Alley Urchin (22 page)

‘It’s all right,’ Molly assured him, becoming convinced of his identity by the refined tone of his voice and the fact that he had seen her somewhere before . . . in the market place, no doubt. ‘You’ll be fine . . . after you’ve rested. You’ve had a nasty knock on the head . . . and you nearly drowned. It’s not surprising that you can’t properly recall what happened. Don’t you worry. Get some sleep, and you’ll be fine, I promise.’ A plan was forming in her mind. A daring plan that might be the way to pay for Sal’s burial. But she’d have to be quick, or it might be too late.

‘What’s your name?’ the boy asked, settling himself into the bed as weariness came over him.

‘Molly. I’m Sal Tanner’s lass.’ Molly felt a deal of pride as she told him that. But it was mingled with a deep and painful sense of loss, which betrayed itself in her dark eyes. The boy was quick to notice, and to recall that Molly had earlier remarked that she had to go and ‘see about Sal’s funeral’. His instincts told him not to talk of ‘Sal’, or outstay his welcome. ‘I want to thank you for what you’ve done for me,’ he said, ‘if I can just rest awhile, I’ll be gone and I won’t be a burden, I promise.’

‘That’s right,’ encouraged Molly, ‘you rest, while I go about my business. But you don’t need to hurry away.’ If her plan was to work, the boy must be kept here. ‘Old Sal used to give me a herbal drink when I was feeling under the weather and couldn’t sleep. I’ll get you a drop,’ she told him. After a frantic search, she discovered Sal’s gin bottle hidden inside the orange-box. Quickly mixing a measure of it with a drop of water and a sprinkle of sugar, she held it to the boy’s lips. ‘Here we are. Drink this and you’ll sleep like a hedgehog in winter.’

When Molly was satisfied that he was in a deep contented slumber, she covered him over, took one of the shoes which had shrunk to his feet after the canal soaking, then went swiftly from the hut, shutting the door tight behind her. Glancing up to ensure that the window was left open for ventilation, she tucked the expensive shoe into the pocket of her frock and went at top speed along the bank.

Molly was not too proud of what she intended to do now, because she liked the boy. She thought him to be a cut above the other gentry she had come across, but she made herself recall an old saying of Sal’s – one which she often used to excuse her more unsavoury activities: when needs must, the devil pays, was what Sal would claim in her own defence. It was what Molly told herself now, as she sped through Mill Hill and on towards the outlying fields. She had a rough idea that she was heading in the right direction. Anyway, Breckleton House shouldn’t be too difficult to find.

‘Get away from here, yer little ruffian!’ Cook had been summoned to the kitchen door by Molly’s insistent knocking, and she was not too pleased at the sight of a filthy little urchin standing there. ‘There’s misery enough in this house today . . . wi’out us being bothered by beggars!’ She would have slammed the door in Molly’s face, but when she was told, ‘Justice Crowther’s grandson
ain’t
dead.
I’ve
got him!’ Cook hesitated, just long enough for Molly to blurt out, ‘He’s got dark eyes the colour of emeralds . . . and he can’t swim.’

‘How do yer know
that
?’ Cook demanded, inching the door open, yet not coming back out. ‘An’ when did a filthy little baggage the likes o’
you
see the colour of ’is eyes, eh?’ There was no doubt she was intrigued, because it was true that the young master had never learned to swim. There had been arguments about it between his mother, who saw it as being unnecessary, and his father, who claimed that every boy should be given the opportunity to learn to swim, especially when he might follow in his father’s footsteps and be a sailor. Martha Trent’s reply had been a caustic one, ‘I shall
never
let him be a sailor!’ From there, the argument had raged on.

‘How d’yer know all this?’ insisted Cook, keeping her sizeable frame secure behind the door.

‘I know . . . because he fell in the canal and I saved him from drowning,’ replied Molly, beginning to take the shoe from her pocket.
‘He
wasn’t the one who was run over and killed. I reckon as it was another fellow altogether. I don’t know if it were a rogue or a gentry, but it weren’t Edward Trent, I’m telling you, missus. Because
I’ve
got Justice Crowther’s grandson, hidden away and safe enough.’ She brought the shoe with the shiny buckle from her pocket, and when Cook saw it, she nearly fainted. ‘Oh, upon my word . . . it’s the young master’s boot!’ she cried, flinging the door open and making a grab for it.

