The Outcast Girls

by Alys Clare

  ‘Yes! Christmas, families all together, old tensions and rivalries resurfacing, arguments, suspicion, violence … Surely,’ she goes on, ‘fertile ground for our sort of work?’

  Lily, Felix is well aware, is a good person. From his own experience of her, he knows she is honest, courageous, principled, kind. To think that she has been viewing the wonderful, warm, loving festival of Christmas as a source of new work for an enquiry agency makes him want to smile. He refrains from comment, aware that her remark would not have burst out of her but for the circumstances.

  She is worried. And, because she is his employer and this is his work, he is worried too.

  ‘And as if that was not bad enough,’ she adds with a scowl, ‘the Little Ballerina has gone off to Huddersfield without paying last month’s rent.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Felix says.

  The Little Ballerina is Lily’s tenant. Her grandparents’ house is large and costly to run. Letting the spacious rooms of the middle floor is a way for Lily to meet her expenses. Felix knows without being told that it is Lily’s most fervent ambition to earn enough from the World’s End Bureau that she may terminate the Little Ballerina’s tenancy, for she is temperamental, smelly, chronically untidy and in a perpetual state of pending hostilities with Mrs Clapper. Added to her sins, it now appears she has become financially unreliable.

  ‘I thought the production was doing well?’ he says. The Little Ballerina’s company is putting on an entertainment called Christmas Delights, which apparently contains elements of both classical ballet and pantomime and is designed to appeal to aficionados of both. ‘There’s clearly a call for it in Huddersfield,’ he adds.

  ‘Yes,’ Lily agrees. ‘And she’s been promoted out of the chorus. She performs a solo where she dances with a clown.’

  ‘I hate clowns,’ Felix mutters, immediately hoping he has spoken too softly for Lily to hear: he was terrified by a white-faced clown holding what looked like a meat cleaver when he was four years old and still has the occasional nightmare, but this is not a weakness to admit to his employer. ‘Oh, that must be encouraging for her!’ he exclaims brightly. ‘She’s always moaning that she’s far too good for the chorus and the director ought to realize and reward her talent, and the reason he doesn’t is because she’s Russian.’

  ‘Rather than because she’s lazy with an inflated opinion of herself?’ Lily smiles wryly. ‘She was only given the role because the girl who usually dances it has lost the nail on her big toe.’

  ‘Eugh,’ Felix mutters. He has been doodling on his pad of scrap paper as they talk, and now draws a little picture of a ballerina’s elegantly pointed toe in its beribboned satin shoe, beside it a second image of a bloody, bruised, calloused, twisted and bunioned bare foot.

  He hears Lily move her chair. Looking up, he observes that she is sitting up very straight, spectacles glinting, mittened hands folded before her on the desk, a determined expression on her face.

  ‘Our funds are adequate for the time being,’ she begins very formally, ‘indeed, more than adequate, for I have been economizing rigidly in order to husband the resources we do have.’

  Indeed you have, Felix thinks but does not say, reflecting on the meagre little fires.

  ‘It is uneconomic for you to sit there with nothing to do,’ she goes on, adding, ‘and I too have no more urgent task than to go through the reports of some recent and rather interesting court cases.’ She pauses.

  That, Felix thinks, explains the reading matter.

  ‘We have, I believe, two options,’ Lily goes on. ‘We could perhaps advertise – put a notice in the local papers, possibly. What do you think?’

  ‘I think it’s a good idea,’ he says earnestly. He has been dreading that option one might be for his employer to lay off her sole employee, and his relief at finding it isn’t is only marred by the fear that this could constitute option two. ‘I could have a word with Marm, he has a nose for situations that require the sort of assistance we offer.’

  Marmaduke Smithers is a journalist. He is also Felix’s landlord; the two of them are sharing a modest first-floor apartment in a tall old house in Kinver Street, one of a maze of similar streets between the King’s Road and Royal Hospital Road. The small room at the back has been a delight to Felix since he moved in three months ago, such an improvement is it on where he was living before, and sharing the digs with Marm is proving to be exciting and enjoyable, if exhausting at times and not a little damaging to the health; Marm likes to drink and Felix feels it is his duty as tenant not to let him do so alone.

