Martin and Caroline had never been particularly friendly. He knew that she didn’t much like her sister being married to an Irishman, and living off in the Devil’s Acre. Amy and her had been close when they were small, there only being a year between them. The two girls looked alike, it had to be said, sharing the same broad cheekbones and pretty, slightly crooked mouth. Amy’s hair was darker, though, and her eyes larger, and her thoughtful manner was replaced in Caroline by an argumentative, trouble-making curiosity that Martin found difficult to warm to. He asked her what she was doing in the Eagle, keeping his tone pleasant, knowing as he spoke what her answer would be.
‘Why, Mart, I am an employee of Colonel Colt,’ she replied, flashing Mr Quill a bright, saucy smile. ‘I daresay I’ve been under his roof for almost as long as you have, though of course I ain’t yet reached the same level of favour. I’m in here now with some of my new pals from the machine floor, enlarging our acquaintance, as they say.’
Somewhat reluctantly, Martin introduced her to Mr Quill, explaining their connection. He beamed back at her, utterly charmed. She already knew exactly who the chief engineer was, and had a series of questions lined up about her employer which it pleased him enormously to answer. After a minute, he turned to the bar to buy them all new drinks.
‘Will you have some dog’s-nose, Caroline?’
‘Just gin for me, sir, if you please,’ she said with a mock-curtsey. ‘You may leave out the ale.’
Martin felt a pang of irritation. ‘How did you know of the factory, then?’ he asked. ‘How did you know that the Colonel was hiring?’
She moved in a little closer, angling her hip towards Mr Quill as she took her glass of gin from his hand; the two moles on her cheek, distinct marks a neat inch apart, stood out like an adder-bite against the liquor-flushed skin. ‘My sister told me that you were thinking of joining, Martin.’ She hesitated. ‘Along with some of your friends, them coves what was in here earlier, Pat Slattery and the rest. I’d just lost my position – through no fault of my own, Mr Quill, I assure you – so I thought I’d try gun-making for myself. I find that I rather like it.’
‘It’s fine work indeed for a strong, smart girl,’ said Mr Quill approvingly, ‘until a good husband comes along, at least.’ He removed his worn sailor’s cap, exposing his unruly thatch of hair. ‘Don’t suppose you’d consider the chief engineer, Caroline, scoundrelly old wretch tho’ he be?’
Martin made a show of joining in their free, boozy laughter, just managing to hide his annoyance at the thought of this infernally nosy girl having placed herself within the gun factory. Molly’s work could still be done, of course, but his sister-in-law’s presence was something else he’d now have to take into consideration.
Caroline knew not to outstay her welcome. After exchanging a couple more playful remarks with Mr Quill, she polished off her gin, bade them a good night and went back to the snug. The engineer watched her go before drinking down his dog’s-nose and ordering them both another.
‘So,’ he said when the drinks had arrived, ‘you’re married to an Englishwoman.’
Martin’s self-control left him. He would not be rebuked or teased for this now, and certainly not by Ben Quill – a Yankee, for Christ’s sake. ‘Mother o’ God,’ he snapped, ‘can a man control the workings of his heart? He cannot, Mr Quill – he cannot.’ Surprised by this outburst, by the honesty in his voice, he quickly lifted up his pot again, hiding himself behind it as he took a long swallow.
There was a pause; then Mr Quill, with a sad shake of his head, knocked his pot solemnly against Martin’s. ‘By Heavens, Mart,’ he murmured, ‘I’ll surely drink to that.’
The Eagle closed its doors at twelve. Martin and Mr Quill, both well-oiled, started wandering up the Belgrave Road, through the eerie silence of Pimlico’s southern end. It was a warm night, a taste of the approaching summer; the two men puffed on their pipes, ambling along with no particular purpose in mind. Caroline had departed the tavern some time before. Thankfully, Mr Quill’s interest in her had shown itself to have been light-hearted and of the moment only. After she’d left them, in fact, the engineer had seemed to forget her existence altogether. He was now engaged in some slurred philosophising, rambling on about the role of the machine in what he termed ‘manifest destiny’. Martin wasn’t really listening.
