They walked together from the bright and noisy fairground into the shadowed, quiet streets, the sounds of voices and of the hurdy-gurdy dying slowly behind them. A gas lamp glimmered in an alley that scuttled with scavenging life. Neither Sally nor Toby noticed – as they did not notice the foetid smells that hung heavily upon the warm air, the bundle of rags that stirred and stilled in a dark doorway as they passed, the echoes of domestic battle that rang suddenly from a window above their heads. This was warp and weft of their lives, a fabric threadbare and stained with which they were so familiar that they barely looked at it any more. This was home, and these things were an unremarkable part of it, as were the narrow, crowded houses, the scurrying rats, the stench of cheap gin, the filth of alleys too narrow to be cleaned, the summer spread of disease from hovel to hovel and the winter cold that could kill just as surely.
Toby’s feet were starting to drag a little. Sally put an arm about the child’s shoulders. ‘Tired?’
He nodded.
‘Right. ’Ere we go. Ups-a-daisy.’ She leaned down and swung his light weight easily on to her hip. He smiled a little – that sweet smile that first had enslaved her – and laid his head upon her meagrely fleshed shoulder. She strode on, adjusting her long stride to the child’s weight. They passed a public house, lamplight gleaming across the dirty pavement, raucous noise and a drifting cloud of foul-smelling smoke issuing from the open windows. A small knot of children played in the street outside; one of their number slept peacefully in the gutter, head pillowed upon a thin arm. An urchin stuck out a foot as she passed, trying to trip her up, then dodged laughing out of the way of her hand as she reached to clip his ear. She rounded a corner. ‘’Ere we are.’
The windows of the pie and mash shop, shut tight despite the weather, were steamed up, the shop itself brightly lit and crowded. The appetizing smell brought a sudden uncontrollable flood of water to her mouth. How long had it been since she had eaten properly?
‘Evenin’, Sal.’
‘Evenin’, Bert. Give the kid a penn’orth of sausage, would yer?’
The precious penny was passed across the counter. Toby took the sausage, dripping fat and almost too hot to hold. Sally grinned. ‘Give us a bite, eh? I ’aven’t ’ad no toffee apple!’ He held it out to her and she bit into it, grease running down her chin and dripping on to the bodice of her dress. God, it was good! And, God, she was hungry! ‘Get it down yer,’ she said brusquely, lifting him back on to her hip, the luscious-smelling sausage inches from her face, ‘it’ll put some ’air on yer chest.’
Not far from the pie and mash shop they turned into a street, poor and ill lit, off the main thoroughfare. No lamps here – just the fitful light from a few uncurtained windows and opened doors that let straight out on to the cobbled lane. A cat yowled at her feet. Someone cursed harshly, and a woman’s voice answered with shrill laughter. With the smell of Toby’s sausage tantalizing her empty belly she turned into a narrow alley that ran between two high tenement buildings, stopping at an open doorway through which could be seen a dimly lit stairway. ‘Right. I’m not carryin’ yer up them stairs, I’ll tell yer that fer nothin’. You’ll ’ave ter walk.’ She swung him neatly on to his feet. The sausage had gone. Savouring the very last taste, he licked dirty fingers. ‘Come on,’ she tucked his greasy hand into hers and began to climb the stairs. This was home – a room in the attic of a rotting house that held more than two score of souls in a lesser or greater degree of comfort depending on how far up this rickety staircase you climbed. The first two floors were not too bad – indeed to Sally they often seemed the height of luxury; the rooms were quite big and the water from the leaking roof did not reach so far. Even better the toilet, which had the luxury of a door, more often than not worked and was shared only by half a dozen rooms. The single lavatory that served the squalid and overcrowded upstairs floors neither flushed with any degree of regularity nor, since the winter before when someone had removed the door for firewood, did it offer any hope of privacy. Sally’s attic room was freezing in the winter and a stifling oven in the summer. The draughty window had been nailed shut, and the chimney that served the tiny grate had been blocked up – which was just as well since she could rarely if ever afford coal. But neither she nor Toby complained. It was a roof, a refuge, and both knew well what it was to live without such luxury. That they could not, and would probably never be able to, afford a downstairs room of the kind in which Jackie Pilgrim lived in comparative affluence concerned them not at all. The strong in this world of theirs took the best, and a girl and a child alone took what was left and were grateful. Sally, slowing her steps to the child’s weary legs, found herself suddenly thinking of Josie and her family: of the small, clean house in Bolton Terrace with its scoured doorstep and polished knocker; of the decent, well-darned clothes, the plain, wholesome, plentiful food. She was a fool for having refused the offer of a good meal. For what? Her pride? The corner of her mouth pulled ruefully down as the child stumbled and she caught him quickly. What a pity you couldn’t eat pride – or wear it on your back. She stopped. They had reached the first landing and Toby was hanging back. Jackie Pilgrim’s door stood a little ajar. And from behind it came the unmistakable sounds of violence.
