Christmas Child: an absolutely heartbreaking and emotional Victorian romance

by Carol Rivers

  Ettie nodded.

  ‘Then I must have it.’ The older man stood up. ‘Shall we go?’

  With legs that barely had the strength to walk, Ettie led the way to the salon where she showed Mr Pike the wooden panel and the key to unlock it. He was swiftly on his knees and removed every coin and note to his portmanteau.

  Ettie watched in stunned silence. When he had finished his business, he asked, ‘And books? Accounts? I shall take those too.’

  Ettie gave him the accounts book and scraps of paper she had collected together with the temporary Pass Book.

  ‘Please remove the remaining stock to the safe,’ he ordered and watched as she went to the shelves and cleared them, laying all the tobaccos that remained in the cast iron chest. After which, Mr Pike locked it and closed the wooden panel with the lever.

  ‘By law you must return any property either loaned or given, by the late proprietor, to the bank,’ he reminded her.

  Ettie could not think of a single thing and shook her head. ‘Just my uniform.’

  ‘Please leave it before you go.’

  Ettie looked into this man’s small, piercing eyes and felt the final indignity. Even the clothes she wore now belonged to The Old Lady.

  Mr Pike put on his hat and bid her good afternoon. A carriage had arrived outside and he climbed into it, without a glance back.

  She could not help but gaze around the bare and empty salon and her tears fell again as she gazed up at Rose in a new light. Her enigmatic smile hid so much anguish. Lucas’s father had created the downfall of their lives, just as Lucas had insisted in his delirium. The debts incurred through his papa’s squandering were unbreakable chains binding the family’s ankles. Chains from which neither Rose nor Lucas had ever been able to escape.

  Chapter 44

  It was now late afternoon and Ettie had recovered a little from Mr Pike’s visit. There were many things on her mind; the keenest of them all, to visit Terence, the friend to whom she was indebted. Without his presence in her life, her world would have been a far lonelier place.

  ‘Just look at the ray of sunshine that spills in my door!’ Terence exclaimed when she stepped inside his shop. ‘I’ll wrap you a nice bit of mutton for stewing. No fat, just tender meat to fall off the bone.’

  Ettie smiled, but in as few words as she could think of, she began to describe the attorney’s visit.

  ‘What an intrusion! What a liberty!’ Terence exclaimed, swinging down the meat cleaver so hard that its sharp blade stuck firmly into the wooden slab. ‘You should have run down to me. I would have put the cheeky fellow in his place.’

  ‘Mr Pike was only doing his job.’

  ‘Mr Pike lorded it over a young girl! Then besmirched a dead man’s name.’

  ‘Not exactly, Terence. The bank is owed the property and will take it.’ Ettie did not want to elaborate too much, for she knew that Terence would make a great fuss. A fuss out of the kindness of his heart and one that she appreciated, but he could do nothing to change the salon’s fate.

  ‘I shall shut up shop,’ Terence decided, casting the cleaver into a pail of water. He wiped his hands on a soiled cloth and drew them down his apron. ‘And come with you to pack your things. By nightfall you’ll be settled in my spare room. Tomorrow we can set about a fresh start. Soho is kind to its own. We shall tour its streets and discover a position befitting the late tobacconist’s clever young assistant.’

  ‘I would prefer to stay a last night in the house,’ she murmured, hoping she gave no offence. ‘To make certain it’s left in a presentable state.’

  ‘Why my dear!’ he objected, throwing up his arms, ‘that blessed bank don’t deserve a presentable state. It deserves a kick up its backside!’

  ‘If only Mr Benjamin had been able to repay the debt,’ Ettie murmured sadly, ‘the salon might have been saved.’

  The butcher nodded slowly. ‘You may be right, but that don’t mean a stuffed shirt might put you under the cosh.’

  Inhaling the familiar and beloved smell of sawdust on Terence’s clothes, Ettie kissed his cheek.

  ‘What’s that for, dear girl?’ he said in embarrassment.

  ‘You’ve been a dear friend.’

  ‘Truly my gain,’ he replied with a choke.

