by Susan Green
“She’s orright. She got a bit frighted when them larrikins ran past, but I got ’er quieted down.”
The gentleman limped up to his horse and stroked her nose. She whinnied in pleasure.
“Good girl, Guinevere,” said the old man. “You shall have an apple.” He looked up at the girl. “And thank you, my dear, for looking after her.”
“That’s orright,” she said, sliding off and landing in the mud with her bare feet. “I like ’orses.”
“Shall we help you to mount her?” Daniel asked Mr Usher.
“Actually, I don’t think you can,” said the old gentleman. “I’m rather shaky. Perhaps a cab would be the best idea.”
“Certainly. But these pieces of paper …” said Daniel, stooping to pick one up. “Are they important?”
“I am the owner and editor-in-chief of the Melbourne Mercury. I often ride from my home in South Yarra to the Mercury office at the far end of Lonsdale Street. Guinevere knows the way, so occasionally I read as I ride. Those two took advantage of my inattention. I’m afraid these pages are my editorial for tomorrow’s newspaper.”
“Do you want us to pick them up for you?” I asked him. “Only the ink’s run and some have been in horse manure.”
He shook his head and tried to smile, but then he staggered and had to lean against Daniel for support.
“You’ve had a shock. Let us help you to a cab,” Daniel urged. “I live close by in Richmond. If you’ll consent to being driven there, we can clean you up and take you to your home afterwards.”
“What about Guinevere?”
“I can ride ’er,” offered the girl. “Richmond ain’t far.”
Was that a good idea? Guinevere looked like a valuable horse to me. What if the girl stole her?
But Mr Usher said, “That would be most kind of you. I shall pay you, of course. Would five shillings suit?”
“Oooh,” breathed the girl, her eyes widening. “I never even seen that much money in me life.”
“I’ll write down the address for you,” said Daniel, searching in his pocket for the notebook and pencil which he, like SP, always carried.
“Ain’t no use writin’ it, ’cos I can’t read it,” said the girl. “Tell it to me an’ I’ll remember. I’m good at remembering, I am.”
“Twelve Daisy Street. Do you know where that is?”
“I do.” She pulled up the reins, turned Guinevere round and headed up the lane.
“What’s your name, dear?” called Mr Usher.
“Poppy,” came floating back to us.
14
POPPY
When we finally got back to Daisy Street, the mare was mowing the pocket-sized patch of lawn in the front garden. Poppy was sitting in the parlour, chattering away ten to the dozen in between huge bites of Mrs Reilly’s cake.
“’Ere they are at last,” she said cheerfully as we came through the door. From the unsurprised looks on Judith and Miss Deane’s faces, I guessed she’d told them all about Mr Usher and the fellows in the lane. “What took yer so long? Yer must of gone slow as a wet week.” She brushed the crumbs from her lap onto the floor. “The ladies and me, we’ve give an apple to the ’orse, an’ we’ve ’ad a cuppa tea an’ now we’re up to cake.”
“I see you’ve also had a wash,” said Daniel, grinning. Poppy’s face and hands were a startling white compared to her grimy arms and neck.
“She said I ’ad to,” she said, with a sideways gesture at Miss Deane, and the grown-ups all laughed. “An’ we’re all ready for the old geezer, too – there’s ’ot water on the stove, an’ a basin an’ a towel an’ Missus ’as got out some trousers an’ a jacket an’ a nice clean shirt.” She sighed happily and resumed her cake eating.
“There, Mr Usher,” said Judith with a twinkle in her eye. “Poppy has explained it all for me.”
“You won’t forget the five shillings, will yer?” said Poppy.
“No, my dear, I won’t forget,” said Mr Usher.
“’Cos yer promised.”
Mr Usher laughed out loud. “Indeed I did. I won’t forget.”
“Speaking of promises, Judith,” said Daniel, and he produced the three parcels. I could tell by the expression on his face that he was highly pleased with himself. “Ginger and wool, as you requested. And a surprise.”