‘No!’ It was a girl’s voice, sobbing and distraught, ‘Please! No – not again!’ There was a crash, and then another. The girl shrieked.
‘Stupid little bitch. Come back here—’ Jackie’s voice was slurred with temper and with drink.
Sally gripped Toby’s hand, her mouth tight. Irish savage! She hauled the frightened child towards the stairs, intent upon getting clear of danger as quickly as possible.
‘No! Let go of me! Let go!’
Sally and Toby were level with the door when it flew open, sending light across the landing, catching them in its beam like rabbits in a trap. Jackie’s huge, threatening, naked frame loomed in the doorway. Behind him, her small face ugly with tears and terror, her pretty clothes in ribbons, her fair hair cascading wildly about her shoulders was the girl that Sally had seen at the fair, the girl from the soup kitchen, the girl from another world whose appearance here and in such a condition was so utterly shocking, so totally unbelievable that Sally, instead of running for the stairs as she had intended, stopped, staring, eyes and mouth open. And in that moment Charlotte saw her. ‘Oh – please! help me!’ She was crying uncontrollably.
Sally’s eyes moved from the girl to the swaying Jackie. ‘Bleedin’ ’ell,’ she said, absurdly calmly, ‘you gone ravin’ mad?’
He moved threateningly. ‘Bugger off. This is none of your business.’
‘Too true it’s not.’ Every line of Sally’s face had tightened. Somewhere inside her a bright and terrible flame flickered, flared and then burned steadily, consuming fear.
Charlotte, sobbing like a distraught child, had backed away, her hands to her mouth. Blood smeared her torn skirt.
Very carefully Sally drew Toby behind her, reaching for him behind her back, transferring him from hand to hand so that, guarded and protected by her body he passed the open door and stood at the foot of the next flight of stairs. She could feel the trembling of his small frame through his clutching fingers. Toby had felt the brunt of Jackie’s temper too often before. Sally did not look at him. ‘Get upstairs, Tobe,’ she said quietly, ‘an’ shove the big chest up against the door. Don’t open it till you ’ear me come. Go.’
The child’s hand clung for a moment longer to hers. She shook it free, saw from the corner of her eye the flash of his movement as he fled up the stairs.
Jackie leaned, clearly and dangerously drunk, supporting himself on the door frame with an arm like the branch of a small oak. ‘Piss off, Sally.’ His bright, beautiful eyes were infinitely hard, infinitely menacing, his handsome face flushed with unsightly colour. ‘Like I said. This is none of your business.’
Charlotte’s sobs had quieted a little. She stood now, her brimming eyes fixed upon Sally as if upon an avenging guardian angel, pleading a
nd desperate. Every sensible fibre of Sally’s being told her to get out of this while she had a whole skin. She knew – who better? – the depths of violence to which Jackie could sink if his will were thwarted, his authority challenged. But still the flame burned, steady, bright and all-consuming.
‘Your problem’, she said softly and very clearly, directly into that suffused face, ‘is you got balls instead of brains.’ Her eyes flicked to Charlotte and away, a swift, barely readable message.
He pushed himself away from the door, lowering his head like a bull preparing to charge. Charlotte, behind him, moved a little, her eyes fixed fearfully upon Jackie’s long, naked back.