  ‘Good,’ Lily says, ‘please do.’

  Felix waits. Lily is already glancing at her court reports, clearly eager to return to them, so, not without trepidation, he prompts her: ‘What’s the second option?’

  She grimaces, then the expression turns into a rueful smile that does a great deal for her appearance. ‘We could try praying.’

  Some time later, Felix is trudging back from his errand to buy a loaf of bread and some cheese from the corner shop. There has been no further snowfall, but the temperature seems to have dropped considerably. Coat collar turned up around his ears and hat brim turned down, muffler wound several times round his face and neck to cover the gaps, he thinks of the merry fire in Lily’s inner sanctum and increases his pace. Unwisely: barely able to see through the gap between hat brim and muffler, he takes the corner from World’s End Passage into Hob’s Court too fast, skids, throws out the hand not holding the bread and cheese to save himself and feels his hand encounter something soft that cries out ‘Ouch!’

  And there is a thump as quite a heavy object falls to the ground.

  Horrified, Felix stares down at the woman lying at his feet, surreptitiously trying to rub her buttocks and ease the pain of her fall.

  ‘I’m so very sorry!’ Felix exclaims, bending down to help her to her feet. ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going and I was walking too quickly for the prevailing conditions. Are you badly hurt?’

  The woman is still holding on to her bottom, openly now. Felix surmises it really is painful. But she says, ‘No, I am perfectly all right.’

  It is a brave lie. She has tears in her round brown eyes.

  Felix stares at her worriedly. She is perhaps in her mid-thirties, brown hair drawn back from a centre parting framing a face as round as her eyes. Her mouth is … kittenish, Felix thinks; small, prettily shaped with the suspicion of a rosebud upper lip. She is dressed modestly, not to say dowdily, in a felt hat with a misshapen brim and a heavy knee-length brown jacket over a skirt of a slightly darker fabric. A scarf in yet another shade of brown wound several times around her neck gives the illusion of several double chins.

  ‘Have you far to go?’ Felix asks. ‘Perhaps you will allow me to see you to your destination?’

  ‘I …’ she begins. Not used to the city, Felix guesses, and not sure whether it is safe to accept the solicitude of a stranger.

  Making up her mind, the woman says, ‘This, I believe, is Hob’s Court?’

  ‘It is,’ Felix confirms.

  She smiles in relief. ‘Ah, then I believe I need no assistance, thank you, for this is the place I seek.’

  And Felix knows, even before she speaks, what she is going to say next.

  ‘I am looking for number three, which is the address of the World’s End Bureau,’ the woman says.

  And, as he jubilantly leads the way to the door, Felix reflects that he and Lily ought to try praying more often.

  Lily hears the street door open and her stomach rumbles loudly at the prospect of fresh bread and cheese. There is a jar of Mrs Cropper’s green tomato chutney on the larder shelf, which ought to—

  But then she realizes Felix is not alone.

  ‘… will inform Miss Raynor that you are here,’ he is saying.

  Lily stands up.

  Felix hurries through the outer office, and Lily makes out a short, round shape in the hall behind him. He comes into the inner sanctum, and his light hazel eyes
are bright with excitement.

  ‘New client!’ he hisses. ‘Found her outside! Shall I bring her in?’

  ‘Yes!’ Lily hisses back. While Felix strides back to the hall, she draws forward another chair, placing it beside Felix’s. She returns to her own side of the desk, a hand up to smooth her fair hair, then adopts an expression of guarded welcome. It wouldn’t do to make this new client see how eager she is.

  Eager? she thinks ruefully. Desperate is closer.

  Felix ushers a dumpy woman dressed in brown into the office. The woman walks across the floor, limping slightly, accepting Lily’s invitation to sit down with a brief inclination of her head.

  Felix too, it appears, has noticed the limp. ‘Oh, dear, you are indeed hurt!’ he says, looking down at the woman in brown, his handsome face creased in distress.

  ‘Hurt?’ The word emerges like a pistol shot, and instantly Lily tries to mitigate the effect with a smile.

  ‘I knocked her over,’ Felix explains. ‘I slipped coming round the corner and sent her flying. I really am so sorry,’ he adds, turning back to the woman. Lily detects that it is not the first time he has apologized.

