latter stepped out into the reeking air, cold and damp, of the sparsely-lit little street. Wrapping her rough hands in her shawl, she turned to hurry away, her thoughts pleasantly warmed by the picture of a snug, lighted back room, and Mag, her buxom daughter, frying kippers and onions, recklessly savoury, over the fire. Hastening her steps, she stumbled and glanced down.
‘A flicker of dull white darted away in the gloom, and straightening up with a jerk, Mrs Birch sent a none-too-amiable word after it. Her mouth full of kipper later, she informed Mag that Mrs Tonks’s blasted cat had as near as a toucher had her down in the bloomin’ road, and she wished som’un ’ud poison it. . . . The said animal having recently scratched Mag, the latter heartily concurred, and added a rider to the effect that for two pins she’d do it herself. . . .
‘The shutters of old Lidgett’s house and shop were tightly locked and bolted, and not a glimmer of light shone between the chinks. Somewhere behind them beat two hearts; the heart of a frightened child, and another. Alone in a dirty unlighted room—probably on a bare pallet, with scarcely a blanket to cover her, the poor cowering little lint-haired wretch. . . . From the window of their decently-kept room, Mrs Tillet glanced down at the lower roof of the smaller house, crouching in the shade of The Rum and Puncheon, and voiced her opinion to her bluff husband, already half asleep in the huge clumsy brass bedstead that was the pride of her heart.
‘“Tom, there’s another new girl at Lidgett’s. I ain’t sure you wasn’t right about Lilly. What’s wrong wiv’ old Lidgett, eh?”
‘Tom turned over with a grunt. “’Course I was right, Liz! On’y the gal went back on me—scared of old Lidgett—but I’d take me Bible oath she was speakin’ the truth w’en she come ’ere fust. Anyway she’s gorn, so what’s the use of talkin’! Come on to bed and shut up!”
‘But Mrs Tillett still stood looking down thoughtfully at the next-door house, her fat hands on her hips, a faint anxiety at work in her kindly heart. Somewhere under that steep, dark tumbledown roof was old Lidgett, with his hooded wicked eyes, never blinking, and his thin bitter mouth from which the red tip of his tongue would flicker, suddenly, stealthily, now and then, as he licked those thin lips. He had long restless hands, with square-tipped fingers; and with a sudden offshoot of memory, Mrs Tillett remembered watching those hands as they examined lovingly, carefully, minutely, a dreadful little carved ivory group of Chinese torturers at work on a woman. . . . Nobody there in that dark, silent house, tortuous, secret as its owner, but that same owner and one small, pale child!
‘Suddenly Mrs Tillett pictured her again, as she had called for old Lidgett’s supper beer—a thin little thing, white-faced, plain, shrinking, her odd pink eyes hidden by the thick fringe of white lashes, a preposterously over-large and extremely dirty overall tied round her waist and neck with thick string. Poor kid—wonder what her name was—perhaps she’d like a bit of cake tomorrow when she came in for the beer. . . .
‘Below in the peaked black roof was a tiny window, less securely shuttered than the rest. As Mrs Tillett stared a light shone out, and a great stooping shadow passed—Lidgett, of course. But the shadow stretched out a huge hand, wavering in the light, and drew a curtain across and the light vanished.
‘With a sigh Mrs Tillett stepped back from the window. Somehow she didn’t quite like it. However . . .
‘“’Ere Tom! Move over and gi’ me the bolster! G’night, old sport.’
‘Mat Lidgett was sunning himself in the doorway next morning. Mrs Tillett, off on a shopping expedition, stately in feathers, as became the wife of the only publican in Slink’s Alley, paused to say good-morning to him, a rare departure on her part since the row between him and her good man. Behind in the shadowed shop a broom slithered listlessly across the floor, wielded by a small white shadow.
‘“’Morning, Mr Lidgett. ’Ow’s business?”
‘Lidgett’s eyes, slow-moving like a snake’s beneath their heavy white lids, down-dropped, surveyed her with a half-mocking glance.
‘“Goin’ on—oh, much as usual, y’know! Makin’ a livin’—makin’ a livin’ all right.” He rubbed his dry long hands together and cackled, catching Mrs Tillett’s eye wandering curiously towards the dusky shop, whence came the weary rustle of a slowly-pushed broom. With a jerk of his head towards the sound the old man spoke again, watching the effect of his remark from beneath his shaggy brows.
‘“Seen Bina, I s’pose? She’s worth seein’! Hey!” He whistled as one might to a dog.
‘Mrs Tillett opened her mouth to assure him she did not want to see the pitiful little white-haired creature again, but she shut it as Bina shuffled forward and stood blinking in the sunlight, picking at her filthy overall, p
atched with splashes of vari-coloured dirt. Seen in broad daylight her albinesque colouring was even more ghost-like than at night, and involuntarily even Mrs Tillett’s kind heart flinched and withdrew a shade from anything so pathetically and grotesquely plain, as old Lidgett’s ruthless hand, twisted in the dirty white shock of hair, held the child’s face up to the light.
