The Tea Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  It was hard to live cheek-by-jowl with so many strangers. They had to find a better place, but to do that, they needed more money. Not willing to simply sit and wait for the check from Burton Tea to arrive, Fiona had gone to see about weekend work in some of the local shops. She’d had no luck yet, but a few shopkeepers had taken her name. Her mother had started doing piecework, assembling silk poinsettias for Christmas trimming. Charlie helped out, too. Sometimes when she thought she only had enough money for bread and marge, he would come up with a few shillings – his fighting winnings – and then they had meat pies or fish and chips.

  Fiona was lost in her thoughts, and only halfway down Barrow Street, when she heard the footsteps behind her. It’s nothing, she told herself hastily, just another lass on her way home from the market. But a little voice inside pointed out that the footsteps were too heavy to be a girl’s. Well, she countered, they can’t be too close, not by the sounds of them. But then again, the voice whispered, that could be the fog. It muffles noise, makes things sound farther away than they really are. Fiona clutched her marketing tightly and picked up her pace. The footsteps picked up theirs. Whoever was behind her was following her. She broke into a run.

  She couldn’t see the end of the street through the fog, but she knew it wasn’t far. Somebody will be there, she told herself, somebody will help me. She was pounding down the street now, but the person behind her was gaining. The footsteps grew louder and suddenly she knew she wouldn’t make it. Terrified, she spun around. “Who’s there?” she cried.

  “Sshhh, don’t be afraid,” a man’s voice answered. “I won’t ’urt you. My name’s O’Neill. Davey O’Neill. I ’ave to talk to you.”

  “I – I don’t know you. S-stay away from me,” she stammered. She tried to run again, but he grabbed her. She dropped her marketing and tried to scream, but he clapped a hand over her mouth.

  “Don’t!” he hissed. “I said I ’ave to talk to you.”

  She looked into his eyes. They were desperate. He was crazy. He was Jack; he had to be. And he was going to kill her right here. A terrified whimper escaped her. She squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to see his awful knife.

  “I’ll let go of you, but don’t run away,” he said. She nodded. He let go and she opened her eyes. “I’m sorry I frightened you,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you at the market, but I was afraid. You never know who’s watching.”

  She nodded again, trying to stay calm. Trying to keep him calm. She hardly heard what he was saying; it made no sense. He was obviously a loony, but loonies could be dangerous. She must not upset him.

  The man looked at her frightened, uncomprehending face. “You don’t know me, do you? I’m Davey O’Neill. O’Neill… don’t you remember?”

  Suddenly, she realized she did know him, or rather his name. O’Neill, from the inquest. He was the one who had spilled the grease her father had slipped in.

  “Y-yes, I do. But –”

  “They blamed me for Paddy’s accident, but I didn’t do it. I greased the winches, like Curran told me to, but I didn’t drop nothing. I wiped all the gears down to be safe, just like I always do. When I was done, there wasn’t any grease anywhere. I swear it!”

  “But if you didn’t… then ’ow -”

  “I ’ad to tell somebody it wasn’t my fault. There’s some won’t even talk to me. You’re Paddy’s lass, you’re the right one to tell.” He looked around himself. “I’ve got to go now.”

  “Wait!” She clutched at his sleeve. “What are you saying? If you didn’t drip the grease, then ’ow did it get there? I don’t understand …”

  O’Neill pulled free. “I can’t say no more. I ’ave to go.”

  “No, wait! Please!”

  “I can’t!” He looked like a hunted creature. He made as if to leave, then turned back and said, “You work down the tea factory, don’t you?”

  “Aye …”

  “You stay away from the unions, you ’ear me?” His voice was low and harsh. “The Wapping branch is all in pieces now without your father, but Tillet’s trying to mend it. There’s talk of organizing the tea girls, too. You stay away! Promise me …”

  “What ’ave unions got to do with anything?”

  “Promise me!”

  “All right, I promise! But at least tell me why!”