‘Oh, no you don’t!’ warned Molly, immediately dodging backwards and remaining at a safe distance. ‘I ain’t giving this shoe to
nobody . . .
anyway, not till you fetch the lady of the house. Don’t fetch the Justice, because I’ll not tell
him
nothing! I’ll only do business with the lady of the house.’ Molly had never forgotten Sal’s warning concerning Justice Crowther, and the very idea of being confronted by the fellow himself made her shiver in her boots.

‘As it happens, yer little dirty baggage . . . there’s only the mistress and the boy’s mother here. The Justice is at the undertakers, making final arrangements.’ She rolled her eyes upwards and made the sign of the cross on herself.

‘In that case, he’s making final arrangements for somebody else,’ Molly reminded her, ‘because I’ve got his grandson safe, I’m telling you. Now . . . if you’d be so kind as to fetch her ladyship?’

‘You cheeky little madam!’ snorted Cook. For two pins she would have brought Thomas to see the little wretch off down the road, but there was too much in what the girl said. Cook felt it was more than her life was worth to ignore the evidence of the shoe and all. ‘Wait here. I’ll see if the mistress is interested in what you have to say . . . but let me warn you: if you’re here to cause mischief, you’ll be given every opportunity to explain it to the authorities!’

When the door swung to, leaving Molly staring at the grotesque brass gargoyle which served as a knocker, she put out her tongue at it. She went to the window, where she pulled herself up by the wall and sat on the deep stone window-ledge, swinging her skinny legs back and forth, and waited somewhat nervously for the lady of the house to emerge.

Molly did not have to wait long: no sooner had she settled herself than there came a flurry of activity at the kitchen door. ‘Where is she?’ came a woman’s agitated voice. Then, as Agnes Crowther swept out on to the flag stones, one hand plucking the folds of her long taffeta skirt and the other waving loosely in the air, she caught sight of Molly, who quickly jumped down from the window-ledge. Molly’s stomach turned nervous somersaults at the sight of this fancy lady, whose husband had the power to have her flayed alive. As Agnes Crowther approached, Molly backed away. ‘Don’t you come no nearer, missus,’ she warned, ‘if you try to grab me, I’ll make a run for it and you won’t see your lad again.’

‘No!’ Agnes Crowther stopped some short distance away, lifting her hand from her skirt and putting both palms up to Molly. ‘It’s all right . . . I won’t come any nearer.’ She gestured for Cook and the maid, Amy, to go back, saying, ‘Make sure that my daughter is not disturbed. Let her sleep.’ When the two women were out of sight Agnes Crowther turned her attention to Molly. ‘Tell me all you know of my grandson . . . please.’ Then, in a harsher tone, ‘But be careful you tell me no lies, or you will live to regret it, I promise!’ She then recovered her composure, stiffened her back and raised her two hands together in a posture of prayer, holding them close to her breast as she asked, ‘What
do
you know? Cook tells me you don’t believe it was Master Edward who was killed. What makes you say such a thing? The truth, girl. Out with it!’

Her courage returning, and with Sal’s predicament paramount in her mind, Molly described how she had seen the boy stumble and fall into the canal. ‘He would have drowned, missus . . . he
would
, if
I
hadn’t saved him,’ she assured Agnes Crowther, who merely nodded impatiently and bade her go on. Molly then explained how, in spite of the boy’s clothes, she suspected that he was not an urchin off the streets. ‘His nails were too clean, and his hands were too soft and white,’ she said. After which she went into great detail regarding his appearance, how dark was his hair, and how deepgreen his eyes. She told of the way he had spoken to her. ‘Too
posh
by half! . . . And look here’ – she snatched the shoe from the depths of her ragged frock – ‘this is the boy’s shoe!’

All the while Molly had been talking, Agnes Crowther had paid the closest attention, and the more she heard, the paler she became. When the shoe was brandished before her, she cried out and swayed as though she might faint, her posture of prayer broken as she put out an arm to grasp the wall for support. ‘It is Edward’s shoe!’ she gasped, her eyes fixed on the black ankle boot which had a small decorative buckle to the side. ‘Oh . . . I had my suspicions all along that it was
not
my grandson lying there in the mortuary . . . but no one would listen. They were all quick to grieve. Too blinded by what they saw before them, and too easily led by what they were told.’ Of a sudden she was moving forward, her face a study in compassion, and her arm outstretched as though to take the shoe from Molly’s grasp. ‘Where is he . . . this boy? You must take me to him at once!’ she urged.

