by Mary Hooper
The train roared, shook and swayed as it rounded a corner, and Grace grasped the window frame and waited until it straightened on its course. Then she pushed open the door to the van containing the coffins and went in.
There were no windows and the only light was from two candles burning in a sconce on the wall, so it took a moment for Grace’s eyes to readjust. When they did, she saw that the van was divided into three sections and each of these contained rows of narrow iron shelves upon which the coffins rested. Even in the poor light it was easy to distinguish between rich and poor, for the third-class caskets were of matchwood, with hand-written cards stating the occupier’s name and date of demise, while those of the first class were of highly polished wood with handles, trims and engraved plaques in brass or silver.
Grace went to the first-class section and read some of these plaques, which listed the corpse’s accreditations like a calling card for Heaven: Sebastian Taylor, devoted Husband and Father; Maud Pickersley, worked to improve the conditions of those less fortunate; Jessy Rennet, lived a life of Piety and Hope.
The train’s brakes gave a squeal and it slowed a little as if it was nearing its destination, and Grace surveyed the coffins quickly and anxiously. How to choose? She wanted her dead child to be placed with a woman, of course, someone who sounded kindly and was from a good family. She paused in front of a box of white oak containing The mortal remains of Miss Susannah Solent, Defender of the Weak, Princess of the Poor.
Miss Susannah Solent. There was no indication as to her age and she was obviously not a mother herself, but she sounded the sort of woman who would be kind to a child and give it shelter.
She must act quickly! She lifted a corner of the lid of the pale-wood casket containing the body of Susannah Solent and, without looking inside, slipped in her bundle.
She felt that some sort of formal farewell was called for and murmured, ‘May you sleep content and one day may we be reunited’, and then moved quickly back into the corridor, dabbing her eyes.
x
Chapter Two
A young couple, Mr and Mrs Stanley Robinson, were in a nursery painted all over with ships in full sail upon a foam-tipped sea. They were bending over a lavishly decorated bassinette with lace curtains, a frilled quilt and pillow threaded with white ribbon, in which slept their new baby. With every stir of their treasure and heir, every sniff and snuffle, they marvelled anew.
‘I don’t suppose he’ll be like this all the time,’ the man whispered. ‘They say that babies cry a lot.’
The woman laughed, but not unkindly. ‘Do you think I don’t know that? I do! And I’m quite prepared for crying.’
‘Shall we hire a nurse? Mother said she’d pay.’
‘Certainly not,’ the woman said. ‘I’ve waited too long to give over care of Baby to a stranger.’
‘Just as you like, my sweet,’ said the man. He put out a finger and stroked the baby’s cheek, plump and pink under the prettiest of lace bonnets. The baby started in his sleep, and the couple froze in case he was about to wake up, but he fell still again. ‘Dear Baby,’ said the man.
‘Dear, precious Baby,’ said the woman, and she and her husband smiled at each other fondly. ‘At last . . .’
x
Chapter Three
Seven Dials in the Parish of St Giles was, perhaps, the poorest area in west London, for it was said that nearly three thousand people were crammed into little over a hundred dwellings. Named for the seven lanes which converged together below Oxford Street, each court and alleyway leading off these contained slums and rookeries. Decrepit lodging houses, shops and stinking taverns leaned this way and that, shored up with old planks and rusty sheets, their broken windows boarded over, and tarpaulin nailed over holes in the masonry in an effort to stop the rain coming through. Those living in the houses were poor, but not quite destitute. None had an income that could be relied on, however, and thus they lived hand to mouth, hoping that each day would bring forth enough money to feed them and their families for the next twenty-four hours. They were costermongers with stalls in the marketplaces, street sellers of matches and pickled whelks, crossing sweepers, laundresses, sewer cleaners and boys who contrived to earn a living by holding a gentleman’s horse or turning somersaults in order to amuse. Below that level, in the very worst hovels, lived packs of scoundrels and ne’er-do-wells, thieves and beggars.
