by Mary Hooper
As darkness fell, the peddlers began to disappear from the streets and the poorer sorts of shops, unable to afford a penny candle to light their stock, locked their doors. Our feet were beginning to drag, we were hungry and tired, and Betsy demanded to be picked up then set up a wailing when I said I was too weary to carry her. Still I could not think of what I was going to do; I only knew that I couldn’t walk around the streets for ever. Forcing myself to make a decision, I went into the next pawnbroker’s I came to and asked for some money to be advanced on Miss Alice’s rug.
‘It’s excellent fur and hardly used,’ I said, smoothing it out along the counter. ‘It comes from a very well-to-do, titled family.’
The man behind the counter fetched a lit candle and held it over the rug. ‘And you borrowed it from them, did you?’
I looked at him steadily. His face was grimy, his teeth broken and blackened, and his breath so foul that I felt like recoiling in disgust. I reminded myself, however, that I was only going to pawn a rug to him, not walk out with him. ‘No, it was given to me by my mistress,’ I said firmly. ‘A titled lady.’
‘Yers, of course it was.’ He looked at Betsy. ‘This your little girlie?’
‘No, she’s my sister,’ I said.
He grimaced. ‘Yers. Of course.’
But I did not care enough about what he thought of me to press the matter. He offered a shilling for the rug, then I asked for five and we haggled for some minutes, for it seemed to be a mark of honour to him that every penny up or down must be negotiated at length. In the end, with Betsy now lying on the grimy counter, asleep, we settled on two shillings and five pence.
‘And could you please tell me if there is a lodging house nearby?’ I asked as he counted out the money.
‘Lodging house? They’s ten a penny round here,’ he said. ‘Mrs Elm is on the corner, Mr Carpenter three doors down, Mrs . . .’
I moved away, out of reach of his breath. ‘And are they quite decent places?’
He smirked, nodding towards Betsy. ‘You don’t want anywhere too decent, do you? None of the most respectable places will take a single girlie with a child.’
‘But I told you – she’s not mine!’ I protested. ‘She’s my sister.’
‘Yers. So you said.’
I picked up the money. ‘There is one other thing I’d like to ask,’ I said. ‘Are there many watermen around here?’
‘Not here!’ he said. ‘The watermen is all on the river.’
‘I know they work on the river,’ I said, ‘but as it’s just nearby I thought maybe some might live around here.’
He shrugged. ‘Who knows? We’ve got all sorts.’ He ticked them off on his fingers. ‘Quacks, peddlers, fruit sellers, washerwomen, drunks, thieves and vagrants.’ He tapped his nose. ‘And those without any trade at all who must live by their wits and so will starve to death a little quicker than the others.’
Sighing, I was about to pick Betsy up from the counter when I heard a familiar, beloved sound: the faint mooing of a cow, which somehow calmed and reassured me, for I felt that if London had cows in it, then it could not be all bad.
‘Is there a dairy round here?’ I asked the pawnbroker.
‘There’s a cow-keeper over yonder,’ he said, jerking his thumb backward. ‘Mr Holloway. Down the alley and through the iron gates. None too clean.’
I thanked him, my spirits lifting just slightly. I would not attempt to speak to the cow-keeper now, for I was so tired I knew I wouldn’t give a good account of myself. I would wait until the next day, and maybe – if I was lucky – obtain a little work.
Chapter Eleven
Opening my eyes the next morning, I had difficulty at first in remembering where I was. Things had happened so quickly: one minute I was living amidst the peaceful calm of the Devonshire countryside, well fed and, I saw now, cushioned from most of life’s problems, the next I was fending for myself in alien London, in charge of a child who, dear though she was, was not of my family. Casting my mind hither and thither, my thoughts inevitably came to rest on Will. How could he do this to us? I still wanted to find him – oh, desperately wanted to find him – if only to berate him for the miserable squalor and hopeless predicament that Betsy and I found ourselves in. Everything was his fault! But then, after I’d raged and fumed for some time, it suddenly came to me that I ought to take some of the blame. Will had left us, certainly, but I need not have come to London to search for him. And I definitely should not have brought Betsy with me.
The previous evening it had not taken me long to find lodgings, for once I looked properly I saw that many doors had notices on scraps of paper advertising rooms to let for a respectable family, a tidy single person or a clean couple. Many notes used the words ‘respectable’ or ‘decent’ in their requirements for tenants, though I could not help but wonder if the rooms offered lived up to such a description, for in all cases the houses looked dirty and dilapidated, as if they might fall over in a high wind.
Not wishing to go far from the comforting sound of the cow’s mooing, and both of us being too tired to walk far, I soon came across a substantial lodging house of six storeys next to a tavern named the Dog and Duck.
The landlord of the lodging house, a Mr Burroughs, proved to be an old man seated in the kitchen before a fire, his boots and stockings off and his large, hairy feet stretched up to the mantelpiece. I was a little nervous in case he should ask anything about Betsy and her connection to me, but he hardly glanced our way, just took my money (two nights at sixpence a night) and said we should go up to the front room on the top floor where we would find a fine chamber awaiting us.