“Oh, just put them over there,” said Judith, carelessly.
“But don’t you even want to look at them?”
Poor Daniel. Poppy’s chatter was better than ginger, wool or a lace cap. Looking a bit down in the mouth, he led Mr Usher off to get cleaned up.
Poppy turned to Judith. “You know, Missus, a bit more tea wouldn’t go astray.”
Over the top of her head, Judith and Miss Deane met each other’s eyes and smiled. Poppy was like a little sparrow, with no manners at all, full of chatter and curiosity. They seemed to think she was funny, but there was something about her that worried me.
“Where do you live, Poppy?” I asked as Judith poured.
“Oh, ’ere an’ there.”
“But where is your home?” I persisted.
“I’m tryin’ to tell yer,” said Poppy, patiently. “But you keep interplexin’ me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Buttin’ in. Mostly I’m with Granny.”
Well, that was a relief. She lived with her grandmother. I’d been worried that Poppy was a little waif with no home. But her next words struck a chill into my heart.
“Granny Piggybottom. She’s a baby farmer.”
“A baby farmer?” said Judith, horrified. “Baby farmer” was the name given to women who cared for unwanted babies for a fee. There had been some terrible stories in the London papers about such women who starved, mistreated or even killed their charges.
“Yes,” said Poppy, “An’ if you’d let me tell yer …” She paused. “Thank you. Well, Granny’s a good ’un. She always ’as a place for one or two girls to doss down.”
“What does that mean?” asked Judith.
“Sleep,” I said slowly. I had a sinking feeling as I looked at her, so chirpy and cheerful, downing big gulps of sweet, milky tea. “You don’t have any parents, do you, Poppy?”
“Nah,” she said.
The room became very quiet, but Poppy didn’t seem to notice. She finished the last of her tea and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Where are they?” I asked, even though I could guess the answer. They were dead or missing. Maybe they were in gaol. Or perhaps she’d never even known them. She was like those poor waifs – Dookie and Polly and the rest of them – who’d helped me the night when Alexander hunted me through the dark lanes and alleys of the East End. She was like me, if Mrs Vic hadn’t rescued me from the docks where I’d been abandoned. If she hadn’t given me to a couple named Sparks …
“Dunno. Old Miss Levine brung me up fer a bit, but then she died. So I goes ’ere and there. Jus’ depends. Granny Piggybottom, she says I can stay wif ’er, but oh my Lord! She’s strict! Sometimes I go orf for a little ’oliday away from all that. I’m full,” she said, patting her tummy. “Could you ask ’im for my money? I’d best be orf ’fore it gets dark.”
“Poppy,” began Miss Deane, hesitantly. “Why aren’t you … I mean, surely there are places where you could be properly looked after.”
Poppy’s whole face changed. “Orphanage, you mean?” she said sharply.
“Yes,” said Miss Deane. “Surely–”
“I don’ like them churchy types. Smile an’ tell you ‘God is love’, then whack! Wif a strap. Or lock you in a cupboard.” She stood up abruptly. “I’d best be orf then. If you could jus’ get me the five shillings, miss.”
I took a deep breath. All I’d been able to do for Dookie, Polly and the others was give them my shawl and not tell the police.
“Poppy,” I said. “Would you like to come home with me?”
“Fer a visit?”
Before I could reply, Judith, her eyes widening in alarm, stood up
and beckoned to me. “We’d better get that money for Poppy,” she said. “Come, Verity.” She shut the door behind us and steered me down the passage into her bedroom. She sat heavily on the bed, looking troubled.
“What’s wrong, Judith?”
“You can’t just take her home with you.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s not a stray kitten. You can’t just take a child home with you on a whim.”
“But you did.”
She stared at me. “What do you mean?”
“The Professor and SP and you … you took me in.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“In many, many ways. Poppy is completely uneducated, she’s no idea of how to behave. She’s a street child.”
“She’s a child,” I said.
Judith shook her head.