‘Rough reddened skin, coarse lips, and those dreadful, almost rose-coloured eyes blinking beneath the border of dead-white lashes, she was truly a pitiable little object, and Lidgett laughed contemptuously as he released her.
‘“Gawd, what a mug, eh? You won’t never win no beauty prizes, Bina! But she ain’t a bad worker, and ’olds her tongue. Less lip abaht ’er than that fly piece Lilly wot Tillett an’ me ’ad such a row over!”
‘This remark was a lead towards satisfying a point that had been engaging Mrs Tillett’s intense curiosity for some time, and she pounced on it.
‘“Lilly! I should say! What’s happened to Lilly, anyway? She was up to no good, I dessay—a flash bit er goods, I lay, but she’d got ’er lead on right way up. Where’s she gorn to?”
‘“I dunno—all I know’s she lef’ me. An’ I got Bina ’ere—dear little Bina. She’s an Albiner, ye know—that’s why I call ’er Bina. She’s a good girl is Bina. She knows what a bad girl Lilly was, and she don’t want to go the same way Lilly went!”
‘The old man’s voice had dropped a shade, and there was a curiously unctuous, unpleasant quality in it as his eyes studied the child’s downcast face. She flashed a glance up suddenly, stubborn for a second, and they eyed each other, the man’s expression hidden from the watching woman by his heavy brows, but the child’s for an instant sullen, heavy with hate. Barely a second, but the child’s gaze wavered, failed and shrank into itself, and taking up the broom again, she moved wearily away.
‘Glancing up, old Lidgett met Mrs Tillett’s eyes—his own for the moment brightly hard, triumphant. . . . Then in a flash, the veil dropped over them, blank and expressionless as usual. Mrs Tillett, an oddly uncomfortable feeling that she had surprised something she was not meant to see, and that, moreover, old Lidgett was not pleased she had seen, moved hastily away with a hurried goodbye. Lidgett laughed grimly as he watched her go. Shuffling into his accustomed chair, he shouted a gruff order to the small figure behind.
‘“Hey, you! No talking to that fat woman at the pub, d’ye hear? Nor not to anyone, abaht . . . anything, see? Else—well, you know abaht Lilly and the others . . . well, that ain’t nothin’ to what you’ll get, so now. . . . You’ll wish you was dead ’f I ever catch you squealin’! Get on with yer work and remember . . . blarsted white mouse wiv pink eyes, yeh! Ger-ron wiv it!”
‘Slink’s Alley grew accustomed very quickly to Bina. At first her appearance was the signal for roars of mirth, and the local wags vied with each other in devising fresh names for the shrinking, white-haired creature.
‘Mrs Tillett came on a group one day round her, Joe Higginson and his pal, Swell Sam, holding her head back between their great hands, pointing out to the crowd those strange dreadful pink eyes.
‘Mrs Tillett had good, strong arms, and the cuffs she administered were singularly adequate. The publican’s wife being something of a power in the land, Bina was left, after this little adventure, severely alone from the bullying point of view. Mrs Tillett, warm with fury, had marched off with the child, presented her with a plate of broken meats behind the bar, and after this had been devoured with a pathetic swiftness that spoke of more than poor fare at Lidgett’s board, taken her back to her master and administered a criticism of his manner of life and character that would have withered anyone less hardened than old Mat Lidgett.
‘He retorted with remarks more pointed still, and there was a royal row, in consequence of which Bina was in future sent to The Carriers’ Arms in Luck Lane, some way off, to fetch her master’s supper beer, and even fewer and farther between became the small, occasional kindnesses shown her by the publican’s fat wife. She struck up a curious friendship with the lean, forlorn white cat that belonged to Ma Tonks, an unpleasant old woman who divided her time between one “drunk”, getting over that, and preparing for the next “drunk”.
‘Children obey the herd instinct that avoids the odd and uncanny even more ruthlessly than their elders, and after the first excitement of curiosity had died down, they left the white-haired child severely alone. Very rarely in the day did Bina appear, but she became a familiar sight at night as she wandered, the cat at her heels, down by the darkly lapping water below the piers, or sat crouched, knees to chin, staring across the glimmering tide towards the farther shore, its packed warehouses, tenements, factories black against the star-strewn sky, its riverside lights reflected in broken yellow gleams that made a path to where she sat.
‘The slimy, weed-hung steps by Sing Yen’s fan-tan house—those sinister steps trodden so rarely, and then by such hurried, laboured feet, as often as not labouring with that weighted, unsteady tread that mean a heavy burden and a cold . . . and a sudden splash into the waiting water that gurgles by under the black piers; the deserted corn warehouse where the man was found hanging, where not even tough Dan Benskin would go at night—strange corners of the great docks grew to know the two by sight, flitting silently together like two small ghosts, the white-haired child, and the white cat for ever at her heels.