  Without another word, he disappeared into the fog. Fiona wanted to run after him, but she couldn’t make her trembling legs move. What a flipping fright he’d given her! She must get hold of herself or her mam would see she was upset and ask her what happened and she didn’t dare tell her. She was terribly confused. She didn’t know what to make of O’Neill and the crazy things he’d said. He was out of his mind; he had to be. Following her down the street like that, coming out of the fog like a bloody ghost. He must be suffering from a guilty conscience.

  Or maybe he was telling the truth. And if he was, then how did her father slip? The question made her uneasy. She’d wondered about this before, after his burial, when Mr. Farrell and Mr. Dolan said how strange it was that her father, who’d never had an accident at the docks, had fallen to his death. She’d dismissed their conversation – and her wild suspicions – as ridiculous, the product of a grief-stricken mind. Were they?

  Was Davey O’Neill saying that he himself hadn’t dripped the grease – or that there was never any grease at all? It couldn’t be the latter; the constables who investigated the accident found some. Uncle Roddy himself had gone over the report and said it was sound. What else had O’Neill said? “There’s some won’t even talk to me …” Fiona felt anger displacing her fear. It was clear now what was going on – there were dockers who were angry with O’Neill; they blamed him for her father’s death. They were giving him the cold shoulder; he might even be having trouble finding work. And he wanted her to make it all better. He wanted her to tell people that it wasn’t his fault. The selfish bastard. Her father was dead, her family was struggling, and all he cared about was getting back into his workmates’ good graces. Well, sod him. As if she had no other worries than Davey O’Neill’s hard luck. The barmy git! Sneaking up on her and rattling on about unions. Telling her not to join one. As if she had the money to spend on dues!

  She passed a shaking hand over her forehead, brushing back wisps of hair. She knew she should get off Barrow Street. One run-in with a loony was plenty – was she going to stand around and wait for the next one? She was still angry and she wished she could tell somebody what had happened. Charlie would know what to make of O’Neill, but he’d be livid with her for taking a shortcut and she was in no mood for a tongue-lashing. She wouldn’t tell anyone, she’d just forget the whole thing. She picked up her marketing. Nothing had rolled out of the bag, but the pears were probably bruised. She resumed her walk, feeling for the bloaters. Luckily, they weren’t smashed. As she neared the end of the street, she was still cursing O’Neill, vowing to give him a good piece of her mind if she ever had the misfortune of seeing him again.

  Chapter 13

  A troop of raggedy boys, mudlarks, poked about birdlike in the soft silty mud below the Old Stairs, turning up bits of copper, old bottles, and chunks of coal. Fiona watched them as they chased the ebbing tide, filling their pockets and scurrying off, eager to sell their treasures to the rag-and-bone man.

  She was sitting with Joe in their special place. She knew this part of the river like the back of her hand. Everything here was familiar to her – the frothing waves, Butler’s Wharf across the water, the rich scent of tea. Everything was familiar, yet nothing was the same.

  She couldn’t shake the feeling she had, ever since Joe had arrived on her doorstep that morning, right out of the blue, that he’d changed somehow. She couldn’t put her finger on it; he just seemed different. He had a new jacket – a beautiful moss-green tweed that Harry had given him. He was also wearing a crisp white shirt and new wool trousers that he’d bought for a trip to Cornwall with Tommy Peterson. In them, he didn’t look like a rough-and-tumble barrow boy
anymore, but a confident young man on the rise.

  Fiona was wearing her navy skirt, a white blouse, and her gray shawl. It was a blustery autumn Sunday and she was glad of an excuse to wear the shawl; it covered up a clumsily mended tear in her sleeve. She was uncomfortably aware of her shabby clothes and of Joe’s nice new ones. It made her feel self-conscious, something she’d never felt with him before.

  Joe seemed excited, pleased with his job, with Peterson, and with himself. As he should be, she thought, he hasn’t even been there two months and already he’s up for an advancement. He’d gone on and on about Peterson’s – Tommy-this and Tommy-that – talking a mile a minute. His face glowed as he spoke about the possibility of getting the buyer’s job. He talked about the Cornwall trip, and how he’d stayed in a fancy hotel. He used all sorts of buying and selling terms that she didn’t understand. She tried to feel happy for him, tried to share in his excitement, but it seemed all his and none of hers.

