Wapping,
East London
, summer 1862
A shaft of moonlight struggling through the grimy panes of the skylight sketched
the pattern of the window on the bare floorboards of the sailmaker’s loft.
Huge rolls of canvas, wooden spars, spools of twine, sailmaker’s
palms and needles were set out with workmanlike precision, in readiness for the
next morning when the sailmaker and his apprentices would arrive for an early start. It was hardly a comfortable dwelling
place, but orphaned, twelve-year-old Eliza Bragg had only vague memories of living
in a proper house. She was used to
the smell of hemp, tar and beeswax and the eerie shadows, like ghosts of long-dead
mariners, that lurked in the corners of the sail loft above Uncle Enoch’s chandlery.
Eliza had never known her mother,
who had died giving birth to her, and, although she could remember her dad’s gruff
voice, his infectious chuckle and the smell of the river mud that had clung to his
clothes, mingling with the faint aroma of pipe tobacco, his craggy face was rapidly
fading into a misty blur. He had been
a waterman, working the dark and sometimes sinister waters of the
Thames
. In the end it was the river that
had taken his life when, in thick fog, his boat had been rammed by a larger vessel. His body had never been found.
Eliza, who had been just seven at the time, had comforted herself with
the fancy that he slept beneath the glassy surface of the great river, rocking gently
in a cradle of green waterweed, and one day might simply wake up and come home.
Her elder brother, Bart,
had followed the family tradition and was now in his last year as an apprentice
waterman. She was waiting, a little
impatiently as she was hungry, for his return from a hard day’s work on the river. Straining her eyes in the light of a
guttering stub of a candle stuck in an empty beer bottle, Eliza sat on a stool at
one of the trestles, reading a history book that she had won for being a diligent
student at the church school for which Uncle Enoch had grudgingly
paid a small annual
fee. To her chagrin, he had tried his
hardest to get her into one of the non-fee- paying ragged schools, but her entry
had been refused on the grounds that Enoch Bragg was a comparatively well-off man. Her schooldays had ended when she was
ten years old. Enoch did not approve of educated women and Eliza suspected that he did not like women at all.
He had made it clear that, in his opinion, she had had enough
book learning and she must now earn her living by working in the chandlery.
At one end of the table,
she had set out supper for herself and Bart: half a loaf of bread, a heel of cheddar
cheese, from which she had scraped most of the green mould, and a pitcher of small
beer. Outside the sail loft, the familiar
sounds of the
Thames
were muted by the night, but Eliza knew that the river never slept.
Working with the tides, there was the constant movement of sailing ships,
barges, lighters and wherries, docking and unloading with the banging of hatch covers,
shouts of the stevedores and clanking of anchor chains.
Then the whole process would continue in reverse as the empty
holds were
loaded with cargo. There
was the seemingly endless tramp of feet on gangplanks, the rumble of cartwheels over cobblestones, the creaking of cranes, and finally the setting of sails, with
the flapping sound of canvas taking up the wind.
By day there was hustle
and bustle, noise and colour but by night the soot-blackened buildings and the inky
water took on a more sinister aspect.
Eliza had read in her history book that the pre-Celtic name for the
Thames
was tamasa, meaning dark river, and she could see how the swirling water had earned
its reputation. Slithering its way
through
London
, the river was life and death to the folk who eked out a living on its banks. Sometimes the water was thick and oily-brown,
the colour of stewed tea, and sometimes it was grey-green and scaly with flotsam
like a half-submerged crocodile. At
night, living up to its name, the dark river slunk through the city, black and sticky
as tar; the last resort for the desperate and suicidal.
In all its moods, the river was both awesome and dangerous.
But then, Eliza reasoned, the whole of London was dangerous
and the East End particularly so: Bart had forbidden her to go out alone at night
and never, never to venture up Old Gravel Lane to the Ratcliff Highway, where every
other building was a cheap lodging house for seamen, a drinking place or a brothel,
and deep in the alleyways there were gaming hells and opium dens.