‘What kind of trouble do yer think you’ve landed yerself in this time?’ She had to keep him occupied, to keep his attention away from the moving girl. She fought the blaze of hatred and temper, that once allowed to flame unchecked would bring her down to his level and defeat her in violence. Her voice was acid, edged lightly with scorn. ‘If you ’ave got any brains – which I doubt – why don’t yer try usin’ them for a change?’ She allowed her eyes to flick towards Charlotte, who was still moving very slowly towards the open doorway. ‘You’ve picked the wrong one there, Jackie lad. The brandy finally addled yer lovely Irish wits, yer realize that? This isn’t any Commercial Road street-walker. This is a young lady. With friends. An’ money. An’ influence. All the things the likes of you an’ me some’ow manage ter live without. Think about it, Jackie—’
He blinked. Charlotte moved again, closer to the door, closer to freedom, but afraid to make that final dash that would bring her within reach of his brutal hands. A small white breast, viciously scratched, was all but exposed by a rent in her dress, a bruise showed in purple violence upon her cheekbone. She was still crying, though almost silently, a helpless, heedless flow of tears that seemed as if it might never stop.
‘God ’elp a lad ’oo ’asn’t the sense ter stick to ’is own,’ Sally said softly. ‘They’ll bloody crucify yer, Jackie – think, man.’
He swayed again, the vast quantity of alcohol he had consumed that day finally taking its toll. The atmosphere was stifling. Charlotte stared at the taut, tough girl on the other side of the door. If she could just get to her—
‘She asked for it,’ he said sullenly, ‘begged for it. Be God – yer must ha’ seen it for yerself?’
Sally lifted a shoulder, summoning up a small, derisive smile. ‘’Oo’s goin’ ter believe that? The examinin’ magistrate?’ Her eyes still firm on Jackie’s, she moved a little to the side, extending a courageous, encouraging hand to the girl who trembled a few yards from comparative safety. ‘Yer want ter tell ’em that at Bow Street while she grizzles into ’er lace ’ankie?’ She looked then at last directly at Charlotte, jerked her head fiercely and impatiently. With a sob Charlotte flung herself past Jackie and through the door. Jackie’s half-hearted attempt to stop her was no more than a gesture. He was watching Sally, frowning ferociously.
Charlotte flung herself upon Sally, clinging, crying noisily. Sally staggered under the onslaught, righted herself, put a protective arm about the slim, shaking, firm-fleshed shoulders. Oddly, even at such extremes, she was aware of the fresh cleanliness of the other girl, the clear, sweet fragrance. The passage was narrow, the drunken, violent young giant a step away. She lifted her chin. ‘Well?’ she challenged. ‘What yer goin’ ter do about it? Take both of us?’
‘I’ll break your back,’ he said with clear, pure hatred.
‘P’raps. P’raps not. I’m takin’ ’er ’ome.’
He was breathing heavily, the sculptured muscles of his broad chest lifting rhythmically.
‘’Ave a grain o’ sense, Jackie,’ she said softly. ‘You do more ’arm an’ you’ll swing for it this time. Yer backed the wrong filly. Cut yer losses while yer can.’
Charlotte was fighting for breath and composure. ‘I won’t say anything. I swear it!’ The words fell over each other, ‘Just let me go. Please – let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I promise I won’t—’
There was a long moment of aggressive silence. Then, with no further word but with a final savage glance at Sally that boded ill for their next encounter, Jackie stepped back and slammed the door in their faces. Both girls stood for a moment, each in her own way coping with a hammering heart, a sweat of fear.
‘Right,’ Sally said at last calmly, ‘we’d best get you ’ome.’
Charlotte began to stammer thanks, but in the face of the other girl’s apparent indifference fell to miserable silence.
‘Yer live at Doctor Will’s place, don’t yer? The old Bear?’
‘Y-yes.’
They stepped out into the narrow alley. Sally peered at the other girl in the darkness, ‘Can yer get yerself ’ome?’
Charlotte stood, beaten, bruised, brimful of tears and shook her head. ‘I – I don’t know where I am.’
‘It’s only up the street—’ Sally stopped. In the darkest recess of her mind Jackie Pilgrim heaved aside a rickety door, a worm-ridden, empty chest-of-drawers and confronted a small, terrified child. ‘Oh, come on, then,’ she said brusquely, ‘I’ll get yer back. But yer’ll ’ave ter ’urry.’