But Molly was no fool. She had not forgotten the purpose which had brought her here, nor had she forgotten what a fearfully powerful family she was dealing with. ‘Not so fast, your ladyship,’ she told her, teasing the shoe away and taking a step backward. ‘I
will
take you to where your grandson is, but it will cost you a pretty penny.’

‘You scoundrel!’ retorted Agnes Crowther. ‘I shouldn’t be at all surprised if you and your kind hadn’t arranged this whole dreadful affair!’ The fire had returned to Agnes Crowther’s eyes, and for a brief moment Molly’s courage began to waver. But it took only a thought of where Sal was and where she might end up to restore her flagging spirit. ‘No, I didn’t!’ she retorted indignantly. ‘I might be a thief when things get desperate . . . but I ain’t no crook!’

‘What is it you want then?’ demanded Agnes Crowther. ‘If this boy really is my grandson . . . and there is no real proof of that . . . you may depend that Justice Crowther will reward you handsomely.’

‘I won’t do no dealings with
him
!’ Molly told her. ‘I need two guineas . . . it ain’t for me, neither.’

‘So! . . . There is somebody else. Somebody who has put you up to coming here and telling lies.’

‘There’s nobody else, missus. The two guineas is to pay for a proper burial for . . . well, that don’t matter none. You just pay me now, and I’ll fetch the boy from where he’s hidden.’

‘No. I must come with you, or how can I trust you?’

When Molly saw that Agnes Crowther was adamant, she reluctantly agreed to a compromise. ‘You take a carriage to the warehouse at the end of Stephen Street in Mill Hill . . . and I’ll fetch the boy to you, within the hour. Mind you . . . if I so much as catch sight of anybody but just yourself, I swear you’ll not get him back! And I want paying
now.’

‘Half now, and the remainder when I see that the boy really
is
my grandson.’

So it was agreed. With one guinea safe in the palm of her hand, in exchange for the shoe, Molly set off at a run to rouse the boy from his slumber. Still not fully convinced but filled with hope and excitement, Agnes Crowther hurried indoors to don her cloak and bonnet, emerging some ten minutes later to climb into the carriage, with Cook’s words ringing in her ears: ‘Yer don’t want to get yer hopes too high on the word of a street urchin, m’lady. Set the authorities on the little baggage . . . they’ll soon find out what she’s up to!’

Agnes Crowther’s reply was to remind her of her place. ‘Make sure you leave my daughter resting. And, if the master returns in my absence, you are to say nothing of my errand. If it turns out to be a trick I myself will inform Justice Crowther to root the girl out; but . . . if by some miracle my grandson really
is
safe . . . bringing the boy home will speak for itself.’

Some time later, after Molly had successfully roused Edward Trent enough to walk him along the towpath and down Angela Street towards Stephen Street, Agnes Crowther was alerted by her driver Thomas. ‘This looks like them now, m’lady,’ he said, leaning down from his lofty seat and pointing a finger towards the two children approaching. Being a woman not easily given to Christian values, Agnes Crowther had never set great store by prayer and rarely indulged in it with much heart. But when she reached her head out of the carriage window, the sight of those two small and bedraggled figures coming towards her brought tears to her eyes. When she stepped down from the carriage and waited, as Molly had insisted, she actually uttered a heartfelt prayer. Then, as they came ever closer, and she kept her anxious eyes on the boy, the familiar shape began to grow, the manner of his walk, his hair, she began to recognise him as her own grandson. Forgetting that she had promised to stay by the carriage, Agnes Crowther began walking towards them, completely oblivious of the one or two people who hurried by to go about their business.

When Molly saw that Agnes Crowther had gone back on her word, she was unsure as to what to do. The boy was leaning so heavily on her shoulder that, were she to let him go, he would slump to the floor. Besides which, she
must
collect the other guinea. So she stood still and waited. When Agnes Crowther saw this, she hurried her steps until she was almost running. When in a moment she was on them and the boy looked up at her through hazy eyes, she threw out her arms and wrapped them about him. ‘Edward . . . oh, thank God!’ For Molly, who had never witnessed such humanity in the gentry, it was a humbling scene. ‘I
told
you he was safe, didn’t I?’ she said. ‘He would have drowned if it weren’t for me.’ She mustn’t let them forget that, she thought,
nor
that she was still owed a guinea!