By day there was drunkenness, violence, vice and robbery
and, by night, even the police were afraid to venture into that particular area.
Eliza cocked her head, listening to the throbbing of a steam engine and the
hoot of its whistle as the ship prepared to sail.
She could hear the rhythmic chant of the seamen as they hauled in the anchor,
and the even louder voice of the mate bellowing orders to the crew.
Glancing at the clock on the wall, Eliza chewed the tip of her
finger, wondering where her brother had got to; he was late for his supper and that
wasn’t like him. She closed her book
and she blew out the candle to save it for when Bart came home, dirty, tired and
hungry. It was stiflingly
hot in the
loft as it always was in summer, and correspondingly cold in the winter, but she
had grown used to the extremes, having lived here since her
father’s untimely death
five years ago. Uncle Enoch had begrudgingly
taken them in, or rather he had allowed them to live in his sail loft, given them
just enough food to keep body and soul together, and had insisted that they attend the mission church of St Peter’s in Dock Street at the end of Old Gravel Lane, three
times on a Sunday. Bart had complied
with this at first, but now at twenty he was a full-grown man, strong and muscular
from years of rowing and working on the river, and his fiery temperament often clashed
with that of their domineering uncle.
Eliza admired and adored Bart, who was not only her elder brother but also her protector
and her friend.
Waiting anxiously, she went
to the top of the ladder that led down into the chandlery where Uncle Enoch spent his days making a tidy profit, though what he did with it was a mystery.
Eliza imagined that he had a brassbound chest hidden in the cellar of his
house just a few streets away, where he lived alone; too miserable and mean to share
his life with a housekeeper, let alone a wife.
Straining her ears, she leaned
through the opening and peered down the wooden stepladder.
She shivered suddenly, in spite of the heat, and her heart began
to thud; there was no reason to be frightened, but a dreadful feeling of apprehension
enveloped her like a
London
particular. Sliding down the ladder
with the nimbleness of long practice, she made her way between the shelves stacked
with every conceivable item that a shipmaster might want or need.
Alone in the darkness, she hesitated, pricking her ears and listening to
the pounding of booted feet on the cobblestones.
As they came nearer, Eliza knew by some sixth sense that Bart was in trouble and she ran to the street door. She
had barely reached it when someone began hammering on it with their fists.
She could hear Bart shouting urgently for her to let him in and she tugged
at the iron bolts with both hands. Before she had got the door half open, Bart pushed
in past her. ‘Lock it, for God’s sake. Bolt it, Liza, and don’t open it for
no one.’
Even as she shot the
last bolt, Eliza could hear the sharp blasts of police whistles and men shouting. ‘Whatever is it, Bart?
What’s happened?’
Leaning against the wall,
Bart bent double, fighting to catch his breath. ‘I killed a man, Liza.
I killed him dead.’
‘No, no, you couldn’t have,
not you.’ Eliza peered into his face.
Even in the gloom, she could see that he was deathly pale and a pulse was throbbing
at his temple. ‘Speak to me, tell me
it ain’t true.’
‘Shhh!’ Bart clamped his hand
over her mouth as the footsteps stopped outside.
Someone tried the door.
‘It’s locked. He can’t have gone in
there.’
As the sound of trampling feet
grew fainter, Bart released her with a long, shuddering sigh.
‘They’ve gone, but they’ll be back.
I’ve got to get away, Liza. If they
catch me I’ll hang and that’s for sure.’
‘Tell me what happened,’ Eliza
cried, running after him as he made his way through the shop, his boots barely seeming
to touch the rungs of the ladder as he climbed up to the sail loft.
Hampered by her long skirts,
Eliza got there to
find Bart throwing his few possessions into a ditty bag. ‘Bart, for the love of God, tell me
what’s going on.’
He paused, staring at her, his
face ghostlike in the moonlight. ‘I
never meant to do it, Liza, but I lost me temper.
The cove was drunk and he wouldn’t pay what he owed me.
