Isabella Rockwell's War (8 page)

“Bah, this is
no good, it’s like being in town on Temple Day. We need to attract
some attention. Your shouting’s just not enough,” she said, looking
around.

Midge was
chewing on a fingernail.

“What else do
you want me to do?”

She thought
for a moment.

“Go and wait
out of sight for ten minutes. Then come back – like you’d never
seen me before in your life – like you’re a punter.”

Midge’s eyes
lit up.

“Yeah! I’ll
make sure I’m gob-smacked.”

“Don’t overdo
it though, Midge,” she shot him a warning look.

He peered down
his freckled nose at her.

“As if!” He
made himself scarce amongst the crowd.

As the bells
of St Clements rang the quarter hour Isabella caught sight of Midge
winding his way through the icy rutted street and she forced
herself to look away from him and not get the giggles. With an
exaggerated double take Midge came to her table.

“Ah ha, my
fine young gentleman. How would you like to see magic to inflame
your senses?”

Midge bowed
low.

“Honourable
eastern lady, I would indeed like to see your GREAT MAGIC!” Midge
pronounced these last words so loudly they were nearly a shout,
which made Isabella jump and knock two of the shells off the table.
Trying hard not to laugh, and cursing at the same time she bent to
retrieve them, and spread them on the table. Blowing hard on her
frozen fingers she sent the nutmeg shells skittering across the
golden cloth. This way and that way and this way and that way, she
could feel, rather than see, Midge getting dizzy trying to keep his
eye on the shell holding the bean.

Her hands
slowed, and from the corner of her eye she saw a child pull on her
father’s velvet coat tails, and gesture in their direction.

“So, my young
sir. Which shell holds the bean of fortune? The Lords of the Rajput
would gamble their palaces on a single shell. What will you gamble,
Sir?” Midge pretended to hand her a coin and stood for a long
moment trying to decide on one of the three shells. Isabella snuck
another peek. Goodeee! It was working. The father and child were
now standing just behind Midge, who moved slightly to one side so
they could see.

“Is it this
one?’ Midge’s hand tapped the top of one smooth shell. Isabella
shook her head. “This one?” By this time, Midge’s curiosity was
genuine, as he truly had no idea under which shell the bean was
lying.

“It must then
be here,” shrieked the child excitedly grabbing the last shell and
lifting it. There lay the bean. The child was hooked.

“Papa, this is
easy, please may I try?” Her father, having the prosperous,
indulgent look of a merchant asked, “May the child try?”

Isabella bent
her head graciously.

“She may
indeed, but it is one half penny per try. Should she make the
correct choice first time, she may have her halfpenny back.”

“Generous
terms, indeed,” said the man reaching into his pocket and dropping
one shining halfpenny into Isabella’s freezing palm. Isabella
smiled at them both and got to work.

By lunchtime
she and Midge had made four shillings and Midge was ecstatic.

“Zachariah’s
never going to believe this! I’ve never made so much money all in
one go!” Isabella smiled, though her face was numb with the cold.
In a strange way she had enjoyed herself. Fully engaged with trying
to take money from the shoppers of Smithfield, she’d forgotten her
own problems, and Midge’s company made her feel less bleak.

“Cor, look at
you. You’re smiling. That must be some kind of record.” Isabella
smiled again. “Come on, let’s go down to London Bridge. See how
much them tickets are. Mind you, you better do the talking with
your la-di-dah voice. They’ll throw me out soon as look at me.”

Stuffing hot
raisin buns into their mouths as they walked back down to the
river, Isabella felt something inside her. It was unfamiliar, but
not unpleasant. It felt very small and she wanted to put her hands
around it, to protect it, but it was still inside her the next
morning. Even the morning after that.

It was a tiny
flickering flame of hope.

There wasn’t a
market in London Isabella and Midge didn’t target. Borough,
Shepherd’s, even Kingston on one long day, catching the boat
downriver.

Isabella
performed well without having to give away the secret of the trick.
She learned to behave differently with each of her punters. She
would put on a show if the audience were well-to-do, layered in
their velvet and ermine, out taking the air with a servant. Or, if
they were mostly children, she would be warm and more like her
usual self. Her most difficult clients were the other street
children, often sent by their superiors to learn the trick, which
had become so successful it was the talk of the gin houses and
street corners. If those punters appeared, she and Midge would
pretend to pack up business, and then while away an hour or two
throwing sticks in the river, until it was safe for them to set up
elsewhere.

The only cloud
on her horizon, other than her future, was Zachariah.

“I give him
half our takings every single day and he still acts like I’m
something the cat dragged in,” she complained loudly to Midge as
they sat on a wall watching the sluggish river below. With some of
her hard earned cash, she’d bought herself a hat and a scarf, and
she’d become accustomed to the long hours out in the cold.

“I can’t wait
until I’ve got enough for my ticket. He’ll miss me when I’m gone…
he’ll miss my money at any rate.” She tossed a stone into the
river, not willing to admit how much pleasure it had given her
when, the other night, Zach had come home with three new pairs of
leather boots for the little ones, knowing, without a doubt, it was
her and Midge’s earnings, which had made it possible.

“I’ll miss
you,” said Midge loyally. Isabella looked at him and pulled him
close, rubbing her knuckles through his hair.

Midge pulled
away.

“Gerrof… what
is it with you and Ruby and the hair!”

“Worried you
might see Minna? We’ve got to go to the Baker’s later. Shall I ask
if her dance card’s free?” Midge gave her a great shove. Minna was
the pretty sixteen year old daughter of the baker who often gave
them the day’s old bread at half price.

Midge tried to
salvage his dignity.

“I’m only five
years younger than her. There’s many that likes a younger man… and
I’ll be a gentleman of means one day.”