After a while, they left the main avenue, lurching onto a side-street. Identical apartment-houses, four storeys tall, built with red brick and fringed with stucco, loomed on either side of them in two long lines. Only recently completed by Cubitt’s men and still unoccupied, the windows of these houses were as dark and smooth as tar pools. The sounds of London – the yelping of dogs, the rumble of coach-wheels over on the Vauxhall Bridge Road – were but faint ghosts of themselves, banished to the distant background. The street was as clean as it was quiet. Not a trace of mud or dung could be seen on the cobblestones, their fish-scale pattern catching the dull moonlight; and even the stench of the river was masked by the mineral smell of fresh cement and stone.
They reached the end of a row. The next block along was still under construction, swathed in scaffolding, the shadowy road before it piled with whatever materials Cubitt’s foremen had judged too heavy for thieves to make off with. Through the many gaps in the unfinished buildings, across an expanse of barren land, Martin saw a night-site at work, a tower of light and action in the surrounding darkness. Labourers scaled the ladders of the scaffold, heavy hods of stone balanced on their shoulders; bricklayers slowly built up walls, inserting each new piece with steady concentration. The jokes and curses of both echoed along the empty streets. Martin stopped to take it in, smoking reflectively, leaning against a covered mortar-barrel.
A footstep crunched nearby, from inside one of the incomplete apartment buildings further along the row – a man’s footstep, heavy and sure, stepping on a bed of gravel. Martin felt a distinct, sobering nip of wrongness. He knocked out his pipe. Quill was further down the street, pointing into the air and gassing on like a true taproom orator. Martin whispered his name, gesturing for silence.
‘What’s up?’ the engineer called back, as loudly as ever, stretching out his arms. ‘What’s the problem, Mart?’
There were more footsteps, and some muttering; Martin went over to Quill’s side. ‘Someone’s here with us, Mr Quill.’
Quill drew on his pipe, making the tobacco in the bowl crackle and glow. ‘Footpads?’ he asked, speaking excitedly through the side of his mouth, as if eager to fend off such an attack. ‘How many?’
‘I don’t believe so,’ Martin replied, glancing over his shoulder. ‘Why would such people be out here? There’s none about but us. Pretty slim pickings. No, this is different.’ He met Quill’s eye: this was worse.
The engineer wasn’t alarmed. ‘What should we do, then?’
Martin nodded towards the night-site, its lamps twinkling between the scaffold poles and slabs of masonry. It suddenly seemed very far away. ‘Best bet’s to head over there, I reckon. Straight through these buildings here – towards the light.’
Before they could act, however, the trap was sprung. Three men appeared from behind a stack of planks, dressed in working clothes. All three were solidly built and had short, stout sticks in their hands. Martin turned; four more were approaching fast from the opposite direction. They’ve been stalking us, he thought, from the moment we left the Eagle, waiting for the right moment to strike. He cursed himself for all the pots he’d sunk – for stumbling so unsuspectingly into this crude snare. How could he have been so bloody stupid?
‘What is this?’ he demanded, his eyes darting around, scanning the street for an escape route. ‘What d’yous want?’
The little pack started to laugh with the nasty confidence of men who believe their victory to be guaranteed. The tallest of them lifted up his stick and opened his mouth to speak.
His words were never heard. With a wild roar, Mr Quill suddenly charged forward, butting the fellow like a bull and sending them
both tumbling into the shadows. The engineer’s pipe cracked against the ground, releasing a tiny spray of orange sparks. There was a second roar, and a loud shout of pain. Their assurance rocked, the gang lunged at Quill, trying to drag him off their friend – a difficult task in the murky street. Gritting his teeth, Martin threw himself upon them, landing squarely on someone’s back. They went over together, slamming down hard against the newly laid pavement.
From then onwards all was confusion, a virtual blind-fight. One of their attackers was shrieking as though he was bleeding out his last. Martin realised that these men, although determined, had definite limits to their bravery. Searching around in the gutter, his fingers found a single loose cobblestone. Thinking of Molly Maguire, her green eyes alive with animal rage, he lashed out with it.