I threatened to toss him in the river if he wouldn’t cough up the money.
He took a swing at me, caught me on the nose and I was mad with pain.
I picked him up and chucked him over the quay wall.’
‘That’s not so bad, is it? I’d say he deserved a ducking for trying to cheat you.’
Bart’s face contorted with
anguish as he shook his head. ‘If only
it were just that. He was stone dead
when we pulled him out. He must have hit his head on something and his neck was
broke.’
‘Oh, Bart!’ Eliza wrapped her
arms around his waist in an attempt to comfort him. ‘You never meant to hurt him,
I’m sure. The coppers will understand
that it was an accident.’
‘I won’t stand a chance if
they get me. There’s no justice for
those what can’t afford a mouthpiece.
If I go up before the beak, it’ll be the gallows for me.’
‘No, no!’ She hugged him with
all her might. ‘Don’t say that.’
Gently, Bart disentangled himself
from her grasp. ‘Don’t be scared, Liza. I just need to get away from
London
for a while.’
‘But what will we do, where
will we go?’ Eliza struggled against the tears that burned the back of her eyes. She must not cry; she was a big girl
now and not a baby.
Bart shook his head. ‘Not you,
poppet. You’re only a kid, and a girl
at that. I’ve got to make a run for
it and I can’t take you with me.’
‘But you can’t leave me here
on my own. You can’t.’
‘Listen to me, Liza.
There’s a ship sailing for
Australia
on the tide and I aim to be on it.’
‘Then take me with you.’
‘I can’t.’ Bart’s voice cracked
with suppressed emotion. ‘I’ll have
to work me passage. Uncle Enoch will
look after you, and I’ll send for you when I’ve made me fortune in the goldfields.’
Her tears were flowing now,
pouring down her cheeks in an unstoppable stream.
Hiccuping and sobbing, Eliza clutched Bart’s hand to her wet cheek. ‘Please
take me, I’ll work me passage too.
I’m stronger than I look.’
‘You wouldn’t last the voyage,
sweetheart. Now let me go, don’t make
it harder for me than it is.’
‘You said you promised our mum on her deathbed that you’d look after
me,’ Eliza cried, dashing the tears from
her eyes on the back of her hand. ‘You
can’t leave me. I won’t let you.’
Before Bart could answer,
there was a loud hammering on the door downstairs.
‘We know you’re in there, Bartholomew Bragg.
Give yourself up or it’ll be the worse for you.’
Fear for his safety
surmounted Eliza’s dread of losing him. She pointed to the skylight.
‘Get up on the roof and you can shin down the drainpipe, just like we used
to do when Uncle Enoch locked us in with no supper.’
Bart stared at her for a moment
and then he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close and rubbing his cheek
against her hair. ‘Be brave, Liza. I swear I’ll send for you as soon as
I can.’ With one last hug, he let
her go,
and hitching the ditty bag over his shoulder he leapt onto the table beneath
the skylight. He pushed it open and
climbed out. Eliza could just make
out his silhouette crouched against the purple night
sky.
A cloud had passed across the moon giving him a fleeting chance of escape. With a wave of his hand, Bart disappeared
into the darkness.
Composing herself, she went
back down the ladder and made her way slowly through the shop.
‘All right, no need to beat the door down.
I’m coming.’
The thudding on the door persisted,
accompanied by threats bellowed through the keyhole.
Slowly, to give Bart more time, Eliza pulled back the bolts, one by one.
‘Open up, I say.’
She opened the door and was
pushed back against the wall as two policemen barged in, their truncheons held at
the ready. Outside, she could see
a group of sailors, most of them the worse for drink, and she slammed the door.
One constable raced up the
ladder and the other came towards Eliza, his black brows drawn together in a menacing
frown. ‘We know he come in here, so
where is he?’
‘I dunno what you’re on about,’
Eliza said, shrugging. ‘There’s been
no one through that door since the shop closed.’
He caught hold of her ear,
giving it a vicious tweak. ‘You’re
lying, girl. He was seen heading this
way.’
