Isabella Rockwell's War

by Hannah Parry

  “What else do you want me to do?”

  She thought for a moment.

  “Go and wait out of sight for ten minutes. Then come back – like you’d never seen me before in your life – like you’re a punter.”

  Midge’s eyes lit up.

  “Yeah! I’ll make sure I’m gob-smacked.”

  “Don’t overdo it though, Midge,” she shot him a warning look.

  He peered down his freckled nose at her.

  “As if!” He made himself scarce amongst the crowd.

  As the bells of St Clements rang the quarter hour Isabella caught sight of Midge winding his way through the icy rutted street and she forced herself to look away from him and not get the giggles. With an exaggerated double take Midge came to her table.

  “Ah ha, my fine young gentleman. How would you like to see magic to inflame your senses?”

  Midge bowed low.

  “Honourable eastern lady, I would indeed like to see your GREAT MAGIC!” Midge pronounced these last words so loudly they were nearly a shout, which made Isabella jump and knock two of the shells off the table. Trying hard not to laugh, and cursing at the same time she bent to retrieve them, and spread them on the table. Blowing hard on her frozen fingers she sent the nutmeg shells skittering across the golden cloth. This way and that way and this way and that way, she could feel, rather than see, Midge getting dizzy trying to keep his eye on the shell holding the bean.

  Her hands slowed, and from the corner of her eye she saw a child pull on her father’s velvet coat tails, and gesture in their direction.

  “So, my young sir. Which shell holds the bean of fortune? The Lords of the Rajput would gamble their palaces on a single shell. What will you gamble, Sir?” Midge pretended to hand her a coin and stood for a long moment trying to decide on one of the three shells. Isabella snuck another peek. Goodeee! It was working. The father and child were now standing just behind Midge, who moved slightly to one side so they could see.

  “Is it this one?’ Midge’s hand tapped the top of one smooth shell. Isabella shook her head. “This one?” By this time, Midge’s curiosity was genuine, as he truly had no idea under which shell the bean was lying.

  “It must then be here,” shrieked the child excitedly grabbing the last shell and lifting it. There lay the bean. The child was hooked.

  “Papa, this is easy, please may I try?” Her father, having the prosperous, indulgent look of a merchant asked, “May the child try?”

  Isabella bent her head graciously.

  “She may indeed, but it is one half penny per try. Should she make the correct choice first time, she may have her halfpenny back.”

  “Generous terms, indeed,” said the man reaching into his pocket and dropping one shining halfpenny into Isabella’s freezing palm. Isabella smiled at them both and got to work.

  By lunchtime she and Midge had made four shillings and Midge was ecstatic.

  “Zachariah’s never going to believe this! I’ve never made so much money all in one go!” Isabella smiled, though her face was numb with the cold. In a strange way she had enjoyed herself. Fully engaged with trying to take money from the shoppers of Smithfield, she’d forgotten her own problems, and Midge’s company made her feel less bleak.

  “Cor, look at you. You’re smiling. That must be some kind of record.” Isabella smiled again. “Come on, let’s go down to London Bridge. See how much them tickets are. Mind you, you better do the talking with your la-di-dah voice. They’ll throw me out soon as look at me.”

  Stuffing hot raisin buns into their mouths as they walked back down to the river, Isabella felt something inside her. It was unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. It felt very small and she wanted to put her hands around it, to protect it, but it was still inside her the next morning. Even the morning after that.

  It was a tiny flickering flame of hope.

  Chapter 4:

  Clan

  There wasn’t a market in London Isabella and Midge didn’t target. Borough, Shepherd’s, even Kingston on one long day, catching the boat downriver.

  Isabella performed well without having to give away the secret of the trick. She learned to behave differently with each of her punters. She would put on a show if the audience were well-to-do, layered in their velvet and ermine, out taking the air with a servant. Or, if they were mostly children, she would be warm and more like her usual self. Her most difficult clients were the other street children, often sent by their superiors to learn the trick, which had become so successful it was the talk of the gin houses and street corners. If those punters appeared, she and Midge would pretend to pack up business, and then while away an hour or two throwing sticks in the river, until it was safe for them to set up elsewhere.