This drew forth a yell, followed by the urgent scrabbling of hob-nailed boots; then a blow fell across the back of Martin’s neck, sending a dazzling blaze across his sight. He slipped, losing his footing, swinging the stone around again but hitting nothing. They were circling him, keeping their distance, reduced to black shapes only. Off to his left, he heard Mr Quill swear and then exhale with pain. Martin recognised what was happening. He’d been in this situation many times before. The two of them were being overwhelmed.
A powerful kick drove in from nowhere, catching Martin on the jaw. Reeling, he dropped the stone; it struck the pavement with a metallic, ringing sound. The gang were on him immediately. Before long, the blows lost their distinctness, blurring together, his foes’ grunts mingling with the thumps of their fists and sticks against his flesh. All pain ceased. It felt only as if he was curled up on an open hillside, being buffeted by a powerful wind, Molly’s mocking laughter rattling in his ears.
After a time – a minute? two? – something disturbed them. ‘Come, lads,’ said one, speaking in a twanging cockney accent, ‘let’s be off. They’ve ‘ad enough for now.’
There was a final kick to Martin’s stomach, and the beating stopped.
‘Don’t you bleedin’ forget this, you Yankee bugger!’ hissed another. ‘We ain’t about to stand by all ‘elpless and just let this ‘appen!’
A strong beam of light was approaching through the gloom, chasing the men away. Martin tried to fix his eyes on this beam; but it dipped and faded, becoming lost in a smothering, thickening sensation close to sleep. His clenched limbs relaxed and he flopped over onto his back.
The next he knew he was being helped to sit up, a bull’s-eye lantern in front of him. Gagging, he rolled to one side, his pots of dog’s-nose coming up in a long, unbroken jet, splashing hotly across the Pimlico pavement. He gasped for breath, spitting out bile, feeling a great many aches awaken across his bruised, bleeding body. A party of night-watchmen had come to their aid, Cubitt’s people from the sound of it, those charged with weeding out the beggars who sought shelter in the empty buildings. He heard them assessing his injuries, and deciding that they were not too grave – nothing broken, at any rate. They already knew that he was from the Colt works, a fact they could only have learned from Mr Quill. Gingerly, Martin turned his head the smallest fraction; his neck felt as if it was being twisted to breaking point, and a flaming claw gripped at the back of his skull.
The engineer was sitting on the steps of an apartment block, streaked with fresh blood, slowly rotating his right arm around in its socket. A grin and a pained wince were struggling for control of his features.
‘Christ above, Mart,’ he laughed, coughing, ‘who the devil were they?’
4
Crocodile Court lay near the middle of St Anne’s Street, squarely within the Devil’s Acre, and it was filled with rowdy conversation. Almost every window in the close lane was open, with lamps and candles set upon their ledges, like the boxes in a shabby theatre where the curtain would never rise. Roughly-dressed women, the majority of them Irish, leaned out in twos and threes, gossiping and quarrelling with each other. As Caroline entered she overheard talk of the evening’s arrests, a mysterious murder over on Tothill Street, the rising price of milk – anything that came into the women’s heads, in short, and all at the same time. Bottles were being passed from window to window, and even lobbed across to the opposite side. The Court had once been home to the wealthy, back in the age of powdered wigs and sedan chairs, but had long since been given over to the very poorest. Hundreds now lived in residences designed for a single family – residences that were on the brink of collapse. Beams bent and cracked like dry rushes, and plaster dropped from walls in huge chalky sheets. Caroline could never look upon the parliament of Crocodile Court without imagining these ancient piles suddenly overbalancing due to the great weight on their sills, and toppling forward into the lane with an almighty, screaming crash.
She was a visitor to the Devil’s Acre, marked out by her clean face, neat straw bonnet and new boots, and had been pursued by a throng of ragged children from the moment she’d crossed Peter Street. Fending them off, picking her way through the darkness, past the stinking puddles, mounds of rotten vegetables and decaying house-fronts, she’d cursed Martin Rea for bringing her Amy to this godforsaken place. It nearly broke her heart to think that this was where Katie, her little niece, was taking her first steps.