Before she could answer, the
other man slid down the ladder. ‘There’s
supper set for two up there, Reg.’
She could smell onions on the
breath of her tormentor. His black
walrus moustache and mutton chop whiskers quivered as he spoke.
‘Tell me the truth now.’
‘I am telling you the truth. Me brother is due home for his supper
and that’s all I know.’
‘Leave her, Reg.
Ten to one he’s given us the slip down one of the alleys.
We’re wasting valuable time here.’
He released her with an exclamation
of annoyance and Eliza staggered against a stand of shelves.
They left the shop, banging the door behind them and she shot the bolts across,
leaning against the wall and stuffing her hand in her mouth so that they would not
hear her anguished sobbing. Without
Bart her whole world felt as though it was crumbling into dust.
He had been mother, father and brother to her since they were
orphaned and now, suddenly he was gone; accused of a terrible crime and set on leaving
the country for a far off land. Somehow,
Eliza managed to climb the ladder to the sail loft. She threw herself down on the
straw palliasse that served as a bed and cried herself to sleep.
Next morning, she found
that the rats had polished off the bread and cheese and there was nothing left to
eat, but she was not hungry. Downstairs
she could hear Uncle Enoch hammering on the shop door and demanding to be let in.
Climbing stiffly off the thin mattress, she made her way slowly down the ladder.
She pulled back the bolts with a heavy heart, dreading Uncle Enoch’s reaction when he found out what
had happened last night.
‘Lazy little good-for-nothing,’
Enoch said, pushing her out of the way.
‘I expect the shop to be opened and cleaned ready for business and I catch you sleeping. Just look at the state of you.’
‘Sorry, Uncle.’ Eliza bent her
head, staring down at her bare feet.
‘And I’ve had the police round
knocking on my door in the middle of the night.
Where is he? Where’s that bastard
brother of yours?’
So he knew: her heart sank. ‘I – I don’t know.’
Enoch glowered at her. His eyes narrowed into slits beneath
beetling brows. ‘Don’t lie to me, girl.
Unless you want your mouth washed out with soap.
Where is he?’
‘Gone.’ Raising her chin defiantly,
Eliza looked him in the eye. ‘He never done it.
It were an accident and Bart’s gone off on a ship.
They’ll never catch him.’
He caught her a blow
across her cheek that knocked her to the ground. ‘I’ve raised a nest of vipers. Is this all the thanks I get for my
Christian charity? I never wanted to
take you in, but I did it for the sake of my dead brother.
Is this how you repay me?’
Eliza bit her lip so
that she would not cry. She scrambled to her feet, clutching her cheek. ‘It were
an accident and I don’t know where he’s gone to.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘No, I ain’t.
I’m telling you the truth.’
‘Don’t answer back. Haven’t you learnt anything in church
on Sunday?’
‘I done nothing wrong, Uncle.’
‘Nothing wrong?’ Enoch’s voice
rose to a roar. He went to search behind
the counter, scrabbling around amongst the ledgers and receipts until he found a
piece of card and a pencil. He wrote
something on it and beckoned to Eliza.
‘You’ve helped a murderer to escape and you won’t say where he has gone.
You are a liar and everyone shall know it.
Come here.’
Reluctantly, Eliza went to him.
‘Turn round.’
Eliza turned her back to him
and she could feel him pinning the card to her thin cotton blouse.
The pin scraped her flesh but she did not cry out.
‘You’ll wear that until you’ve
learned your lesson. Now get about
your business and clean the shop before the customers arrive.’
Enoch looked up as the door opened, and a ruddy-cheeked, bald-headed man
strode in followed by four boys. ‘You’re
late Peck,’ Enoch said, scowling. ‘Don’t expect me to lower the rent on the premises
if you can’t fulfil your orders.’
Ted Peck, the sailmaker, strode
past Enoch, heading for the ladder. ‘Don’t worry old man, you’ll get your rent as
usual.’