  The only cloud on her horizon, other than her future, was Zachariah.

  “I give him half our takings every single day and he still acts like I’m something the cat dragged in,” she complained loudly to Midge as they sat on a wall watching the sluggish river below. With some of her hard earned cash, she’d bought herself a hat and a scarf, and she’d become accustomed to the long hours out in the cold.

  “I can’t wait until I’ve got enough for my ticket. He’ll miss me when I’m gone… he’ll miss my money at any rate.” She tossed a stone into the river, not willing to admit how much pleasure it had given her when, the other night, Zach had come home with three new pairs of leather boots for the little ones, knowing, without a doubt, it was her and Midge’s earnings, which had made it possible.

  “I’ll miss you,” said Midge loyally. Isabella looked at him and pulled him close, rubbing her knuckles through his hair.

  Midge pulled away.

  “Gerrof… what is it with you and Ruby and the hair!”

  “Worried you might see Minna? We’ve got to go to the Baker’s later. Shall I ask if her dance card’s free?” Midge gave her a great shove. Minna was the pretty sixteen year old daughter of the baker who often gave them the day’s old bread at half price.

  Midge tried to salvage his dignity.

  “I’m only five years younger than her. There’s many that likes a younger man… and I’ll be a gentleman of means one day.”

  “Mmm,” replied Isabella. “Of course. Come on Napoleon, let’s go and find our spot.”

  She and Midge did very well that day, and she proudly counted out Zachariah’s share into his hand. Saying nothing Zachariah handed it over to William, a tall silent boy who only moved if Zachariah did.

  “It would be nice if, just once, you said thank you.”

  Zachariah looked at her.

  “Thank you.” He made towards his bed, but Isabella was fed up. Homesick and missing Abhaya, she grabbed him by the shoulder.

  “Why don’t you like me? What have I ever done to you? Everyone else likes me, the children, Ruby, even the dogs. Why can’t you?”

  Zachariah’s expression didn’t change.

  “Why do you care?”

  Isabella hesitated.

  “I don’t know, I just do.”

  Zachariah shrugged.

  “Well, at least you’re honest, but with all those people liking you already why do you need me to as well? I’ve given you shelter ’aven’t I? This ain’t a popularity contest, Miss India. This is real life, and you’re just one more person for me to worry about.”

  One of the dogs came over and pushed his wet nose into Isabella’s hand, as she looked at Zachariah’s empty face.

  “No, sorry, Zachariah, you’re quite right. Popularity doesn’t matter. You’ve given me shelter and food and I’m grateful. It was wrong of me to ask for more.”

  He nodded at her and, clicking his tongue for one of the dogs, rolled himself in his blanket. Barely moments later, Isabella heard him snoring.

  Unable to sleep she opened her father’s bag, glad of the strong leather straps, which kept the bag secure across her chest. She never took it off. Not even when asleep. She’d discovered counting her money could calm her and make her feel better, im
agining Abhaya’s voice.

  “Aiee, baba. You are Mr Cadwalladr, the lender. Was he in fact your father? I am sure you must be related.”

  Isabella laughed to herself remembering the money-lender in the village, how she and others would sneak up on him late at night as he sat in his chair rocking and counting his money, singing to himself. They would let snakes go in his room, trying to flush him out, but he always knew they were there, and he would rush out onto his veranda with a great noise and flapping of hands. Shrieking, the children would disperse, but not before they’d seen Mr Cadwalladr give a little smile of amusement. He had been a kind man. Isabella wondered what had happened to him.

  The pile of coins in front of her was growing and she did some basic sums. If she continued to save at this rate, she would have enough money for a ticket by next Autumn. She would have been here for a year! Still, far better one year on the streets than four years in service. She fingered the silver snuffbox and jewellery, still wrapped in the sari at the bottom of her bag. It was still there and still safe, no one knowing of its existence. A feeling of comfort crept over her again, imagining herself returning home in September, when the monsoon would have broken and the land would be washed clean and touched with new growth. She felt warmer just thinking about it.