The stalls and shops around them sold all manner of things for, though some could manage without shoes, even the very poorest needed food and something to wear. The clothes for sale in Seven Dials were never new, but second-, third- or fourth-hand: old dresses, hats, shoes, stockings, crumpled petticoats, fraying jackets and tattered shawls. A large number of the shops were for bird fanciers and almost every variety of pigeon, fowl and hen could be found there, together with thrushes, finches and other songbirds. At the southern end of Seven Dials, one could find shops selling cheap household goods: brooms, dustpans, dusters, washing bowls, wiping cloths and rags, for even the poorest woman knew that cleanliness was next to Godliness, and strove to keep up her standards.
Mrs Macready’s boarding house in Brick Place, Seven Dials, was four storeys high with two rooms on each floor, and a basement which was green and mouldy with damp. Mrs Macready lived on the ground floor, keeping a watch over the comings and goings and a tally of rents paid, and presiding over a kitchen which the lodgers were allowed to use for a ha’penny or two. There was a makeshift privy in the backyard and also a well, but owing to the proximity of one to the other, the water from the well was polluted and undrinkable – so much so that, some years before, several of Mrs Macready’s lodgers and those from the next-door house had died of cholera. Since then, everyone had queued to get their water in pails, kettles and bowls from the standpipe in the street.
Mrs Macready was a stout and cheery landlady who took up and wore whatever raggedy items her lodgers left behind when they moved on, hardly differentiating between men’s and women’s clothes. Thus she would wear torn lace blouses with old suit jackets or crumpled skirts with threadbare shawls and waistcoats, and top the lot off with a bonnet decorated with artificial flowers. Out of the kindness of her heart, she kept strictly to her maxim of having only one family to a room and charged them well below the going rate. She charged so little, in fact, that she couldn’t maintain the property, which was in a state of hopeless disrepair. When, she was fond of saying, the house finally fell down about her ears, she was going to live with her well-to-do son in Connaught Gardens.
As Grace journeyed on the Necropolis Railway to Brookwood Cemetery, her sister Lily looked out of a grimy window in the smallest room on the second floor of Mrs Macready’s, impatient for her return and sighing continually. Grace was being an awfully long time, what on earth could she be doing? Did it take that long to have a baby? Why, she’d been gone a whole day and a night now – or was it two?
She knew that Grace would be coming back with a child, for Grace had explained in very simple terms that there was a little baby inside her and she had to go and find someone who would help bring it out. In the meantime, Lily had been instructed to go to the market to buy watercresses (she knew how to do this, for she’d accompanied Grace to bargain with the market traders many times), then bunch them and sell them in the streets as usual. The day before, she’d carried out these instructions faithfully, but owing to her indecision in selecting what cresses to buy, she’d missed selling to the labourers on their way to work. All day it had rained, so there had hardly been a housewife to be seen on the streets, and though Lily had stayed out until after six o’clock, she’d not sold nearly enough bunches of watercress to cover what she’d laid out. She’d bought a boiled meat pudding for her supper, for Grace had said she could, but on her way home with the money she had left, she’d met a sharp who’d promised to double the coins in her pocket if she could guess what cup a bean was under. She’d been quite sure she could do this – he made it look so easy, and wouldn’t Grace be pleased with he
r? – but the bean was never under the one she chose.
Waking the next morning, Lily realised with horror that there was no money, not a penny, to go to market and buy the fresh bundles of watercress to sell that day. This was not the first time this had happened to them, however, and lying in bed, Lily had been thinking hard about what she should do. The answer came at last: of course, she would pawn something! This was what Grace always did when they’d not made enough money to buy stock.
She looked around the room for likely objects but apart from the bed (which belonged to Mrs Macready anyway), it contained very little: a straw-stuffed mattress, two pillows, three thin blankets and several wooden crates. Some of these crates held their spare clothes and possessions, and two were empty and had been upturned to use as seats. Grace had already been thinking – as far as she’d planned anything – that she might use one of the crates as a cradle for the baby.