  “… and our tin now contains eighteen pounds and sixpence, I’m ’appy to report,” he said, snapping her out of her thoughts.

  Fiona looked apologetic. “I ’aven’t any money for it. Maybe next week …”

  “Don’t worry. I’m putting in enough for the two of us.”

  She frowned. That wasn’t it at all; that he was putting in enough for them both. It was their dream, wasn’t it? Their shop. She wanted to contribute, too. When they got it, she wanted it to be because of her efforts and sacrifices, as well as his. Didn’t he understand that?

  He took her hand and rubbed it between his. “Cor, luv, your ’and is rough,” he said, inspecting it. “We’ll ’ave to get you some salve.”

  “I ’ave some, thanks,” she said curtly, pulling it away.

  She shoved both hands into her skirt pockets. It wasn’t true, she didn’t have any salve. But she didn’t want any from him. She felt hurt, as if he had criticized her. Her hands had always been rough. Weren’t everyone’s? Everyone who worked, at least. Fine ladies had soft hands, not tea packers like herself. Millie’s hands would be soft, she thought darkly.

  “Fee, what’s wrong?” Joe asked, noticing her sullen expression.

  God, she was being miserable. He was only trying to be nice, only trying to take care of her. He’d surprised her family with a huge basket of fruit and vegetables. He made it seem like a gift, though he’d known it was a necessity. He brought candies for her mother and a painted wooden soldier for Seamie, whose face had lit up like a lamp at the sight of it. For her, he’d brought six red roses. He’d been so good to her, so why did she feel so upset, so defensive?

  “Nothing,” she lied, forcing a smile, determined not to give in to her rotten thoughts and spoil the first afternoon they’d had together in ages.

  “I’m going on about me job too much. Probably boring you. I’m sorry, Fee.” He put his arm around her, pulled her close, and kissed her.

  In his arms, her fears dissipated. She felt as if she and Joe were themselves again. Just the two of them … loving each other, possessing each other, with no thoughts of Peterson’s. No worries about her mam and their cramped room and money.

  “I wish we ’ad more time together, Fee. I ’ate never seeing you.”

  “Well, at least you’re ’ere now,” she said brightly. “And you’ll be back for Guy Fawkes. That’s not far away at all – only about a fortnight.” She was so looking forward to the holiday, she became animated just talking about it. “We’re all going back to Montague Street for the bonfire. I can’t imagine not being there for Guy Fawkes.” She squeezed his hand. “Will you be getting the whole day or just the night?”

  He looked away.

  “Joe?”

  “I won’t be able to come, Fiona.”

  “Not come?” she cried, crushed. “But why? Don’t tell me Peterson ’as you working on Guy Fawkes night!”

  “No, not exactly. Tommy’s ’aving a big do and I ’ave to go.”

  “Why? Can’t you just say ‘No, thank you’ and come ’ome?”

  “No, I can’t. It’s a big party for all the employees. It’s the night Tommy ’ands out the bonuses and promotions. It’s a slap in the face if I don’t go, Fiona. Please don’t be mad, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  But she was mad, she couldn’t help it. And sad and disappointed. Guy Fawkes was a big event on Montague Street; it always had been. All the children made their Guys; all the neighbors came out to watch the bonfire and set off firecrackers. Courting couples held hands in the light of the fire and she had hoped to do the same with Joe. It had been something to look forward to, a little promise of fun to hold on to, and now she had nothing again.

  “Will Millie be there?”

  “I would think so. It’s at their ’ouse.”

  She was silent for a few seconds, then said, “Are you sweet on ’er?”

  “What?”

  “Are you?”

  “No! Bloody ’ell, Fiona! Are you starting that again?”

  “Sorry, I got it wrong,” she said acidly. “Tommy’s the one you really love, not Millie, right? Must be. You spend all your time with ’im.”