Charlotte stumbled along beside this unlikely saviour, whose pace took account neither of distress nor of the dragging pain and soreness that was a dreadful reminder of what had happened to her. Rape. She had heard the word whispered, read it in forbidden writings beneath the sheets in dangerous candlelight. But this? This was filth. This was disgrace. This was the end of a life. The end of a dream. Who would take her now? Who would smile a dazzling, tender smile and lead her to a flower-decked altar knowing of this? Her body ached. The fiery pain between her legs made walking an agony. She wanted to die. Quite simply to crumple into the gutter and to die—
‘’Ere we are.’ The long-legged girl beside her stopped. The building that once had been the Inn of the Dancing Bear rambled for half a street, a long, low, two-storeyed building with overhanging eaves, its fabric rotten as moth-eaten wool, its face that of an ancient crone, versed in the ways of the world and by no means beguiled by them.
Sally turned to face her. ‘What you goin’ ter do?’
Defeated, Charlotte sucked her lip.
Sally took her by the shoulders, a blaze of impatience and exasperation. ‘What?’
‘I—’ Some semblance of reality was returning to her in the shade of the familiar building. The shock of what had happened had cleared her brain of the effects of the unaccustomed alcohol she had so recklessly drunk, but it had curdled in her stomach, bringing nausea. She looked up at the big, ramshackle house. Here was home. Here was safety; and in equal proportion, danger. She stood for a moment. A light burned in the surgery. Doctor Will, working late. Every other window was dark. Peter had not returned from the Barnes’s. Ben, Hannah and Ralph were still setting the world to rights at their meeting. Incredibly, no one had apparently yet missed her. The faintest and most feeble gleam of hope entered her harrowed soul. ‘I might be able to sneak in,’ she said, suddenly and astoundingly composed. ‘No one’s back yet. And my room is at the back. It has its own staircase. This is a rather peculiar building you see.’
Sally’s narrow, green-gleaming eyes flickered astonishment. The last thing she had expected to hear from this stupid little girl was anything remotely like sense. Trouble in the back streets of Poplar was always a word spelled in the tallest of letters. She had, against her nature and against her inclination, breached a code of behaviour tonight that one way or the other could only bring her to, and she was heartily regretting it already. But still – if kept private the grief would be short and painful at the hands of a man whose brutality she knew and, with luck, could cope with. Brought into the open the chancy opinion of the close-knit community in which she lived could come down heavily against her. In many minds if Jackie should be brought to book by the law for tonight’s little episode the word to brand Sally Smith would be ‘traitor’. And she had a life to live. She put out a hand. Charlotte
had begun to tremble violently, her teeth chattering, her body jerking convulsively. ‘You all right?’
‘If you could – just help me up the stairs?’
They walked into the darkness of the archway that led to the old yard, where once stage coaches had come and gone in a flurry of noisy and colourful activity. An uncertain flight of steps led up to a gallery on the first floor. ‘Here.’ Sally all but carried the slight, exhausted girl through the door she indicated. Beyond it was a large, pleasant room in which a lamp had been lit to await her peaceful return. The light gleamed on rose silk and pale satin. Comfortable chairs were set about a now empty grate that was filled with fresh flowers in a great copper pot. At one end of the room stood a testered bed that seemed to Sally’s dazzled and caustic eyes, remembering the pallet that she shared with Toby, big enough to sleep six. She stood for an awkward moment as the other girl with a small sob of thankfulness sank into a deep armchair, bowed her head into her hands. Gradually, very gradually, the trembling eased. Charlotte lifted her head, wrapping her arms about her body as if holding herself against pain, against remembered fear, against brutal invasion. She looked very frail and very frightened.
‘I’d best be off,’ Sally said shortly.
Charlotte, with some difficulty, focused her eyes upon her. ‘I – won’t tell anyone,’ she said, her voice soft and stark with desperation, ‘Please. Believe me. I won’t cause trouble. No one will know. I couldn’t bear it. I’ll tell them – I missed Cissy – couldn’t find the others – so I came home here alone. Ben and Hannah had left. Doctor Will was working. I – fell.’ She lifted a hand to her bruised face, ‘I fell – in the darkness – down the stairs outside—’
‘What about your dress? It’s ruined. Won’t someone notice?’
Charlotte shook her head, vaguely. ‘Oh, no. I’ve plenty more. I’ll hide it – throw it away – no one around here ever notices what anyone’s wearing.’
Tomorrow, Jerusalem Page 7