I tried to explain. “When I used to run errands through the streets of London, I felt so small. Huge buildings towered over me, crowds rushed and bustled all around. Sometimes it was raining, and I’d get cold and wet, but I always knew I had a home to go to when it got dark. The people at Madame’s cared if I got back or not. I had friends, a hot meal and a cosy bed. But that day when SP brought me home, I was homeless.”
Judith was silent.
“Lucky for me I had some money and a trade. I had a chance, even without the kindness of your family. But Poppy …”
I thought of that grimy backstreet, with its piles of rubbish, overflowing gutters, and who-knows-what lurking in the shadows – and a little girl like a fairy sitting on a white horse.
“Please, Judith.”
“We must talk to this Granny Piggybottom,” said Judith, decisively. She stroked the bump at the front of her dress. “This baby of ours is so lucky, Verity. Horace has not only two parents, but a family and friends. I am very proud of you.” Judith’s eyes had gone all funny. Was she crying?
“Proud? Why?”
“Because you truly want to do good. Come on, let’s go and see what Poppy says.”
There have been a few times over the past two months when I thought back to Judith’s words and wondered if I was really cut out to be a do-gooder after all.
Granny Piggybottom – whose real name is Nurse Higginbottom – turned out to be a fat, jolly lady, kindness itself. Her house is clean, the six children are well-fed and cared for, and as if she hasn’t enough to do, she gives a bed and food to a couple of street children like Poppy. She was quite happy for Poppy to come to us for a visit.
“Though, I warn you,” she said. “She’ll just take off when she feels like it, and live rough for a bit, and then come back again filthy and often enough, lousy as well. She’s a wild little bird, that one.”
A truer word was never spoken.
Mrs Reilly nearly had a conniption fit when I brought Poppy to the kitchen.
“Lice!” she screamed. Well, straightaway it was a hot soapy bath and the fine-toothed comb for Poppy. She yelled quite a lot, and it’s a wonder she didn’t run away as soon as she got out of the tub.
But she’s taken a great liking to Mrs Reilly in spite of the lice comb, and when she’s not with me or Miss Deane, she’s in the kitchen, “having a chatter” as she calls it. She has Mrs Reilly in stitches with the things she says.
She loves animals, so Miss Deane has given her the responsibility of feeding and caring for Lucifer. She also likes to spoil the kitchen cat, and help Thomas with the horses. Miss Deane says that since she’s here as my governess, she may as well teach Poppy as well. They are starting with ABC, but it’s slow because Poppy can’t sit still for very long.
Then there’s the matter of beds, bedrooms and bedtimes. Poppy doesn’t see why she has to go to bed if she’s not tired. If she wakes in the night, she’ll go wandering around the house, disturbing the servants. When she feels like it, she’ll curl up on the hearthrug, on the sofa or in another bedroom. A few times, she has even dragged her blankets into my room and lain down to sleep beside my bed.
She doesn’t like hairbrushes, baths, porridge, corned beef, white sauce, closed doors, rules or routines. I do hope that by the time Papa returns, Poppy will be a bit more civilised.
I wrote to Papa asking his permission to have Poppy with us. The letter he sent back nearly made me cry. When I think what could have happened to you, homeless and without family, he wrote. It makes my blood run cold in my veins. So, Veroschka, you must look after this child. He knew, as I did, how lucky I’d been.
And while I was on the subject of luck, Daniel now had a job.
After finding out that Daniel was trained in the law, Mr Usher asked him to be his personal assistant. He and Judith are very happy about it, but it leaves SP all alone to work on the Ecclethorpe case. Which seems to be going nowhere.
His Ballarat informant was full of gossip and information. But unfortunately she didn’t know the lady’s present whereabouts. She did have some idea that she’d remarried. Perhaps to a Mr O’May. But so far, there are no definite leads. I do hope there is some way in which I can assist. Time seems to go very slowly without something real to do.
I put my pen down. There was nothing more to write about. Those last words meant that my journal – no longer in code – was up to date. Papa’s letters were all answered, and my novel was sitting, with THE END on the last page, in the drawer of my bureau. Maybe some day I would send it to a publisher. Surely it was time for a new adventure to begin.
