The Cockney Sparrow (8 page)

Jack gave a polite cough. ‘Help me down, Ned, there’s a good fellow. Before the mad Irishman takes me back to Billingsgate and I end up under a pile of wet herrings.’

‘Well, it would give me an excuse to come back, now wouldn’t it?’ Connor winked at Edith and, as Ned lifted Jack to the pavement, he grabbed the handles and spun the cart round to face the Commercial Road. He rammed his cap on his head. ‘Are you coming, Ned?’

‘I’m coming.’ Ned grasped Clemency’s hands. He squeezed her fingers, looking earnestly into her eyes. ‘If you need help you know where to come.’

She smiled. ‘You’re a pal and no mistake.’

‘You will take care of yourself, won’t you? Whatever you do, don’t go out alone at night.’

‘I won’t.’ She pulled her hands free, pointing down the street. ‘You’d best run or you’ll not catch the Irishman.’

Ned opened his mouth as if to say something, but he closed it again, shaking his head, and hurried off after Connor.

Clemency held up a warning hand as Edith tried to follow her up the steps. ‘No, Ma. I dunno if the geezer was serious about taking me on. You two wait here while I go in and have a word.’

‘This place is the devil’s midden. We’d have been better off staying in Stew Lane.’ Reluctantly, Edith went to sit on the bottom step next to Jack. ‘Don’t take too long, or we’ll freeze to death out here.’

Clemency rattled the doorknocker. She could hear brisk footsteps clattering on a tiled floor. The door opened and she was faced with a tall, middle-aged woman who was all points and angles. Her grey hair was caught up in a tight bun on the top of her head, emphasising her pointed chin, and a triangle of a nose that would not have looked out of place on the wooden face of a puppet. She stood, arms akimbo, staring at Clemency over the top of steel-rimmed spectacles. ‘What sort of hour do you call this to knock on the door of a respectable lodging house?’

‘I – I come to see Mr Augustus Throop.’
Clemency pulled his card from her pocket and held it out for inspection.

‘Come inside. Stand on the mat. Don’t move from that spot.’

Clemency did as she was told. She stood on the doormat and watched the angular woman march away into the unlit part of the house. The flickering gas mantle gave off a yellowish light and the distinctive odour of coal gas. Clemency shivered. It was as cold inside as it was outside, and just as cheerless. She could just make out a steep flight of stairs rising into blackness, but there were no signs of life, and it seemed that the occupants of the house must still be asleep. After a minute or two the silence was broken by the sound of heavy footsteps. Augustus Throop came steaming towards her with his nightcap askew on his head, and his dressing gown flying open to reveal a long nightshirt.

‘Who wakes me at this godforsaken hour?’ He stopped in front of her, staring through half-closed eyes as he knotted the tasselled cord of his robe. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m the girl what sung for you last evening in Knightrider Street. You give me your card. Remember?’

Augustus scratched his head. ‘Can’t say that I do. However, at this early hour of the morning, I can barely remember my own name, let alone a face in the crowd.’

‘But mister, you said I could join your troupe. I got the voice of a nightingale, you said as much.’

‘Nightingale, blackbird, crow – it’s all the same to me until I’ve had my first cup of coffee. Follow me, young lady. We’ll prevail on the good Mrs Blunt to let us partake of her excellent brew.’ Augustus swept off with a theatrical flourish, beckoning to Clemency as he headed off into the gloom.

She followed him along the passage and down a flight of stairs into the basement kitchen. The aroma of hot coffee and baking bread sent signals to her stomach, whetting her appetite, despite the bacon sandwich that she had enjoyed less than an hour ago.

‘My dear Mrs Blunt.’ Augustus held out his arms. ‘What a perfect sight with which to begin a new day. Behold, Miss – er …’

‘Clemency Skinner.’

‘Miss Skinner, behold this woman, our esteemed landlady – the veritable epitome of womanhood, encompassed in one lissom body.’

Mrs Blunt took off her specs, huffed on them and wiped the lenses on her starched apron. ‘Piffle, sir. Twaddle! And I’ll thank you not to mention me body, it ain’t seemly, especially in front of a young girl.’

‘I humbly beg your pardon, ma’am. I was merely praising your housekeeping and wondering
if there might be a cup of coffee for a thirsty thespian and his young visitor.’

‘You theatricals is all the same. Words, words and more words.’ Mrs Blunt sniffed, and the pointed end of her nose quivered. She turned to a girl who was sweeping the floor with a besom. ‘Fancy, two cups of coffee.’