  It was this, and only this, which mattered.

  It didn’t matter that Zachariah didn’t like her; just how quickly she could get home. She would do well to remember it.

  The winter ground on and it was now mid-December and Isabella wondered why the sun bothered to come up at all, so short were the days. When she and Midge went to market, she noticed a different type of customer.

  “Ah ha, here we go. Invasion of the toffs,” remarked Midge, a satisfied expression on his face.

  “What do you mean?” she asked following his gaze across the market where she could see a well-dressed matron supervising two footmen, loading a carriage with goods.

  “That there’s a housekeeper for one of the big houses and I mean big. Mayfair or Eaton Square, I reckon.”

  “Why’ve they come all the way out here then?”

  “Christmas.”

  Isabella thought for a moment.

  “Ah.” She had dim memories of having to go to church in Rawalpindi during the dry season. “I remember now. Mrs Farrar tried to make a big cake with raisins, but I think it didn’t set. She said she needed butter, not ghee.”

  Midge scratched his head.

  “Yeah, that’s probably it. In the poor house we’d get an extra helping of food on Christmas Day, and last year I got given a mince pie by the baker, for free!”

  “What’s a mince pie?”

  “Like a raisin bun, but nicer.” Isabella, who loved raisin buns beyond reason, couldn’t imagine this.

  “Really? What day is Christmas then?”

  “I’m not sure. I think it’s the day after tomorrow. It’s very fashionable. All the toffs, they buy these trees and decorate them and then they buy each other presents. See – that’s what I mean.” One of the footmen was now manhandling a large green spiky tree into their carriage. The other followed carrying baskets of oranges and bunches of another spiky shiny plant.

  “That’s Holly,” said Midge, importantly. “They put that up as decoration, but I think it’s to ward away evil spirits.”

  Isabella nodded. This made more sense to her.

  “Look at that,” she said, watching open mouthed as the warmly wrapped housekeeper carried two baskets of pastries and a huge ham over to the carriage. Mentally she compared the housekeeper’s padded curves with Midge’s hollow cheeks and jutting collarbones.

  “Yup, they’ll not be the only ones down here shopping today,” replied Midge.

  “Let’s hope we can take some of that money off them in the meantime. They’ve clearly got too much of it. I reckon it’s about time they spread it around,” said Isabella, getting to her feet and packing up the shells and sari.

  “‘Ere, where are you going?” asked Midge nervously, following her over to the carriage.

  “Just act natural,” she hissed under her breath, her heart thudding in her ears. For just one moment the footmen and housekeepers’ backs were turned as they relieved a grocer of another four large baskets of fruit and vegetables. In that moment Isabella ducked around to the other side of the carriage and, bending low, opened the door and slid two of the baskets out from underneath the Christmas tree. Within seconds she and Midge were lost again in a crowd gathered around a man standing on a crate, handing out newssheets.

  Neither of them spoke until they were nearly home.

  “I can’t believe you just done that.” Midge was overawed. Isabella pulled him into a doorway.

  “Come on let’s see what’s in them.”

  Mouths watering they unpacked sausage rolls, honey cakes and oranges from one and from the other four bottles of Mead and a medium sized ham.

  “We’ll be having our own Christmas tonight then,” said Midge, pink with excitement. “Come on let’s run!”

  It was as Isabella climbed the warehouse stairs, labouring under the heavy basket and joking with Midge that she felt the first finger of fear touch her gently on the shoulder. Pausing on the landing, she watched the last ray of weak sunlight creep down the buildings over the water. Her chest tightened and, dropping her basket to the floor, she ran up the remainder of the stairs, Midge following in her wake.

  One of the dogs sat by the doorway his ears back, the sacks, which would normally bar their way, pushed to one side. Her heart fell further. Inside the den, it was quiet; too quiet. There was an unfamiliar smell, sweet and cloying.