Eliza kept her head bowed
so that she did not have to look at the youths as they filed past her.
She did not know what Uncle Enoch had written on the placard but she could
guess, and it wouldn’t be flattering.
Ted stopped at the bottom of the ladder, waiting until the last apprentice had scampered
up into the loft before following them at a more orderly pace.
When he reached the top, he looked back over his shoulder.
‘Miserable old bugger,’ he said, scowling at Enoch.
He closed the hatch with a bang.
Enoch looked up, frowning.
‘I’ll double his rent if he’s not careful.
And you,’ he added, pointing his quill pen at Eliza, ‘get to your work or I’ll take
you across the road to the workhouse and leave you there.’
The threat of the workhouse
was enough to make Eliza run out to the back yard where she filled a bucket with
water from the pump. She carried it
back inside, walking slowly so that she did not spill water on the tiled floor. Having fetched a mop, scrubbing brush
and a cake of lye soap from the store cupboard, she was about to start work when
Ted wrenched the hatch open and slid down the ladder.
‘How many times have I told you to clean up your mess before we start
work?’
Enoch looked up from the ledger.
‘What’s this?’
Ted approached him with a belligerent
out-thrusting of his chin. ‘You may own the place, mister, but that don’t give your relations the right to leave my
sail loft like a midden. There’s been
food left out and that’s
brought in the bleeding rats.
They’ve had a go at the spanker we’ve been working on, and eaten half a pound
of beeswax to boot. I tell you, Enoch,
I ain’t running a home for waifs and strays up there and that’s a fact.’
Enoch turned on Eliza with
a face like thunder. ‘You, girl. Go up there and sort it out.
From now on you sleep under the counter. Don’t never bring food into
the chandlery again.’
‘Come now, that’s a bit harsh.’
Ted cast an anxious glance at Eliza. ‘Maybe I spoke up a bit too hasty.’
‘You did not.
I’ve been a sight too lenient with the girl and her feckless brother. Get up that ladder, Eliza.’
There was no point in
arguing, and she climbed up into the loft where the apprentices were sitting cross-legged
on the floor, working on the large piece of canvas that Eliza knew would eventually
become a fore-and-aft sail, called a spanker.
Stepping carefully, and ignoring the taunts from the Tonks brothers, two
of the older apprentices, she went over to the table to clear away the debris left
by the rats. She was not in the mood
to be picked on by anyone, least of all two cheeky boys only a few years her senior. Mostly the apprentices treated her
with casual indifference, like a younger sister or an amusing puppy-dog, and the
copper-headed Tonks brothers were all right if you kept them in their place. Dippy Dan Bullen was a bit simple and
laughed a lot even when things weren’t funny.
Only Davy Little was her real friend, and then he had to make certain that
the other lads were not looking when he chatted to her, or gave her a fluff-covered
humbug from his pocket. They would
have teased him mercilessly had they seen him taking notice of a mere girl.
Ginger Tonks looked
up and grinned. ‘What’s this we hear
about your Bart then, young ’un?’
Carrots nudged Davy. ‘Your little friend’s brother is a murderer,
Davy. Did you know that?’
‘He ain’t,’ Eliza cried, balling
her hands into fists. ‘Don’t you dare
say that. It were an accident and that’s
the truth.’
‘Is that why you got LIAR written
on your back?’ demanded Ginger, chuckling.
Davy leapt to his feet. ‘That’s enough.
Leave her alone, can’t you?
Whatever Bart’s done it ain’t Liza’s fault.’
‘Ooer!’ Dippy Dan jumped up
and did a jig, giggling and chanting,. ‘Davy’s sweet on Liza, Davy’s sweet on Liza. Bart’s going to have his neck stretched.
Bart’s going to have…’
‘Shut up!’ Davy turned on him. ‘You ain’t funny, Dippy.’
‘Leave him alone,’ Ginger said,
shoving the needle through the canvas with the aid of a sailmaker’s palm.
‘Best get on, Davy, or Peck will give you what for.’