  Ettie’s heart ached. She knew, though Terence did not, that her mind was made up for the future.

  She could not walk the streets of Soho to find a position. Or live in Terence’s spare room and each day, see again, the sights of Soho that had brought her such happiness or remind her of whom she had lost. The family’s ghosts would always be there, shadowing her footsteps; Lucas and Clara and their boy, half in another world now, but trapped in this earthly limbo by Ettie’s own painful longing.

  She would not wish to extend their suffering, but free them to go their way, as she must hers. Though it would cost her every ounce of willpower, her life in Soho had come to an end.

  ‘I’ll allow your request,’ said Terence stoutly, clearing his throat with manly fortitude. ‘But tomorrow, my beauty, at nine o’clock sharp, I shall call for you. Carry your bags I will and we’ll parade down Silver Street with our heads held up high.’

  Ettie smiled, forcing back the tears so that Terence would not guess that this was a parting.

  Their final goodbye.

  Chapter 45

  Ettie sat for the last time in Clara’s nursing chair. She felt the gentle breeze blow through the window, as if Clara was answering her thoughts and bidding her goodbye with nature’s own sweet breath. The candlelight flickered and Ettie smiled as if they were together in a pact.

  The perambulator and crib stood with their pretty covers and the little table with its trinkets and brushes that Ettie had arranged.

  Rose’s portrait now hung where the bishop’s silver crucifix had hung; its nail secured by use of the kitchen rolling pin, to support the frame’s weight. Rose looked benignly down on her grandson’s room. Ettie knew that whatever might befall this building, she had done her very best to send it off, like the Vikings of old sent their barges to Valhalla, and the people of the Ganges, might send their funeral pyres. She had read of these commemorations in the convent’s history books and now it seemed, they had guided her to this moment, when her life had returned full circle to its beginning.

  Memories of Sister Patrick and Sister Ukunda, and the orphans surrounded her. Michael appeared, undiminished in her mind from the young rebel of her early years at the orphanage. And together with Lucas, Clara and the baby, was her mother, Colleen O’Reilly of Henrietta Street in Dublin, Ireland.

  That night, she went to Lucas’s bedroom. Gone was the agony her employer had suffered. ‘Goodbye, Mr Benjamin,’ she whispered as she took the crucifix from under his pillow. ‘We’ll meet again one day, I am sure. You are free from the chains that bind you here. Take care of your little family.’

  Dawn broke and Ettie left the letter she had written for Terence on the glass counter. She had promised to write to him, though when she could not say. Slipping on her coat and taking her cloth bag, she slipped quietly down Silver Street and away from the place she had once called home.

  Chapter 46

  Ettie reached Oxford Street just as the city began another busy shopping day. She had banked all her hopes on the milliner’s offer of an apprenticeship and she opened the door cautiously, hoping to see a friendly face.

  ‘Is the milliner here?’ Ettie asked as a haughty looking woman appeared. Her expression showed that she clearly disapproved of Ettie’s appearance.

  ‘I am the new owner,’ she replied.

  ‘Oh dear …’ Ettie had not expected this turn of events.

  ‘How may I help you?’ the new owner enquired, not sounding as though she wanted to help Ettie at all.

  ‘The lady who was here before, offered me an apprenticeship …’

  ‘What are your skills?’ interrupted the woman before Ettie could finish her sentence.

  ‘I was employed as an assistant to the tob
acconist of Silver Street in Soho.’

  ‘Soho?’ the new owner repeated, stepping back a little as if she might catch a disease. ‘I’m afraid there are no vacancies here.’

  ‘But I was …’

  ‘I bid you good day,’ came the reply, leaving Ettie in no doubt that their conversation had ended.

  With shoulders drooping Ettie left, wondering why she had not considered the possibility there may have been a change in the shop’s circumstances. Disappointed that her one realistic hope of employment had vanished, she walked the length of Oxford Street, gazing in the shiny windows, ashamed of her dowdy reflection.

  It was not surprising that the new owner of the milliner’s had refused her request. Nevertheless, she continued her search, enquiring in the busy shops that were now filling with customers.

