The Tea Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “That’s all right, Da,” Fiona said, relieved he was no longer weeping. She sat down again.

  “You see, Fiona, the reason I told you all this is that when I got older and t’ought about everything that had happened, I t’ought that me mother and father might still be alive if it wasn’t for that priest. If he hadn’t told the midwife to save the child instead of me mam, she might’ve lived and me Da wouldn’t have done what he did. I still t’ink that. And that’s the reason I don’t go to church.”

  Fiona nodded, taking in all that her father had said.

  “Of course, none of this sits well with your mam,” Paddy said, regarding his eldest levelly. “And it might be a good idea for you to keep this conversation to yourself. The Church means a lot to her.”

  “Oh, aye, Da.” She certainly would keep it to herself. Her mother was very devout, never missed Mass, and said her rosary morning and evening. She believed that priests were above reproach, that they carried the word of God and were special to Him. Fiona had never questioned this, no more than she would have questioned the sky or the sun or the existence of God Himself.

  “Da …” she began hesitantly. A frightening thought had gripped her.

  “Yes, Fee?”

  “Even though you don’t like the priests or the Church, you believe in God, don’t you?”

  Paddy considered his answer, then said, “Do you know what I believe, lass? I believe that t’ree pounds of meat makes a very good stew.” He chuckled at her puzzled expression. “I also believe it’s time for you to be in bed, mavourneen. You’ll be falling asleep at work tomorrow. So go on now and I’ll clear away these tea t’ings.”

  Fiona didn’t want to go to bed, she wanted to stay and make her father explain what he meant about three pounds of meat, but he was already picking up the teapot and looked too tired to do any more talking. She kissed him good night and returned to her bed.

  She soon fell asleep, but did not sleep well. She tossed and turned, disturbed over and over again by a dream in which she was running toward St. Patrick’s, late for Mass. When she got to the church, she found the doors locked. She ran around the building, shouting up at windows, trying to get in. She came back to the doors and pounded her fists against them until her hands were ripped and bleeding. Suddenly the doors creaked open and there stood Father Deegan with a large iron pot. She reached into her skirt pocket, pulled out her rosary and gave it to him. He handed her the pot and withdrew, locking the doors behind him. The pot was heavy; it took all her strength to carry it down the church steps. At the bottom, she set it down and took off the lid. Billows of steam rushed up at her face, fragrant with the smell of cooked lamb, carrots, and potatoes. The pot was full of stew.

  Chapter 3

  A thick, roiling fog swirled around the High Street gas lamps, muting their glow, as Davey O’Neill followed Thomas Curran into Oliver’s Wharf. It was dangerous to be walking about the docks on a night like this; one wrong step and a man could fall into the river with no one to hear him, but he would take that risk. The foreman had a job for him, a little something on the side. Moving stolen goods, no doubt. It wasn’t the sort of thing he wanted to be involved with, but he had no choice. Lizzie was ill and he needed the money.

  Curran closed the street-side door behind them and fumbled for a lantern. Its glow illuminated a path through the stacks of wooden tea chests to the waterside doors. Outside again, Davey saw that the fog completely blanketed the Thames, engulfing most of the dock. He wondered how anyone would even find Oliver’s in this murk, never mind bring a boat alongside it and unload. He stood quietly for a few seconds, waiting for Curran to tell him what to do, but the foreman didn’t say anything. He merely lit up a cigarette and leaned against the door. Looking at him, Davey realized that if for some reason he wanted to get back through that door, he wouldn’t be able to – not with the man blocking it like that. The thought made him uneasy.

  “Isn’t anyone else coming, Mr. Curran?” he asked.

  Curran shook his head.

  “Do you want me to get some ’ooks? A sling?”

  “No.”

  Davey smiled uncertainly. “What do you want me to do, then?”

  “Answer some questions, Mr. O’Neill,” said a voice from behind him.

  Davey whipped around, but there was nobody there. The voice seemed to have come from the fog itself. He waited, listening for the sound of footsteps, but heard nothing, only the sound of the river swirling and lapping about the pilings.

  He turned back to Curran, fearful now. “Mr. Curran, sir … what’s ’appening … I …”

  “Davey, I’d like you to meet your employer,” Curran said, inclining his head to Davey’s right.