  Close to the fire, curled like a seahorse, lay Lily. She was fighting for every breath and her lips were blue. Next to her sat Ruby with tears pouring silently down her cheeks as she bathed Lily’s white face. Zachariah held Lily’s hand and seemed to be muttering something, prayers maybe, whilst rocking back and forth. His eyes never left Lily’s face and Isabella could hardly bear to look at him, such was the pain she could see there.

  Barely knowing what she was doing, Isabella took her bag off.

  “When did she become sick?” she asked quietly.

  “Since this morning. She seemed so tired so I let her sleep, but when I tried to wake her I found I…” Ruby gulped, “I couldn’t.”

  “Has she woken at all since then?”

  “Only once.”

  “Did she recognise you?”

  Ruby nodded, eyes filling again.

  “That is good.” Isabella looked at Lily closely. With her face so still her resemblance to Zachariah was more pronounced. Isabella felt her skin. It was hot to the touch as if a furnace burned away deep inside her.

  “She is very ill,” she said, almost to herself.

  Zachariah seemed to see her for the first time.

  “What are you doing here? Go away, leave us in peace.” Such was the anger in his face, it took all of Isabella’s courage to stay put.

  “I have a little experience of healing.”

  “So?” Zachariah’s eyes were bleak. Isabella had seen this look before and, despite his indifference to her, she felt compassion for him. How well she knew what he faced. She reached out and touched his sleeve.

  “I helped to nurse people who were sick at home. I know a little. At least I could make her more comfortable.” As if in response to this Lily took a deep and rattling breath and let out a little moan.

  “Let her, Zachariah. Please. Otherwise we’ll have to get Doc Rogers,” begged Ruby, but Zachariah interrupted her, never taking his eyes from Lily’s face.

  “I’m not having that sawbones anywhere near her…” Isabella didn’t stop to listen, she was on her feet stoking the fire as high as she dared.

  “We don’t have much time,” she said gathering up some bedding and placing it against the warm brick of the wall. “Bring her over here and sit her up gently against this. If she sits up the water in her lungs will drain downwards and she will find it easi
er to breathe.” Zachariah glared at her, but did as she suggested.

  “We must now see about her fever. We need water, which is warm, but not hot – as if you are feeling nothing – that is the temperature it must be.” Ruby, glad to be asked to do something, leapt to her feet, but William was ahead of her, filling pots from the jugs of water they collected each morning from a pump on the street corner.

  Isabella took out her medicine pouch and unrolled it. Each little pocket bulged with its remedy and Isabella sent up a silent prayer of thanks to Abhaya. Taking a tiny dried yellow flower from one pocket she handed it carefully to Ruby.

  “Let William finish the bathing water. This is Aremenia Asia and is powerful against fever. You need to boil this flower in one cup of water for exactly three minutes. If it cooks for too long the medicine in it will be lost.”

  As Isabella crushed the flower into the cup of water, a smell was released driving away the dense smell of infection and replacing it with the scent of lemon and the clean air of the mountains where the flower had grown. Isabella unwrapped Lily from her bed linen, her every move watched by Zachariah and then dropped a few drops of mint essence into the tepid water William carried over to her. She ripped a piece of cloth in half and gave one piece to Zachariah.

  “Here, bathe her gently. This will help to bring the fever down too.” Zachariah took the cloth and began to bathe Lily’s skin, which was white and stretched tightly over her bones, like skin on a gourd. Her golden hair was black with sweat. The other children huddled silently in their beds, on the far side of the den, the dogs lying with them, with ears back.

  When the tea was ready, Ruby brought it to Isabella who stirred it until it was cool. Lily felt cooler to the touch after the sponging, but Isabella could feel under her fingers, as if far off in the distance, the fever pushing through, like a snake seeking a bird’s egg.

  “We need to sit her up more. Zachariah, I will hold her and you must spoon this into her mouth. We must get it all into her.”

  “But she’s barely conscious, she won’t be able to swallow.”

  “She will,” interrupted Isabella. “The fever has not yet reached her brain. If we get it far enough into her mouth, she will swallow.” Zachariah looked at her, hollow eyed and desperate. “We have no choice.”