Lily frowned, looking about. She knew Grace wouldn’t want to sell the blankets, for they’d need these when the weather turned cold. They’d had five blankets when they started living at Mrs Macready’s, and four pillows too. Before that, when they’d started living in the orphanage, they’d had soft bleached-linen sheets, an eiderdown containing ducks’ feathers and a coverlet Mama had sewn, together with the framed mottoes Mama had embroidered as a girl: Home Sweet Home, Bless This House and Walk in Love. Some of these things had been stolen over the years, though, and the rest had been sold or pawned, along with most of their winter clothing. Lily had borne losing the clothes well, for she hardly cared what she looked like, but very much missed her doll, Primrose, who’d been as big as a life-size baby, with real hair and a pretty rosebud mouth set in a porcelain face. She was hoping that the baby Grace brought home would be like Primrose, a pretty thing they could play with and who could be tied up in a bundle and put on their backs when they went selling cresses. She thought that customers would stop to pet and admire the child – and maybe give a little more money for its own pretty sake.
Lily began to look through the possessions in the crates. One crate contained what they called ‘Mama’s treasures’: a fragile teapot and one cup and saucer hand-painted with birds, an empty ring box, a shell made of china but painted pearly pink and looking real, the bonnet which Mama had been married in and a length of lace which had been her veil. Lily unwrapped and admired each of these in turn, then, breathless with the effort of having to be so careful with such delicate items, placed them all back in the crate. There were a few items of clothing, but not, unfortunately, any of that most valuable commodity – shoes – for each girl was wearing her only pair. Lily fingered a shawl, wondering if she should sell that rather than a blanket. Would Grace be cross with her if she did, or commend her for being sensible? If she took the shawl to a rag fair, how much should she ask (for it was very thin and worn in parts) and would Grace approve of this amount? Would it be enough to buy stock with? Should she buy watercress with the proceeds, or purchase a potato pie she could put in Mrs Macready’s oven to have for their supper that evening? But suppose Grace didn’t come home in time to eat it and it went to waste?
The questions spun in her head and Lily let out a little cry, confused and worried about all the choices. Supposing Grace didn’t come home at all? She’d heard people talking about having babies, saying that the process of getting them was fraught and dangerous. Suppose Grace died and was put into the ground, like Mama had been? This notion was so bewildering and frightening that a wave of terror washed over Lily, causing her legs to tremble so much that she had to sit down on the bed. What would she do without Grace?
It took some time before she stopped shaking and was able to get moving again. By then, however, it was too late to go to the wholesale market and buy watercress. Besides, she still didn’t have any money. She looked through the things again and gave a sudden gasp. What about clothes for the baby Grace was going to bring home? What would it wear? How could they take it out when it had no shawl?
The baby must be dressed! Realising this, she went to the first crate and took out Mama’s teapot. Pawning this would bring in the most money; enough, surely, for several days’ cresses, food to eat that night (of course Grace would come home!) and a layette for the baby. She would go out and buy all the clothes herself and Grace would be so pleased that she wouldn’t ask what had been sold in order to provide them. She’d buy sleeping robes of brushed cotton, pretty lace bonnets and the softest white shawl. It would be like having Primrose again.
Lily took the teapot from its newspaper and stroked it. It was of fine china which rang out when you tapped it gently with your fingernail, and covered all over with little painted birds – bluebirds of happiness, Mama had called them. She had named them individually and told the girls on what sort of flowers they feasted, but Lily couldn’t remember all those details now. The teapot was very pretty, she thought, but it might as well be sold because they had no further use for it, tea being much too expensive a drink.