  Davey looked and saw a dark figure emerge from the fog – a man of average height, powerfully built. He had black hair combed back from his face, a hard brow, and black, predatory eyes. Davey guessed him to be in his forties. His clothes gave him the appearance of a gentleman – he wore a black cashmere greatcoat over a gray wool suit, and a heavy gold watch dangled from his vest – but there was nothing gentle-looking about the man himself. His bearing and expression spoke of a contained brutality; a coiled, latent violence.

  Davey took his cap off and held it in both hands, squeezing it to keep them from shaking. “ ’Ow … ’ow do you do, Mr. Burton, sir?”

  “Do you listen to what Mr. Curran tells you, Mr. O’Neill?”

  Davey looked anxiously from Burton to Curran, then back again. “I don’t understand, sir …”

  Burton walked away from the two men toward the edge of the dock, his hands clasped behind his back. “Or do you do what Ben Tillet tells you?”

  Davey’s stomach lurched. “Mr. B-Burton, sir,” he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. “Please don’t give me the sack. I only went to one meeting. I – I won’t go to another. Not ever. Please, sir, I need me job.”

  Burton turned back to him. Davey could read nothing from his face. It was absolutely expressionless. “What does Tillet tell you, Mr. O’Neill? To strike? And what does this union” – he spat the word – “of his want? To shut me down? To let my tea rot on the barges?”

  “No, sir …”

  Burton began to circle him slowly. “I think it does. I think Tillet wants to destroy me. To ruin my business. Am I right?”

  “No, sir,” Davey said.

  “Then what does the union want?”

  Davey, sweating now, looked at Burton, then at the dock, then mumbled an answer.

  “I didn’t hear you,” Burton said, leaning in so close that Davey could smell his anger.

  “M-more money, sir, and shorter hours.”

  In the years to come – the bitter, shriveled, soul-destroying years ahead of him – Davey would try to remember how the man had done what he had. How he’d gotten his knife out of his pocket so quickly and used it so expertly. But now all he felt was a searing heat on the side of his head, a wetness on his neck.

  And then he saw it … his ear … lying on the dock.

  Pain and shock dropped him to his knees. He clutched at the wound, blood coursing through his fingers and over his knuckles, and his hands told him what his mind refused to believe – that there was nothing, nothing at all, where his left ear used to be.

  Burton picked up the pale piece of flesh and tossed it off the dock. It made a small, soft splash. Certain he would never see his wife and children again, Davey began to sob. He stopped when he felt the thin, cold point of the knife under his remaining ear. He looked up at Burton in bald terror. “No …” he croaked. “Please …”

  “Am I to be told how to run my business by union scum?”

  He tried to shake his head no, but the knife stopped him.

  “Am I to take orders from extortionists and thugs?”

  “N-no … please don’t cut me again …”

  “Let me tell you something, my young friend. I fought hard to make Burton Tea what it is and I will smash anything, and anyone, who tries to interfere wit
h me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who else was at the meeting? I want every name.”

  Davey swallowed hard. He said nothing.

  Curran stepped in. “Tell ’im, lad!” he urged. “Don’t be a fool. What do you care for them, Davey? They ain’t ’ere to ’elp you.”

  Davey closed his eyes. Not this. Please, not this. He wanted to talk, he wanted to save his life, but he couldn’t shop his mates. If he did, Burton would do to them what he’d done to him. He clenched his teeth, waiting for the upward jerk of the knife, for the pain, but it didn’t come. He opened his eyes. Burton had moved away. He no longer held the knife. When he saw Davey looking at him, he nodded to Curran. Davey shrank away from him, thinking he was signaling the man to finish him off, but Curran merely handed him an envelope.

  “Open it,” Burton said.

  He did. There was a ten-pound note inside.

  “Should help with Elizabeth’s doctor bills, no?”

  “ ’Ow … ’ow do you know …?”

  “I make it my business to know. I know you’re married to a pretty girl named Sarah. You have a son, Tom, aged four. A daughter Mary, who’s three. Elizabeth is just over a year. A fine family. A man should take care of a family like that. Make sure nothing happens to them.”