Betsy was crying with tiredness by this time and the stairs were steep – so much so that we had to go up the last flight on all fours. On reaching the top landing I could make out at least five doors off it, but with no light burning anywhere. In fact, it was so very dark that I had to leave Betsy sitting on the top stair and go down to beg a candle stub from our landlord to see us in. Holding this aloft I saw that one door on the landing was standing open, and gingerly going in I found a small room completely empty of furniture apart from a chair and bed. This, I presumed, was to be ours, and in little more than a minute we were both under the blanket and curled up in that bed fast asleep.
Perhaps, I thought, waking at first light the next morning, it was just as well that I hadn’t seen the room clearly the night before, for looking around me I could see that the walls were damp and mouldering, their flaking plaster showing the wooden laths underneath and, ’twixt walls and ceiling, a gap showing a streak of grey sky. The bed, too, left much to be desired; the thin blanket we slept under being patched and smelling of dog, and the mattress cover torn, with clumps of straw sticking through it. Moreover, to judge from the lumps and bumps along my legs and up my arms, it was home to a thriving population of fleas and bedbugs. I shuddered; the barns at Bridgeford Hall provided better accommodation for its animals than we had here!
I kept my hands to my sides, trying not to scratch myself, wondering what the time was. And almost immediately I heard a church bell chime seven times, followed by the striking of four other clocks in quick succession. Seven o’clock! More than two hours later than my usual rising time. What should I do? I was too late for that morning’s milking and besides, was reluctant to disturb Betsy, for I knew she would immediately present me with a score of questions that I didn’t have answers for.
I lay under that miserable blanket as it gradually grew lighter, listening to the strange noises in the house and shivering both from the cold and from contemplation of our plight. Our situation was dire and I could not but wonder what was going to become of us. I had next to no money, no change of clothes, and my shoes – more used to soft grass than the gravel and cobblestones of London – already had holes in the soles from our walk of the day before. What in the name of heaven could I do? I had no relatives to turn to in London, nor any way of getting a message to my family in Arlington. Even if I could have afforded to
buy quill, ink and parchment, my parents had no savings to send me nor any means of sending it. Why, my ma didn’t even know I was in London!
I thought of everyone at Bridgeford Hall, who in some ways had been as close as my family. This very morning Miss Alice would be imagining that I was at the publisher’s collecting her precious book, Mrs Bonny would be berating the maids and Patience would be ingratiating herself with my dear cows. No one would have the least idea about what had happened to me! When I didn’t return on time . . . Well, perhaps they would allow me a few days’ grace, thinking that I might have been taken poorly, but they would quickly come to the conclusion that I’d met up with Will and decided to stay in London. Miss Alice would be very angry about her book and her money, of course, and Mrs Bonny and the rest of the maids would express surprise that I’d turned out to be so wicked. After that, life for everyone would go on as usual.
But was there any way I could get back to Bridgeford? Betsy, as I saw it, was my main problem. On my own, I might have stood a good chance of earning my fare back home: I was a strong girl and – if I really had to – could go without meat and sleep on the streets to save money. I could not put a small child through that sort of discomfort, however. And even if I paid for the cheapest sort of accommodation for the two of us, what was I going to do with Betsy all day while I worked? I could employ a minder for her, a little girl of about ten years of age, perhaps, but then she would need paying and it would eat into what I could earn.
I must have dozed off for a bit then, because when I opened my eyes it was quite light in the room and Betsy’s face was an inch from my own.
‘I hear a cow mooing!’ she said.
I listened. ‘So do I. And this afternoon I’m going to go and find her. Perhaps I can get a job in a dairy and earn some money.’
‘But what about finding Will? Where are we going to look? Shall we look today?’
‘Well,’ I said slowly, ‘it may take longer than I thought it would.’ And I explained to her about St Paul’s Cathedral being vaster than I’d ever imagined, and how it could be seen by thousands of people – so many more than I’d thought.
She frowned and didn’t reply for some moments, then drew a deep breath which made me think she was going to cry. She didn’t, though. She said, ‘There’s a little louse crawling along in your hair’, which made me jump straight out of bed, fling open the window and shake my head vigorously into the street.
Getting dressed didn’t take very long as we had not undressed the night before, and although the landlord had supplied a chamber pot, there was no washing jug or bowl of water. Going out to a day of frosty sunshine, then, I felt dull and frowsy. Betsy, with her own little bag, was lucky enough to have a change of undershift and some clean kerchiefs in her bag – also the coins which had been given to her by Miss Alice’s friends. I took these from her, saying I would look after them.
‘But you won’t spend them, will you?’
‘I might,’ I said, ‘if we’re hungry. It all depends how long it takes us to find Will.’
‘But we will find him in the end?’
‘Yes. Of course,’ I said hastily, for her face was crumpling, ready to cry.