She rewrapped it carefully in the newspaper. She knew this was The Times, but she couldn’t read even the date on it. Grace could read. Sometimes she found a page or two of a newspaper blowing in the street, brought it home and read the advertisements on the front page. ‘Mr Lucas seeks a bay gelding,’ she’d declare. ‘A governess seeks a position with an aristocratic family. Five pound note lost in Bishopsgate Street. Madame Oliver sings tonight at Tremorne Gardens. Help wanted for destitute crippled boys.’ Sometimes Grace would make up stories about the people they read about – a governess had a bay gelding for sale, and she answered Mr Lucas’s advertisement and they fell in love. One of the destitute crippled boys found a five pound note and didn’t know whether to hand it in and claim the reward, or to buy meat pies for himself every day for a year. Madame Oliver had been going to sing at Tremorne Gardens, but instead had passed the time riding on a bay gelding.
Many a happy hour was spent in this way, for Grace excelled in making up stories and, if Lily became anxious about anything, she’d tell her about castles and princesses in order to soothe her to sleep. She told the stories so well that, when Lily thought about them the following day, sometimes she couldn’t recall whether they were made up or had truly happened.
Relieved that she had at last decided what to do, Lily set off for a pawnbroker they’d used before, a kindly man known – as were others of his breed – as Uncle. She found his door closed, however, the blind down, and a notice written on a piece of paper stuck on the window.
Asking a passer-by, a man selling candle stubs, what it said, she was told: ‘Shut because of Death’.
‘Shut because of Death,’ Lily repeated, struggling to understand what this could possibly mean.
‘It means it’s closed because someone’s died,’ said the man. ‘The owner of the shop, most like.’ He then looked at Lily with interest. ‘You ’ad something to sell at Uncle’s, then, did you?’
Lily nodded and held up the package. ‘A teapot.’
‘Not much call for them,’ said the man, almost before she’d got the word out of her mouth. ‘Tell you who’ll give the best price for that, though – old Morrell down Parsnip Hill. Tell ’im Ernie sent you.’
Lily thanked him and went on her way. Meanwhile, Ernie slipped down a side alley, ran across two lanes, went over someone’s back wall and arrived at Morrell’s Pawnshop two minutes before Lily. He looked up and down the lane and nipped in.
Morrell specialised in buying, selling and pawning china and glass objects, and his grimy windows held any number of dulled crystal vases, chipped ornaments, gaudy fairground animals and glass drinking mugs. Having such a teapot would, to him, be like owning the crown jewels.
‘I just sent you a pigeon,’ Ernie puffed to Morrell, a man with a paunch so large it prevented him from getting too close to his counter. ‘Young girl, bit simple. Teapot. Do a switch and we’ll go ’alves on it.’
Morrell nodded, grinned and, as Ernie left, reached for a small cardboard box which he secre
ted on a shelf just under the counter.
Lily reached the shop, said that Ernie had sent her and that she had a teapot to pawn. On the way there, she’d had some worries about taking it in, but reassured herself that it was only going to be pawned, not sold. If Grace was really cross with her, then they’d be able to go and buy it back later, when they got rich. They always got rich in the stories that Grace told.
Morrell’s eyes brightened when he saw the teapot. Meissen, he thought. Quite old, hand-painted by craftsmen and worth a fair bit. However, he shook his head regretfully.
‘What a pity,’ he said. ‘Thought you ’ad something good there, but it’s just a scrap orf a market stall. Got a chip in it, too,’ he lied.
Lily, though crestfallen, nevertheless regarded him trustingly. ‘But it must be worth something,’ she said. ‘It was part of a set that my mama had.’
‘Pass it over, then,’ said Mr Morrell. ‘Let’s take it to the window an’ give it a proper butcher’s.’
Lily passed the teapot, still partly in its newspaper wrapping, across the counter. As Morrell took it from her and turned towards the window, somehow it slipped from the paper.
‘Ooops!’ said Morrell as something crashed on to the brick floor.
‘Oh!’ cried Lily, aghast.
‘Lordie! You let go of it too soon, girl.’
Lily pressed her hand to her lips and her face paled. ‘Is it . . . is it quite broken?’
‘A nundred pieces!’ cried Morrell.
‘Might it be repaired?’
‘Never! Just you look.’
Lily peeped fearfully around the end of the counter. Sure enough, shards of china lay scattered right across the stone floor.