Fancy dropped the broom and hurried to the range where she picked up a large earthenware jug, which she set on the scrubbed deal table while she bustled over to the dresser to fetch the cups. Augustus sat on one of the forms set on either side of the table, and motioned to Clemency to take a seat.

‘Breakfast ain’t until seven o’clock,’ Mrs Blunt informed them as she headed towards the staircase. ‘And if she’s looking for a room, you can tell the young person, Mr Throop, that I don’t encourage unattached females to take a room in my establishment. This is a respectable house and I’ll thank you to remember that.’ She swept up the stairs with a swish of starched petticoats.

As she disappeared through the baize door at the top of the stairs, Clemency uttered a sigh of relief. It seemed as though she had been holding her breath ever since she first clapped eyes on the angular Mrs Blunt. She sat down opposite Augustus. ‘I got a good voice, you said so yourself. And I wouldn’t want much in the way of
pay, just me room and board, until I proved meself, like.’

‘My daughter Lucilla is my little canary; she has the face of an angel and the temperament of a prima donna.’

‘But you said I got the voice of a nightingale. You did, mister.’

Fancy placed two cups of coffee on the table in front of Augustus. She did not resume her work immediately, but stood with her head angled, staring at Clemency.

‘What are you staring at?’ Clemency demanded.

‘Nightingale, huh!’ Fancy tossed her head. ‘Blooming cockney sparrow, more like.’

‘You take that back.’

‘Shan’t.’

‘Cockney sparrow,’ Augustus said, rolling the words round in his mouth as if they were made of chocolate. ‘I like it. Maybe I could use you, Miss Skinner.’

Clemency stuck her tongue out at Fancy. She knew it was childish, but she couldn’t resist the temptation. Fancy turned away with a disgusted snort. She picked up the broom and went about the floor whisking dust out of sight beneath the dresser.

Augustus rose to his feet and struck a pose. ‘It might make a striking contrast – the street urchin, a cockney sparrow – singing a duet with my fragile flower.’

‘Fragile flower, my eye,’ Fancy muttered beneath her breath.

Clemency couldn’t help agreeing with her. From what she had seen of Miss Lucilla, fragile and flower-like were not the words she would have used to describe the spoilt little barrel of lard. But she would work with the devil himself if it gave them a roof over their head. She eyed Augustus cautiously. ‘So you’ll take me on then?’

‘A trial period of one week should be ample time to see if our takings increase.’

‘And I gets board and lodging?’

‘You may share a room with Lucilla, although you will have to sleep on the floor.’

Fancy sniggered and then turned it into a cough. Clemency ignored her. She stood up, clasping her hands in front of her. ‘I needs a room of me own, Mr Throop, sir.’

‘Impossible.’

‘But – but I snore something terrible, sir.’ Clemency shot a warning look at Fancy, who turned away with her shoulders shaking silently. ‘I couldn’t deprive the young lady of her sleep, now could I?’

Augustus stroked his chin, frowning. ‘I can hardly put you in with the men – that wouldn’t be seemly, as Mrs Blunt so aptly puts it.’ He turned his head to stare thoughtfully at Fancy. ‘I don’t suppose …’

‘Don’t look at me. I’d sooner share with a pig,’ Fancy said, waving the besom at him. ‘Anyhow, I’m just a skivvy. I sleeps on a mat by the fire, in case you hadn’t noticed, guv.’

‘A room of me own, sir,’ Clemency repeated. ‘Or I shall have to take up the offer of the other lot what offered me a job.’ She had no idea if there were any more bands of street entertainers, but it was worth a try.

Augustus stared at her in horror. ‘They made you an offer? They were trespassing on my territory?’

Clemency nodded.

‘A room you shall have. I’ll go and find Mrs Blunt and arrange it right away.’

The room that Mrs Blunt allocated to Clemency was little more than a large cupboard at the rear of the kitchen. A small window set high in the wall, with a pigeon’s-eye view of the area steps, allowed in just enough light to reveal the outline of objects stacked against the brick walls, and a half-glassed door led out into the area. The floor space had been used to store mops and brooms, buckets and articles that were disused, but might come in useful later, together with sacks of flour and potatoes. Rats and mice had obviously been nibbling at the hessian, creating gaping holes and leaving telltale paw prints in the dust. Clemency’s heart sank as she gazed round the
room; it looked like a junkyard. The air was thick with dust and the putrid smell of rotten potatoes, but it was not as damp as the basement room in Stew Lane, and was free from the stench of rising sewage. It would have to do until she could find better accommodation.