As she started along the Court, very glad to be nearing her destination, a great scornful shout went up. Heart thumping, she looked around, thinking for an instant that she must have provoked this somehow; but no, a drunken, filthy husband had staggered in behind her, returning home after a debauch. The women showered him with hoots and bitter catcalls. He waved a dismissive arm in their direction before vanishing through a sagging brick archway.
About half of Crocodile Court’s paving stones had been prised up and stolen, creating an irregular chequered pattern and making it impassable for all but the lightest of carts. Caroline hopped from slab to slab, past the rusting water-pump and the rag-and-bone shop, heading resolutely for Amy’s building. A game of rummy was underway on the steps, with much swearing and spitting. She took a breath and pushed straight through its middle, slipping quickly through the door.
The stairwell was heavy with snoring, belching, coughing bodies. People were everywhere, overflowing from the rooms onto corridors and landings. Of all ages, they sprawled semi-clothed across the floorboards, lost to liquor; perched upon the stairs, taking their meagre suppers; or huddled quietly in corners, trying to sleep. This was the result of the Victoria Street clearances, which had begun again in earnest, leaving many hundreds without homes. Caroline could not help but kick a few of them as she passed, clutching at the rickety banister. Most did not even have the energy to curse her.
The numbers had thinned a little by the time she reached the third floor. She went to a door at the end of the corridor and knocked three times. Someone came to the other side. Caroline said her name, a bolt slid back and she walked forward into a dell of flowers. Crocuses, lilies, tulips and carnations were gathered into loose bunches, and laid out in baskets and bowls. Their colours were all but lost in the dimness of the room, and there was no perfume beside those of the dyes and inks; but these clean, chemical odours were a definite improvement on those mingling in the musty corridor outside. Caroline shut the door behind her.
Amy was already back in her seat by the fire, a large silk rose in her hands. She was stitching wire-trimmed petals to its cardboard stem by the meagre light of the few coals that smouldered in the grate. The lines on her face deepened as she squinted down at the flower, pushing dark strands of hair behind her ears, searching for the right place to poke in her needle. She looked thin and desperately old for a woman of only four-and-twenty. It seemed to Caroline that her sister, once so strong and clever, was being worn away before her very sight; that life in the Devil’s Acre was killing her by degrees.
On the rug between them, rolling around in the weak firelight, lay Katie. The child was trying to rise onto her knees, plump legs wobbling as they took her weight. Hearing the door close, she looked up, mouth open; and seeing h
er aunt standing there, she cried out with pure delight, lost her balance and tumbled back down onto her side. Caroline felt a sudden rush of love; a tear, a bloody tear for Christ’s sake, pricked at the corner of her eye. She swooped in on the giggling infant, taking her up into her arms and spinning her around.
‘Why hello, my precious darling,’ she said. ‘And how are you tonight?’
Amy gave them both a quick smile but did not stop working. Caroline knew that she had four hundred flowers to deliver to her current employer, a milliner on Bond Street, first thing in the morning. Failure to meet this deadline would certainly mean the loss of the business, and the five shillings it brought in every week. Amy would not let this happen if she could possibly prevent it. Caroline sniffed the top of Katie’s head; the girl’s skin was sour, her chestnut curls clammy with grease. Once again, Amy had been too busy to bathe her. She glanced over at the cot in the corner that held Michael’s tiny form. He was quiet, at least, unlike the three or four other babies who wailed away nearby, somewhere along the corridor. Whether this was a good or a bad sign she dared not consider.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Caroline took a small paper parcel from her apron and unfolded it on her knee, revealing half of a slightly wilted ham sandwich. Katie grabbed out for it, gobbling down a mouthful with such hungry haste that Caroline feared she might choke. There had plainly not been much food around that day either. She looked at the grey marble fireplace, a remnant from one of the cramped room’s previous, more prosperous lives. The wide central slab bore a relief of a pheasant, spreading its wings as if taking flight from a hunter’s hound; an old crack in the stone, black with dirt, ran through the middle of the bird’s outstretched neck.
The Devil's Acre Page 6