We were both very hungry, so sought out breakfast first, eating a small loaf between us while walking along the streets and marvelling at many sights we had been too late to glimpse the evening before. We saw street entertainers jumping on each other’s shoulders, throwing balls in the air or making music. We watched quack doctors bragging of the marvels that their lotions and potions could bring about, listened to balladeers singing the latest songs, heard costermongers calling their wares and sellers of walnuts, gin and rat poison trying to out-shout each other. There were a great many people selling goods on the streets and scores of shops, and to country folk like Betsy and me they were a source of great interest and fascination. How I longed to buy some of the things for sale: the pretty coloured hairbands, clips and flowers; the creams and unguents which, the peddlers swore, made skin soft as silk and complexions glow like pearls; the sweetmeats and sugary delicacies, the ballads, beauty patches, jellies and fans that seemed so enticing. Oh, had I had the money in my pocket, there were so many things I could have spent it on!
Betsy and I had walked some distance from our lodgings by then, there being so much to draw us on, but at length we found a public well, where we sat and rested ourselves a while, having been told the water was clean and drinkable. A flock of peddlers descended on us then, cajoling and flattering, but they could probably hear the ring of truth in my voice as I said we had no money, for they soon left us alone.
Rested, and mindful that I was going to be enquiring for work, I asked Betsy if I looked clean and tidy. After surveying me carefully she said I was moderately fine, although I had white dust from the bread on my nose. I remedied this, washed my hands and face at the well and then we set off to retrace our footsteps and locate the source of the mooing.
In spite of the dairy being near to our lodgings it took some finding, for it was in a narrow lane which turned in on itself, leaving a sort of blind alley at the end which was fronted by a large shed-like affair with two rusting doors. I knew the cows must be nearby because there was a mess of stinking milk, mud and straw on the stamped-earth floor. There were also two milk churns standing on a small wheeled trap, so I presumed that whoever owned the dairy must take a delivery to the nearby neighbours. Venturing inside the building I found another, overturned, churn and there was also a milkmaid’s wooden yoke with a pail at each end. The whole place, however, stank of rancid milk, rust and mould, and was as different from my sweet-smelling dairy as it was possible to be.
Going further in, the first thing which struck me after the smell was the disarray. Mrs Bonny would have run mad to see it! Cobwebs trailed from grimy corners like raggedy curtains, the paint on the wooden counter had all but peeled off and there was a jumbled collection of ladles, pint pots, skimmers and cream-setting pans along the work surfaces.
‘ ’Tis not like your dairy!’ Betsy said, looking around her in disgust. She crouched down on the floor. ‘There are mouse droppings. If I had a little box I could find one and keep it as a pet.’
‘Don’t let’s look for mice now,’ I said hastily. Then I called ‘Hello!’ several times, and Betsy did likewise.
After a considerable time a man with generous sideburns and a moustache appeared from behind the counter, where I presumed he’d been sleeping. This, I thought, must be Mr Holloway, the cow-keeper.
‘No more milk today,’ he said. ‘Try our other place.’
‘I don’t want to buy milk,’ I said.
‘Nor butter,’ he continued, smoothing down his moustache. ‘We’ve no time here for the churning of butter.’
I shook my head. ‘If you please . . . I have recently come from the country,’ I said – for word had it that London employers were well disposed to country girls, thinking them more honest than those bred in the city.
‘Aye.’
‘I’m looking for work. I’m an experienced milkmaid.’ I thought I detected a glimmer of interest in his face so went on. ‘Until very recently I cared for a small herd of cows in Devonshire, keeping the dairy in good order, milking twice daily and making cream and butter.’
‘Done a milk round, have you?’ he asked, yawning between his words.
I shook my head.
‘I have eight cows. I could do with a girl here sometimes . . .’
‘After milking the cows I could easily do a round!’ I said, gesturing towards the little trap. ‘I could manage a small pony.’
He shook his head. ‘We don’t keep a pony in winter – our cows don’t give enough milk to make it worthwhile. You’d have to take the yoke and pails out.’
I nodded again, trying to look keen, although I had heard the girls on the big farm complaining how uncomfortable the yokes were and how their backs ached after walking for even a few minutes with a heavy pail at each end. ‘I could do that, sir.’
>
He scratched his head. ‘We’ve got a second dairy down Soho, way bigger than this. If you were here, then I’d have more time to spend at the other place.’
‘I should need a good weekly wage,’ I said boldly, then gestured around at the mess. ‘But I would get your dairy in proper order.’
He twisted his head to look at Betsy standing behind me. ‘Whose bairn is that?’
‘She’s a . . . a friend’s little sister.’
He didn’t appear to have heard my words. ‘Your child, is she?’
I blushed. ‘No, not mine. She is my friend’s sister.’
He frowned at Betsy and then – just when I thought he was going to turn me away for not being respectable enough – said, ‘A week’s trial at five shillings.’
‘Ten,’ I said promptly.
We settled on seven, and arranged that I should start the following morning at four.
I explained to Betsy that I had to work to earn some money while we searched for Will, and she accepted this quite readily. I would, I said, be going to Mr Holloway’s dairy early in the mornings, and that, on waking, she was to stay in bed for as long as possible and only when she couldn’t possibly wait any longer should she come round to the dairy to find me. I got a lump in my throat as I said this, thinking that the poor child should be safely at home in a warm kitchen with a family, not stuck in a miserable room for hours on end with no one bar bedbugs for company, but this was the best I could do.