  The woman is rapidly recovering her composure. ‘I have suffered no more than a few bumps,’ she says with dignity, ‘and the limp is not caused by this or indeed any recent injury.’ She does not explain. ‘I accept your apology, Mr …’

  ‘Wilbraham. Felix Wilbraham.’

  ‘Mr Wilbraham. And you’ – she turns to Lily – ‘are Miss Lily Raynor?’

  ‘I am,’ Lily confirms.

  ‘I am most relieved to have found you!’ the woman says, her plump cheeks flushing. ‘I—’

  But, as Lily has observed often happens when a new client comes to the point where they must explain their business with the World’s End Bureau, the woman is struck dumb.

  Lily waits. Felix, lurking behind the woman and about to sit down, stands perfectly still. They have both discovered that client nervousness is not helped by imprecations to begin at the beginning, to take your time, to tell the story in your own words.

  And, after a short pause, their visitor begins to speak.

  TWO

  ‘My name is Georgiana Long,’ says the woman in brown, ‘Miss Georgiana Long. I read about the World’s End Bureau in the newspaper and’ – she flushes slightly – ‘I decided to seek you out because I believe I shall find it easier to speak to a woman.’

  It is not the first time that Lily has been given this explanation. She is not sure how she feels about her Bureau being chosen because of the gender of its proprietor rather than the expertise of its two agents, but business is business. ‘Please go on, Miss Long,’ she says.

  ‘I am a teacher, and I have a position at a girls’ collegiate school in the Fens. I teach English to the senior girls. We have two Schools, Senior and Junior, the Seniors housed in Big School and the Juniors in New Wing,’ she adds; you can hear the capital letters, Lily reflects, musing on how it is typical of people living within institutions to observe the minutiae of life within with such reverent formality. ‘Miss Carmichael, our headmistress, is in charge of Senior School, and Miss Dickinson is responsible for Junior.’ Miss Long pauses, looking up at Lily with a slightly apologetic expression as if aware that she must not waste time at this stage on the details.

  ‘Our school, Shardlowes School, is funded by a philanthropic organization called the Band of Angels,’ Miss Long continues, ‘whose main aim is the alleviation of the conditions of the poorest of our capital city’s inhabitants. The Band of Angels includes among its membership some of the most important and influential names in the land – the highest and most important of all, if you understand me – although they are extremely discreet. Perhaps you know of the organization?’ she asks.

  Lily shakes her head, glancing at Felix. He has been quietly writing with a small silver pencil in the notebook he always carries with him and he is undoubtedly now adding a memorandum to himself to ask Marmaduke Smithers about this Band of Angels that apparently includes British royalty in its ranks. The scandal of London’s poor is a constant theme of Marm’s writings, and it is highly likely he will have information to offer.

  Miss Long is looking nervously at Lily.

  ‘Before I continue,’ she says, ‘may I be assured of total confidentiality?’

  Lily says, ‘Of course.’

  Miss Long nods. ‘Thank you. Only a small number of our girls come from the ranks of the poor,’ she goes on, ‘if, as we surely do, we take the word to mean poor in its accustomed monetary sense.’ She pauses, looking slightly uneasy. Then, gathering her courage, she continues. ‘Now here I must, I fear, speak bluntly, for I have come to ask for your help, and circumlocution will be the ally of neither of us.’ Lily risks a glance at Felix, who raises his eyebrows and silently mouths circumlocution? ‘Almost all of our girls are, however, in some way or another disadvantaged, and a few come to us from orphanages,’ she blurts out, flushing slightly, ‘and it is for this reason that the Band of Angels supports our school.’

  Disadvantaged. Lily’s mind runs over several possible interpretations. Then, in the hope that Miss Long will explain in her own good time – probably when she is no longer feeling embarrassed by her own forthrightness – she observes mildly, ‘The education of women is a laudable cause.’

  ‘Indeed it is!’ Miss Long agrees fervently. ‘One of the Band of Angels’ main tenets is that education paves the route out of poverty, and of course they fund schools for boys as well.’ She waves a dismissive hand, as if to imply that boys are not her concern.

  ‘So, Miss Long,’ Lily prompts, ‘how do you believe the World’s End Bureau may be able to help you?’