15
AGENTS IN SKIRTS
It seemed as if my wish was granted, for the very next day, SP arrived at Alhambra early enough to breakfast with us. He told us that he had a favour to ask.
“I expect to be out of town for several days,” he explained. “In Ballarat. Do you remember me mentioning the Reverend Smith? His sister is that nice teacher from Hightop House, the one Mrs Enderby-Smarke tried to diddle out of her pension. Anyway, he has asked me to investigate a little matter of missing funds from St Sycorax’s Orphanage. And I have an interview with another prospective client as well. It never rains, but it pours.”
Poppy looked out of the window. “It ain’t raining.”
“I was speaking metaphorically, Poppy,” said SP.
She looked at him suspiciously. “What’s that?”
“Well, Poppy, last week I had only one investigation to work on, and now I have two. Or even three. D’you see?”
She thought for a few seconds. “Three?” Her voice was full of scorn. “That ain’t wot I’d call eggzackly a downpour.”
Miss Deane and SP looked at each other and burst out laughing. Poppy, deeply offended, picked up her plate and left the room with a backwards comment aimed at the pair of them. “There’s no need to be insolvent.”
“She means insulting, I think,” I said. “Or perhaps insolent.” Poppy collected big words like a magpie, but she often used them in the wrong place.
“Back to business,” said SP. “Daniel is fully occupied with Mr Usher today, and so I wondered, Miss Deane, if you and Verity would like to do a little professional work for me?”
Miss Deane clapped her hands. “Oh, I’d love to,” she said. “Verity’s told me so much about her work with the agency. I’ve been quite envious.” With sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks, Miss Deane looked extremely pretty, and I could tell that SP noticed. He cleared his throat before he went on.
“I will quickly summarise the Ecclethorpe case for you, Miss Deane,” he continued. “And don’t be afraid to ask questions.”
Well, she asked so many questions SP got flustered.
“You have grasped the essentials of the case very swiftly, Miss Deane. I am most impressed.”
“Thank you,” said Miss Deane, brushing a stray curl off her forehead. I think SP was rather distracted by those curls, for I had to give him a nudge to make him start again.
“A Mr Andrew Ross has written in reply to our newspaper advertisement. He knows a lady whose Christian name is Lavinia. She originates from the north of Engl
and, and he seems to remember that she has mentioned Eccle Court.”
Miss Deane’s face fell. “It doesn’t sound very promising, does it?”
“No,” said SP, unfolding a letter. “But listen to this.” He read aloud: “I think she could be the lady your agency is seeking, even though her surname is not Randall, but O’Day.”
“Didn’t Mrs Randall’s old cook tell you she thought her mistress had remarried? Was the name she mentioned O’May?” I said.
“What a memory you’ve got, Verity,” said SP, nodding. He read on: “As I am a busy man, I would like to deal with this matter as soon as possible. I can be at your disposal at my offices in East Melbourne on Tuesday at two o’clock precisely.
“Sounds like a fussy old gentleman, doesn’t he? I expect he’d like the reward. But I shall be in Ballarat. What about it, Miss Deane? Can I rely on you?”
“Yes, Mr Plush, I would be pleased to assist,” said Miss Deane. Her voice was prim, but I could tell she was nearly jumping out of her skin with excitement.
“Splendid. Verity will accompany you, of course, and take notes.” He took a long look at me. “You might like to put your hair up, Verity, so you look a bit older. Just so Mr Ross doesn’t think he’s dealing with a child. It’s only at times like these that I realise how young you are. Most of the time, you seem as grown up as the rest of us. Sometimes more.”
That’s as may be, I thought, but had SP considered that a fussy old gentleman may not like to talk business with women, young or old? Some men are rather old-fashioned that way.
“You’d better let him know,” I said.
“Good thinking. I shall send him a note.” He took out his card case and extracted one of his visiting cards. “Have you a pen and ink handy?”