‘Lidgett hated the cat, and swore and threw things at it whenever he could catch it, but it was a courageous little beast, and flew at him, spitting—so, after a scratch or two, he gave it up, and contented himself with snarling threats as to what he would do to Bina if he caught her with that blarsted cat again. This was easy, as after supper Lidgett invariably went to sleep, full of beer and good fare, for a full two hours, and though the child had to be in the house by the time he wakened, the short spell of freedom was her own, and to a child two hours is a lifetime.
‘What did she think about as she slunk down the dark alleys, sat staring at the black water, one grimy, twisted little hand buried in the cat’s fur? If ever childish laughter and nonsense had rippled from Bina’s small tongue, two months with wicked Mat Lidgett had sealed it for ever, and the slack, unbeautiful mouth was shut on the strange thoughts that moved in the child-brain behind. Strange thoughts they were, too; not for nothing had Mrs Tillett gazed down on the sly dark house next door and watched a great hand reach up and draw a curtain over a tell-tale light, and felt a faint horror that drove through to even her stagnant, unimaginative mind.
‘Many a time since, seeing the lonely child wandering, had she called her in, plied her with cake or sweet wine, done her well-meant best to draw from her the secret of these shuttered windows, but all in vain. The odd pink eyes stared, looked away, furtive and shifty, the loose mouth muttered, “I d’no . . . e’s all right. I’m all right. . . .” in maddening persistency, and yet through the parrot-like repetition there beat the same note of deadly, hidden terror betrayed in the quickly flickering glance, the sharp-drawn breath, did window creak or door open, the hands that clenched suddenly and then restlessly went pick, picking at the filthy overall again—the same note that had rung, sharp and dreadfully real, through the room that night when Lilly the Chink, mad with fright and rage, had panted forth things unspeakable, foul, terrifying to her open-mouthed listeners! Mrs Tillett was discouraged, and told her husband so.
‘“’S no use trying to ’elp the girl! She’s getting that thin you wouldn’t believe, and ’er eyes sunk right in ’er ’ead. It’s my belief old Lidgett’s the devil ’isself. What does ’e do to ’em?”
‘“Do?” Tillett scoffed. “Come orf it, Liz—you bin to the pickchers, you ’ave! What yer fink ’e does? I lay Lilly spoke the troof orlright, but you can’t prove nothink, and anyway mebbe they lef’ of ‘emselves. Went orf. Yerss. That’s what Lilly ’ud do—a young limb.”
‘Mrs Tillett thoughtfully dabbed a piece of bread round her plate to sop up the savoury gravy of her meal of pig’s fry with sage-a
nd-onion stuffing. That done, she proceeded to clean up the gravy on the dish in the same thorough way, chewing solemnly, her round brown eyes meditative. Tillett, stockinged feet each side of the hearth, grunted over the evening paper. Pushing aside her plate at last, his wife pulled herself panting out of her chair and began to pile the dishes together, ready for the charwoman to wash in the morning—for the public-house could well afford a “char”.
‘They used the parlour behind the bar as a living-room, and it abutted on to a small and untidy backyard, generally filled with an embarrassingly intimate display of the Tilletts’s wardrobe. The walls between the various backyards were low, and on the wall between their own and old Lidgett’s sat the white cat—a pale heap in the gloom. Mrs Tillett glanced at it cursorily as she reached up to draw the red curtain across to keep in the warm cosiness of the snug back-parlour, and the light from the lamp struck on its eyes, fixed on her with the usual cat’s round, unwinking stare.
‘“Lor!” Mrs Tillett jerked the curtain to, and her husband jumped.
‘“I never see such a woman! What’s up now?”
‘His tone was distinctly cross, and Mrs Tillett was apologetic as she explained that it was only the cat on the wall give her a start—eyes looked red-like in the light, made her heart go like anything, it looked like Bina! Tom Tillett said with considerable asperity that she was gettin’ on his nerves abaht that brat, ’e was sick of ’earin’ ’er name, and Mrs Tom, feeling rather foolish, relapsed into silence for a time, and darned socks in an atmosphere that, owing to her husband’s pipe and the fumes from the oil-lamp, became every moment more mephitic.
‘The sounds of the street died away one by one, clatter of shrill feet and shriller voices gave place to the occasional raucous shout of a stray “drunk”, and the slink and scuffle of a hurried night-bird flitting to its furtive nest. Rolling up her mending, Mrs Tillett yawned, stretching fat arms till the straining seams of her bodice creaked aloud in protest, and at the same moment came a frantic tapping on the window, and a voice crying, stifled, anguished.
NIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE Page 22