  Georgiana Long’s round brown eyes stare intently into Lily’s. ‘Girls are going missing,’ she says baldly. ‘To elaborate: a girl ran away a few months ago, subsequently discovered to have been in the company of a haberdashery salesman in Brighton. We have no idea how she came to be there and we only learned of it because Miss Dickie – that’s what we all call Miss Dickinson – grew up in Brighton and her widowed sister, who still lives there, always sends her a copy of the local paper.’ She leans forward confidingly, lowering her voice. ‘There was some trouble, you see. The salesman could not pay his bill, and Esme – that was the girl’s name, Esme Sullivan – demanded that the landlady give her the price of the rail fare back to Shardlowes.’ Miss Long pauses, frowning. ‘A shoddy, disgraceful business that aroused much gossip, or so Miss Dickie’s sister informed us. It was early in the autumn, the town was quiet after the summer and there was, I imagine, a dearth of more important news.’ She gives a delicate shudder of distaste. ‘Esme is no longer with us.’ Before Lily or Felix can ask where she is now, Miss Long hurries on. ‘But since then another, younger girl has also disappeared, and we have found no trace of her. Now, just this last week, it has happened again.’

  ‘These girls’ families must be distraught!’ Felix exclaims. ‘What did you tell them? How on earth did you break the news?’

  Miss Long turns to him, and Lily spots a look of deep discomfiture cross her face. ‘As I said, Mr Wilbraham, some of our girls are orphans. Esme Sullivan was a foundling, discovered in a church porch when only a few days old. Or so I understand. The second girl’s parents died some years ago in Africa, where they were engaged upon missionary work, and she has no other family. The third …’ She stops.

  ‘The third?’ Lily prompts.

  Miss Long drops her head. ‘Miss Carmichael has written to the girl’s widower father. It is by no means certain the letter will reach him, for he is an army officer stationed in the wilds of Afghanistan.’

  There is a pause while they all think about this.

  Then Lily asks, as she always asks sooner or later, ‘Have the police been informed?’

  For the first time, Miss Long’s open, friendly face adopts a different expression: she looks, thinks Lily, shifty.

  ‘Er …’ Miss Long prevaricates.

  �
��Miss Long,’ Lily says in a firm tone, ‘you have told us of Esme and the other two missing children. They were pupils at your school, placed there in your care by their parents or their guardians, and it is your responsibility to keep them safe. It is imperative that you consult the police and—’

  ‘I’m consulting you!’ Miss Long says in a sort of suppressed wail.

  ‘But—’ Lily begins.

  ‘Miss Raynor, let me make myself clear.’ Miss Long seems to have recovered her equanimity. ‘Our girls are—’ She stops, takes a breath, starts again. ‘Most of our girls have been at Shardlowes for a very long time. Many were brought to us when little more than infants and usually our pupils remain with us through the weeks of the school holidays in addition to term time. They are—’ Again she stops.

  Felix has looked up from his note-taking. ‘They are the daughters, perhaps, of parents living in places unsuitable for the health and well-being of growing girls?’ he suggests. ‘Sent back to your school in England, Miss Long, for the education they are unlikely to receive in the far-flung corners of the Empire which are home to their parents?’

  Miss Long flashes him a grateful smile. ‘Precisely so, Mr Wilbraham.’

  ‘I was educated at Marlborough College, Miss Long,’ he replies with an answering smile. ‘I had several friends in a similar position, whose fathers’ work took them to Malaya, India, Ceylon, Africa and—’

  ‘Quite so,’ Lily interrupts. Miss Long, she detects, has more to offer. ‘Miss Long?’ she prompts.

  ‘I— There are also—’ Miss Long is looking flustered again. ‘Oh, dear, it is difficult to explain, since of course you have not visited Shardlowes nor met any of our girls …’

  Lily and Felix both wait in silence.

  Miss Long takes a breath and says, ‘I shall be frank, Miss Raynor.’ She pauses, takes another breath and says in a rush of words, ‘Truth to tell, many girls are sent to Shardlowes School because their families and society at large have little or no use for them.’

  Lily and Felix are again silent, and Lily senses that he is as surprised as she is at this painfully honest admission.