  Davey stiffened. More than pain now, more than anger or fear, he felt hatred. It was in his heart and on his face. He knew Burton could see it and he didn’t care. Burton had him. If he didn’t give the man what he wanted, his family would pay the price. He would’ve sacrificed himself, but he wouldn’t sacrifice them. And the man knew it. “Shane Patterson …,” he began, “… Matt Williams … Robbie Lawrence … John Poole …”

  When he had finished reciting the names, Burton said, “Who’s in charge?”

  Davey hesitated. “No one. No one’s been appointed yet … they ’aven’t …”

  “Who’s in charge, Mr. O’Neill?”

  “Patrick Finnegan.”

  “Very good. Continue to attend meetings and keep Mr. Curran informed. If you do, you’ll see my appreciation in your wage packet. If you don’t, or if you’re foolish enough to tell anyone what went on here tonight, your wife will wish you hadn’t. Good night, Mr. O’Neill. It’s time you went home and saw to yourself. You’ve lost quite a bit of blood. If anyone asks about your ear, you were set upon by a thief. When he found you had nothing to give him, he cut you. You didn’t see which way he went in the fog.”

  Davey got to his feet, dazed. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his head. As he staggered across the dock, he could still hear Burton talking.

  “The leader … Finnegan. Who is he?”

  “An uppity bastard. Always ’as something to say. Good worker, though. I’ll give ’im that. One of me best.”

  “I want an example made of him.”

  “ ’Ow’s that, sir?”

  “I want him dealt with. I’ll have Sheehan handle it. You’ll be hearing from him.”

  Paddy … my God … what have I done? Davey cried silently, sick with shame. He stumbled through the wharf and out into the fog-shrouded street. He felt dizzy and weak. He caught his toe on a cobble and tripped, but managed to right himself against a lamppost. His heart heaved in his chest. He put a bloodied hand over it and uttered a cry of anguish. He was a traitor now, a Judas. And under the shell of his skin, the bones of his rib cage, there was no longer a heart – just a rotten, twitching thing, black and broken and rank.

  Chapter 4

  Fiona’s hands shook as she poured the tea leaves she’d just weighed into a tin. She knew she mustn’t look up. If he saw her do it, she’d get the sack. Surely that was why he was here – to sack someone. Why else would William Burton pay a surprise visit? To give them all a raise? She heard his slow, measured footsteps as he passed by. She felt his eyes on her hands as she sealed the tin and stamped it. He reached the bottom of the table, turned, and started up the other side. Halfway up the row, he stopped. Her heart lurched. She didn’t have to see him to know where he was – behind Amy Caldwell. Walk on, she silently urged him. Leave her alone.

  Amy was fifteen years old and simple. Her fingers weren’t nimble and sometimes she bumped her scale pan, spilling its contents, or glued a label on crookedly. All the girls compensated for her, each doing a bit more than her share to make up for Amy’s slowness. It was their way to look out for one another.

  Fiona weighed more tea, praying for Amy to not make a mistake. Then she heard it – the unmistakable clang of a scale pan. Her eyes darted up; Amy had dumped tea all over the table. And instead of cleaning it up, she was standing there helplessly, her chin quivering.

  “Wipe it up, luv,” Fiona whispered to her. “That’s a good girl. Go on …”

  Amy nodded, then cleaned up the tea and Burton moved off to terrorize someone else. Fiona looked after him, fuming. Amy’s accident was entirely his fault. She would’ve been fine if only he hadn’t stood there so long, making her nervous, the poor thing.

  William Burton was one of the wealthiest, most successful tea merchants in England. He had come up from nothing and made himself a rival to the most esteemed names in the business – Twining, Brooke, Fortnum & Mason, Tetley. Fiona knew his story, everyone did. He’d been born and raised in Camden Town, the only child of an impoverished seamstress, now dead, whose husband, a sailor, had perished at sea. He’d left school to work in a tea shop at the age of eight, and by eighteen, through hard work and thrift, had been able to buy the shop and turn it into the foundation of what would become Burton Tea. He had never married and had no family.

  Fiona admired the determination and perseverance that had propelled him to his success, but she despised the man himself. She could not understand how someone who’d endured and escaped the sinkhole of poverty could have no compassion for those he’d left behind.