  ‘All positions are taken,’ said the owner of a restaurant, as he kept her standing at the entrance, unwilling to let her in.

  ‘Clear off, we don’t want your sort round here bringing down the tone of the area,’ scolded a red-faced woman behind the counter of a prosperous-looking bakery.

  ‘I suppose you’re on the cadge from the parson,’ demanded a policeman when she asked the way to the nearest church.

  ‘I should like to pray,’ Ettie replied unwittingly.

  ‘Go back to the East End,’ he ordered, ‘and don’t let me see you round here again.’

  Ettie felt her cheeks burn with humiliation. Did her appearance condemn her so badly? If only she had cared for herself a little more, but she had lost interest since Lucas’s return from Switzerland. Her thick chestnut locks had seemed nothing but an inconvenience and she had scooped them back into a plain bun. The last time she had looked in the mirror a pale and gaunt stranger had gazed back at her. Before she had left Soho, she had folded the brown uniform she loved so much into a neat pile for The Old Lady’s men to find.

  Darkness began to fall and the shops of the city turned off their lights. Front doors were locked and the West End lost its glow of life. Only the gentlemen’s carriages passed, transporting their wealthy occupants to their clubs. And so Ettie was forced to seek shelter in the park, where at least, she was able to rest her weary legs.

  There on a bench, she huddled up, staring into the unknown shadows which reminded her uncomfortably of Old Jim. She thought of Michael and wondered where he was. And how sad a sight she would make if he set eyes on her now. Perhaps he wouldn’t even recognize her!

  She slept just a few hours, dreaming of Michael who, wearing a handsome new suit and top hat, walked past her, his well-to-do lady friend on his arm.

  The next day, as the sun rose over the city, she hauled her aching bones from the bench and began her tour of the city once more. This time she visited the hospitals and hotels. She was prepared to do any menial work; scrubbing, cleaning, or washing the sick and disabled. But the answer was always the same when they saw her crumpled coat, dishevelled hair and dust-covered boots.

  ‘No vacancies!’ they exclaimed. Another door closed in her face.

  ‘We don’t employ vagrants,’ they cried.

  ‘Go away. The West End doesn’t need your type.’

  Where once the insults hurt, Ettie grew to expect them. She sensed even before the people spoke to her, she was to be rejected.

  The only kindness she found was when she joined a queue for distressed women who stood at a small hut by the river. Here free tea was dispensed to the thirsty and a crust of bread to the starving – followed by a severe lecture on their morals. Ettie didn’t listen to what was being said. She was grateful for the refreshment, for without it, she might have faded away.

  That evening, she walked by the river to the mud flats where she saw beggars settling against the mossy wharves and under the bridges. These spaces were damp and smelly, but not as frightening as the parks.

  One such niche provided her with brief rest. For early in the morning the tide rushed in and chased her away. The third and fourth nights, she huddled under the railway arches and scavenged from bins, just as she saw the others doing.

  As Ettie gazed up to the moon one night, shivering and exhausted, she knew this state of affairs could not continue. She had never felt so hungry in all her life. Her feet were covered in blisters. Her clothes were torn and foul-smelling. On the eighth night a rabble of stray dogs chased her from a café’s bins, snapping at her heels and growling so menacingly, she almost fainted with fright.

  Somehow, she escaped the vicious pack and eventually found a doorstep to rest on. As the cold bit into her body with teeth as sharp as the wild dogs’, she thought of Terence and that safe, warm room above the butcher’s shop. Had he found her letter?

  Perhaps she should return to Soho? This city held no prospects. If she was not to starve or freeze to death, what alternative was there?

  But in her depths of misery, Ettie knew it would be unkind to impose on such a good man’s nature. She had taken the decision to leave Silver Street and she must stick by it.

  Her stomach churned emptily. The cold wind howled into the doorway like a whirlwind. As dawn broke, she trudged on, leaving the city and all her hopes of employment behind her. The sights she had marvelled at before, she now dismissed for they offered no solace to her fatigued body and despondent mind.