“Mmm,” replied
Isabella. “Of course. Come on Napoleon, let’s go and find our
spot.”

She and Midge
did very well that day, and she proudly counted out Zachariah’s
share into his hand. Saying nothing Zachariah handed it over to
William, a tall silent boy who only moved if Zachariah did.

“It would be
nice if, just once, you said thank you.”

Zachariah
looked at her.

“Thank you.”
He made towards his bed, but Isabella was fed up. Homesick and
missing Abhaya, she grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Why don’t you
like me? What have I ever done to you? Everyone else likes me, the
children, Ruby, even the dogs. Why can’t you?”

Zachariah’s
expression didn’t change.

“Why do you
care?”

Isabella
hesitated.

“I don’t know,
I just do.”

Zachariah
shrugged.

“Well, at
least you’re honest, but with all those people liking you already
why do you need me to as well? I’ve given you shelter ’aven’t I?
This ain’t a popularity contest, Miss India. This is real life, and
you’re just one more person for me to worry about.”

One of the
dogs came over and pushed his wet nose into Isabella’s hand, as she
looked at Zachariah’s empty face.

“No, sorry,
Zachariah, you’re quite right. Popularity doesn’t matter. You’ve
given me shelter and food and I’m grateful. It was wrong of me to
ask for more.”

He nodded at
her and, clicking his tongue for one of the dogs, rolled himself in
his blanket. Barely moments later, Isabella heard him snoring.

Unable to
sleep she opened her father’s bag, glad of the strong leather
straps, which kept the bag secure across her chest. She never took
it off. Not even when asleep. She’d discovered counting her money
could calm her and make her feel better, imagining Abhaya’s
voice.

“
Aiee,
baba. You are Mr Cadwalladr, the lender. Was he in fact your
father? I am sure you must be related.”

Isabella
laughed to herself remembering the money-lender in the village, how
she and others would sneak up on him late at night as he sat in his
chair rocking and counting his money, singing to himself. They
would let snakes go in his room, trying to flush him out, but he
always knew they were there, and he would rush out onto his veranda
with a great noise and flapping of hands. Shrieking, the children
would disperse, but not before they’d seen Mr Cadwalladr give a
little smile of amusement. He had been a kind man. Isabella
wondered what had happened to him.

The pile of
coins in front of her was growing and she did some basic sums. If
she continued to save at this rate, she would have enough money for
a ticket by next Autumn. She would have been here for a year!
Still, far better one year on the streets than four years in
service. She fingered the silver snuffbox and jewellery, still
wrapped in the sari at the bottom of her bag. It was still there
and still safe, no one knowing of its existence. A feeling of
comfort crept over her again, imagining herself returning home in
September, when the monsoon would have broken and the land would be
washed clean and touched with new growth. She felt warmer just
thinking about it.

It was this,
and only this, which mattered.

It didn’t
matter that Zachariah didn’t like her; just how quickly she could
get home. She would do well to remember it.

The winter
ground on and it was now mid-December and Isabella wondered why the
sun bothered to come up at all, so short were the days. When she
and Midge went to market, she noticed a different type of
customer.

“Ah ha, here
we go. Invasion of the toffs,” remarked Midge, a satisfied
expression on his face.

“What do you
mean?” she asked following his gaze across the market where she
could see a well-dressed matron supervising two footmen, loading a
carriage with goods.

“That there’s
a housekeeper for one of the big houses and I mean big. Mayfair or
Eaton Square, I reckon.”

“Why’ve they
come all the way out here then?”

“Christmas.”

Isabella
thought for a moment.

“Ah.” She had
dim memories of having to go to church in Rawalpindi during the dry
season. “I remember now. Mrs Farrar tried to make a big cake with
raisins, but I think it didn’t set. She said she needed butter, not
ghee.”

Midge
scratched his head.

“Yeah, that’s
probably it. In the poor house we’d get an extra helping of food on
Christmas Day, and last year I got given a mince pie by the baker,
for free!”

“What’s a
mince pie?”

“Like a raisin
bun, but nicer.” Isabella, who loved raisin buns beyond reason,
couldn’t imagine this.

“Really? What
day is Christmas then?”

“I’m not sure.
I think it’s the day after tomorrow. It’s very fashionable. All the
toffs, they buy these trees and decorate them and then they buy
each other presents. See – that’s what I mean.” One of the footmen
was now manhandling a large green spiky tree into their carriage.
The other followed carrying baskets of oranges and bunches of
another spiky shiny plant.

“That’s
Holly,” said Midge, importantly. “They put that up as decoration,
but I think it’s to ward away evil spirits.”

Isabella
nodded. This made more sense to her.

“Look at
that,” she said, watching open mouthed as the warmly wrapped
housekeeper carried two baskets of pastries and a huge ham over to
the carriage. Mentally she compared the housekeeper’s padded curves
with Midge’s hollow cheeks and jutting collarbones.

“Yup, they’ll
not be the only ones down here shopping today,” replied Midge.

“Let’s hope we
can take some of that money off them in the meantime. They’ve
clearly got too much of it. I reckon it’s about time they spread it
around,” said Isabella, getting to her feet and packing up the
shells and sari.

“‘Ere, where
are you going?” asked Midge nervously, following her over to the
carriage.

“Just act
natural,” she hissed under her breath, her heart thudding in her
ears. For just one moment the footmen and housekeepers’ backs were
turned as they relieved a grocer of another four large baskets of
fruit and vegetables. In that moment Isabella ducked around to the
other side of the carriage and, bending low, opened the door and
slid two of the baskets out from underneath the Christmas tree.
Within seconds she and Midge were lost again in a crowd gathered
around a man standing on a crate, handing out newssheets.