Mrs Blunt ordered Fancy to seek alternative cupboard space for the useful articles, and to sweep up the mouse droppings and the dried carapaces of dead cockroaches. Fancy obliged, grumbling all the while beneath her breath, and making it clear whom she blamed for causing her the extra work. Clemency was left to heft the sacks into the kitchen, which Mrs Blunt said would be a better storage place anyway, as it would be more difficult for the rats and mice to get at them.

‘You’ll have to share with the rats,’ Fancy whispered, as Clemency dragged the last sack of potatoes into the kitchen. ‘I bet it won’t be the first time you’ve slept with a rat, Miss Sparrow.’

Clemency tossed her head. ‘I’d rather sleep with a dozen rats than share with you, ferret-face.’

‘Sparrow-legs.’

Clemency did not dignify this with a retort. She was much too worried about Jack and Ma, waiting outside in the freezing cold, wondering whether or not they would have a roof over their heads tonight. Fancy stomped off but returned a
few minutes later with her arms full of bedding. She dropped a flock mattress, some patched blankets and a couple of pillows in a heap on the floor. ‘I dunno why you should get your own room. I been here ten years, since I was took from the orphanage, and I still has to sleep on the floor by the range.’ She flounced into the kitchen and slammed the door, as if to underline her discontent.

Clemency could wait no longer. She went out into the area and ran up the stone steps. She found Jack, seated on the ground playing a tune on his whistle; Ma was huddled on the bottom step with her head tucked between her knees.

‘I got us a room, Jack. It ain’t much of a place, but until Mr Throop says I definitely got a job, I didn’t dare to tell him about you and Ma. Not yet, anyway.’

Jack stopped playing and smiled, pointing to his cap that lay in front of him. ‘Twopence, Clemmie. All in farthings, but it’ll buy us some bread and maybe some dripping.’

‘Let me help you down the steps. Then I’ll see to her.’ Clemency jerked her head in the direction of Edith, who appeared to have fallen asleep curled up like a robin with its head under its wing.

‘I can manage, ta.’ Jack tucked his tin whistle into his pocket and reached for his cap. ‘You see to Ma.’

She went to wake Edith.

‘You should have left me to sleep,’ Edith grumbled. ‘I would have slipped away peaceful, just like them stiffs they find in shop doorways, frozen to death.’

‘Stop it, Ma. Don’t talk like that.’ Clemency helped her to her feet. ‘I got us a room.’

‘I can’t walk. I can’t feel me feet. Oh, Gawd, I got frostbite for sure.’

‘No, Ma. Just put one foot in front of the other and I’ll help you down the steps.’

‘Not another blooming basement.’

‘Come on, one little step at a time.’

‘I could murder a drink. Me throat is so parched I could spit feathers.’

‘I’ll get you a cup of tea from the kitchen. Just be quiet, Ma.’

‘Tea! I meant gin, or a drop of porter.’

Clemency remembered the florin that lay untouched in her pocket. Since they weren’t paying rent for the room, she could spend it on food for Ma and Jack. ‘Maybe I can get a drop of Hollands for you, but only if you keep quiet and don’t let no one know you’re in me room.’

It took some time to get Edith down the steps, but when Clemency finally got her into the room she found that Jack had settled himself on a corner of the mattress. Even in the dim light, she could see that his expression was grim.

‘It’s just temporary,’ she said, lowering Edith
down beside him. ‘And at least we’re safe from Hardiman. He’ll never find us here.’

‘It’s not right, Clemmie,’ Jack said, shaking his head. ‘You shouldn’t have to bear the burden of the two of us. What happens if we’re discovered? You’ll lose your job for sure. And the worst of it is, I can’t do nothing to help.’ He thumped his hand down on the ticking and a spurt of dust flew up in the air.

‘Shut up, Jack. This is just the start. When I gets in well with old Throop, I’ll introduce you and your tin whistle. You’re a better musician than the bloke what plays the flute. Why, I bet if you had a fine instrument like that, you could charm the pigeons down off the lions in Trafalgar Square.’

Edith leaned back against the brick wall and closed her eyes. ‘Never mind all the chitchat, fetch us that cup of tea, Clemmie, love. Me head’s splitting.’

‘All right, Ma. But please keep quiet. Mrs Blunt mustn’t find out you’re here or we’ll all be out on the street.’ Without waiting to see what effect her words had, Clemency opened the door and went into the kitchen.