  Even the chiming of Big Ben at the tallest height of the Houses of Parliament did not cause her head to turn. The Tower of London and the sight of the busy professional classes that sped from Blackfriars to the shores of the south, no longer held any excitement. The city had rejected her and Ettie trudged on, towards her old home.

  By evening she saw the low flying gulls of Docklands and the ships that sailed proudly along the estuary. Tall-masted and majestic as kings and princes, they anchored midstream, awaiting their turns to dock. The salt and tarry air that she remembered so well, was even more potent as a round and confident moon cast ribbons of silver across the river.

  Ettie followed its gentle curve beneath the stars, entering the narrow streets of smoke-stained terraces that fringed the horseshoe of land surrounded on three sides by water. The Isle of Dogs, the beating heart of London’s East End

  It was not to the burned-down convent she had returned but to the place that Michael had always feared. And which she now feared, too, but was too desperate to ignore.

  Chapter 47

  Ettie stumbled through the high gates of the Municipal Workhouse and knocked on the wooden door. A heavy lock was drawn inside; a key rattled in its hole.

  A face half-hidden by a frilled white cap, peered out.

  ‘Will you take me in?’ Ettie pleaded. ‘I’ve nowhere else to go.’

  ‘What time of night do you call this?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve walked a long way.’

  ‘Where from?’ returned the curious voice.

  ‘I lived in Silver Street, Soho.’

  This had a strange effect as slowly, the door opened. ‘Soho, you say?’

  ‘I’ve tried in the city for work. But there is none.’

  ‘Looking like that, I’m not surprised.’ The woman, dressed in a sombre brown uniform let the door swing open. ‘You’d better come in. You’re lucky. The Master is still in his office.’

  Ettie was taken through a dark, unpleasant smelling passage and shown into a room at the far end. A man sat at a desk, his stomach protruding from his waistcoat and his bleary, red-veined eyes, unwelcoming. Ettie saw a half-full glass of amber liquid among the many papers.

  ‘What’s this, Matron?’ he demanded.

  ‘A latecomer. Says she’s from Soho.’ There was something in the Matron’s voice that Ettie didn’t care for.

  ‘Does she indeed?’ The Master leaned back and wiped his lips with the back of his cuff. ‘Name, wench?’

  ‘Henrietta O’Reilly, Sir.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Fifteen, Sir.’

  His gaze grew interested. ‘So you’re a working girl, eh?’

  ‘I was an assistant to the tobacconi
st of Silver Street, until his recent death.’

  He quirked an eyebrow under his thick, greasy black hair. ‘And what else did you do in Soho? Speak now and be honest!’

  ‘Sir, it’s the truth.’

  ‘Have you any money?’ he asked with a frown.

  ‘No, none.’

  ‘Friends, relations or enemies wanting you?’

  Ettie shook her head. ‘I am from the orphanage of the Sisters of Clemency.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He narrowed his gaze intimately over her body and Ettie shivered from head to foot. ‘They taught you right from wrong I suppose?’

  ‘I was given a Christian education, Sir.’

  His expression told her that he was not impressed. ’I care not what you have learned, only that you cause me no trouble. No fighting, no cursing, no meddling. Keep a civil tongue in your head and you’ll be fed and given shelter in return.’ With a flick of his hand he barked, ’Scrub her up Matron and tomorrow we’ll put her down the tunnels. See if she knows the meaning of real work.’

  Without a pause the Matron grabbed her shoulder and marched her off. Ettie sensed that even before they entered the washroom in the yard this would be a humiliating experience.

  Matron pushed her forward into the rank-smelling room soured by strong disinfectant. A large stained tub stood amidst a puddle of dirty water. Beside it, an assortment of stiff bristle brushes hanging from the peeling wall.

  ‘Strip, O’Reilly! Every article,’ ordered the Matron, folding her arms. ‘Now we shall see what the cat’s dragged in.’

  Chapter 48

  Part Three

  The Workhouse

  November 1896

  Ettie gazed into the fetid waters of the underground sewer. It was here in this cramped space that she had been put to work as a flusher for the past three months. Leaning heavily against the slimy wall, she closed her tired brown eyes. How much longer could she endure this backbreaking work?