  Joe exploded. “Fiona, what do you want me to do?” he yelled. “Do you want me to quit?” He didn’t give her a chance to answer. “I’ve thought about it, because I want to be back ’ere with you. But I ’aven’t because I’m trying to do the right thing for us. I’m trying to get the promotion Tommy’s dangling so I can earn more money. So we can get our shop. So I can take care of you.”

  “I’m not asking you to take care of me,” she shouted back. “I’m just asking you to be around once in a while …” She could feel her lip trembling. She wouldn’t cry, sod it, she was too angry. “It ’asn’t been easy after me da and all. If you were only ’ere sometimes … just to talk to.”

  “Fee, you know I would be with you if I could. You know that. It won’t always be like this. Just be patient a little longer. I feel terrible, but I can’t do anything about it. I can’t be in two places at once. Please don’t make me feel guiltier than I already do.”

  Fiona had been about to reply, but his words stopped her. Guilty. She made him feel guilty. Her stomach lurched. She felt sick and ashamed. She closed her eyes and in her imagination she saw him with Harry and Millie. They were strolling and laughing, free and easy, talking about Tommy, making jokes, looking in the brightly lit shop windows they passed, stopping for tea. Why in the world would he want to come back here, to the dingy streets of Whitechapel, when he could be with them? Why would he want to be with her and listen to her worries and fears when he could listen to Millie’s laughter? She couldn’t compete with the likes of Millie; she looked like a ragpicker in her worn clothes. Her old shawl, her rough hands – he was probably making a hundred unfavorable comparisons, she thought, cringing inside. She couldn’t even give him sixpence for their cocoa tin. She understood now; he was leading an exciting new life, full of interesting people and new experiences. He was moving ahead, away from her, and didn’t want to be burdened. She was an obligation. He hadn’t said that, but he didn’t need to. Well, she was too proud to be anybody’s bloody burden. She blinked hard, several times, then stood up.

  “Where are you going?”

  “ ’Ome.”

  “You’re still angry at me.”

  “No, it’s all right,” she said quietly, not wanting to lose her temper and raise her voice again. Millie probably never yelled. “You’re right, you should go to Peterson’s. It’s just… I’ve ’ad enough of the river and I want to go back.”

  He got up to go with her.

  “I’ll go meself, thanks.”

  “Don’t be daft. It’s a long way. If you insist on going ’ome, I’ll walk you.”

  Fiona turned on him. “I said no! Leave me alone! Go back to bloody Covent Garden! I don’t want to ’ear that my ’ands are rough or that I should be patient or that you’ll be spending Guy Fawkes with Millie Peterson!”

  “I’m not spending it with Millie! I
’m just going to a party! What is wrong with you? I can’t please you no matter what I do!” Joe said, exasperated. “You say you want me around more, but now I’m ’ere and you want to go ’ome. Why are you so bloody touchy?”

  “No reason, Joe. None at all! I’ve lost me da, lost me ’ome, and now I’m losing me lad. Everything’s just bloody grand!”

  “Fiona, I’m sorry about things, I am. But you’re not losing me; I’m trying to make things better. What the ’ell do you want from me?”

  “I want my Joe back,” she said. Then she ran to the top of the stairs and disappeared from his sight. She ran across the High Street, past wharves and warehouses, toward Gravel Lane and Whitechapel. She didn’t understand anything anymore. Nothing made sense. Joe said he was working hard for them, for their shop. That should comfort her, but it didn’t.

  If he was truly working toward their shop, why was he so bent on getting that promotion? Hadn’t he told her that they had eighteen pounds and sixpence? That was only about seven pounds shy of the twenty-five they needed. He didn’t need the buyer’s job, all he needed was a few more months’ wages. Then he could quit and they could open their shop. What was he doing? Why was he after that job?

  A half mile up Gravel Lane, she started to run faster. She was out of breath, and her legs were weak, but still she ran, trying to escape the voice in her head, the one with the answer to her questions: “Because he doesn’t want the shop anymore. And he doesn’t want you.”