  Burton finished his tour, then called for Mr. Minton. Fiona heard them conferring. There was another man with them, too. She could hear his voice. She risked a glance and saw Burton pointing at various girls and Minton nodding as he did and the third man, brisk and portly, expensively dressed, looking at his watch. Then Minton, awkward and self-important, said: “Your attention, girls. Mr. Burton ’as informed me that various projects and expansions recently undertaken ’ave forced the need for drastic economic measures …”

  Fifty-five worried faces, Fiona’s included, regarded the foreman. They didn’t understand what his mumbo-jumbo meant, but they knew it couldn’t be good.

  “… which means I ’ave to let some of you go,” he said, causing a collective gasp to go up. “If your name is called, please go to my office to collect your wages. Violet Simms, Gemma Smith, Patsy Gordon, Amy Caldwell …” The list went on until fifteen names had been called. Minton, who, Fiona saw, at least had the decency to look shamefaced, paused, then said, “Fiona Finnegan …”

  God, no. What was she going to tell her mam? Her family needed her wages.

  “… will be fined sixpence for talking. If there’s any more talking, any noise whatsoever, the offenders will all be fined. Back to work now.”

  Fiona blinked at him, giddy with relief at not being sacked, furious at being fined just because she’d tried to help Amy. Around her she heard choked sobs and soft shufflings as the fifteen girls gathered their things. She closed her eyes. Little dots of light, small and bright, surged behind her eyelids. Rage, pure and strong, welled up inside of her. She tried to push it down.

  Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes and picked up her tea scoop. But she couldn’t keep herself from looking at her workmates, white-faced and trembling, as they filed into Minton’s office. She knew that Vi Simms was the sole support of herself and her sick mother. Gem had eight younger siblings and a father who drank his wages. And Amy … she was an orphan who lived in one tiny room with her sister. Where on earth would she find another job? How would she eat next week? It was the sight of her, standing bewildered in her shabby bonnet and thread
bare shawl, that made Fiona snap. She slammed her tea scoop down. If Burton wanted to fine her for talking, she’d give him something to listen to.

  She marched to Minton’s office, right past all the girls waiting for their wages. For a supposedly smart man, William Burton is damn shortsighted, she thought. He’d watched them all pack – didn’t he see how inefficient the whole process was? Obviously, he had no understanding of this part of his business. He thought he had to sack those girls to save money, but if he just put their labor to better use, he could make money. She’d tried to tell Mr. Minton this before, time and again, but he never listened. Maybe he would now.

  “Excuse me,” she said, squeezing by the girl in the doorway.

  Mr. Minton was at his desk, doling out shillings and pence. “What is it?” he asked brusquely, not bothering to look up. Burton and his companion, absorbed in a ledger, raised their eyes.

  Fiona swallowed, shrinking under their scrutiny. Her anger had carried her in here, now fear nudged it aside. She realized she was probably going to get herself fired. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Minton,” she began, struggling to keep her voice steady. “But sacking those girls is a false savings.”

  She had Minton’s attention now. He gaped at her for what seemed like an eternity before he found his voice. “I’m terribly sorry about this, Mr. Burton, sir …” he sputtered, standing up to see her out.

  “Just a moment,” Burton said, closing the ledger. “I’d like to hear why one of my tea packers thinks she knows my business better than I do.”

  “I know my part of it, sir. I do it every day,” Fiona said, forcing herself to look first into Burton’s cold, black eyes, then into the other man’s, which were a startlingly beautiful shade of turquoise and completely at odds with his hard, rapacious face. “If you kept the girls and made a few changes in the work routine, you could get more tea packed faster. I know you could.”

  “Go on.”

  She took a deep breath. “Well … every girl assembles ’er own packaging, right? If it’s a box, she ’as to glue it together; if it’s a tin, she ’as to put a label on it. Then she fills the package with tea, seals it, and stamps the price. The trouble is, we’re always leaving our stations to get more supplies. It takes too much time. And sometimes tea gets into the glue brush. It’s a waste of material. What you should do is take some of the girls – say twenty out of the fifty-five – and ’ave them assemble the packaging. Then ’ave another fifteen weigh the tea and fill the packages. Another ten could seal and stamp them, and the last ten could run the supplies to the tables as they’re needed. Every girl would get more done, you see. It would speed up output and lower the cost of packing, I’m sure of it. Couldn’t we at least try, sir?”