‘Be quiet, all of you,’ Eliza
said, piling the palliasses one on top of the other and shoving them in a far corner. ‘And don’t let me hear one bad word
about Bart or I’ll ...’
‘Or what, young Liza?’ Carrots
got to his feet and struck a pose.
‘Want to take a big feller on then?’
‘She can’t, but I can,’ Davy
said, squaring up to him. ‘Pick on
someone your own size.’
‘Stop it.’ Eliza swept the
remains of the supper into her apron.
‘I’ll tell you this once and for all: my brother never killed no one, at least not
intentionally. He’s gone off on a ship
to the other side of the world and…’ Choking .on a sob, Eliza bunched up her apron
and made for the ladder.
Davy followed her to the open
hatch. ‘Don’t pay no heed to them idiots.’
Thrusting his hand in his pocket, he pulled out an apple and handed it to Eliza. ‘Here, take this.
The rats ate your supper and I bet you ain’t had nothing to eat this
morning.’
Eliza hesitated, certain
that this was Davy’s dinner, but she didn’t want to hurt his feelings and she was
extremely hungry. She took it
with a smile and a nod. ‘Ta, Davy.’
At ten o’clock that evening, just as it was getting dark, Enoch emptied the till
and put the takings into a leather pouch.
‘Don’t forget,’ he said, scowling at Eliza, ‘you sleep under the counter and I want
the shop floor cleaned and everything nice and tidy when I arrive in the morning.’
‘Yes, Uncle.’ Dog-tired and
fraught with worry about Bart, Eliza stood with her hands behind her back, digging
her fingernails into her palms and biting back tears.
Apart from the apple that Davy had given her, she had eaten nothing all day
and now she was light-headed with hunger.
Enoch was about to leave, but
he paused in the doorway, delving his hand into his pocket.
He produced two pennies, tossing them onto the floor at Eliza’s feet. ‘Get yourself something to eat in the
pie shop. I won’t have anyone say I
neglect my duty. And make sure you
lock up after me.’
After he had gone, Eliza bolted
the door. Left alone in the gloom,
she felt suddenly nervous. The stands
of shelves seemed menacing as they loomed over her in the half-light; there were
creaks and scuffling sounds coming at her from all directions. It could have been
the floorboards contracting in the cool of the evening, or it might be rats coming
out to look for food. She had been
forbidden to go upstairs to the familiar surroundings of the sail loft, but the
shop at night was a frightening place. Even if Bart had been late home, at least
she had always known that he would come eventually.
How would she manage without Bart to comfort and protect her?
All day, she had worried about him, wondering if he had managed
to get a berth on a ship and praying that he had got away.
Surely she would have heard if the police had caught him?
The light was fading fast now and Eliza went behind the counter
to look for a box of vestas, and having found one she lit a candle.
Its flickering flame cast ghostly shadows on the walls and ceiling.
Something brushed past Eliza’s cheek and she let out a scream, but it was
only a moth attracted by the candlelight.
By now, she was
trembling with fear, as well as hunger, and shielding the flame with her hand, she
went through to the back of the shop.
She stuck the candle on the lid of a paint tin with a bit of melted wax, and unlocking
the door to the back yard she went outside into the velvet warmth of the July night. The stench from privies, overflowing
sewers, rotting detritus in the streets and the stinking mud from the river made
Eliza cover her nose with her hand, but within a few seconds she had accustomed
herself to the noxious smell. She felt her way through the packing crates and other
items that Uncle Enoch stored outside, to the heavily locked gate.
She turned the iron key in the lock and shot back the three strategically
placed bolts. It would, she thought,
be easier to escape from the
Tower of London
than Uncle Enoch’s back yard. As she
stepped outside into the alley, something large and black ran across her feet. An
unseen hand touched her arm and she screamed.
‘It’s only me, Liza.’
Spinning round to face him,
Eliza slapped Davy on the shoulder.
‘You idiot, you frightened me half to death.’
‘Sorry, I never meant to. I was waiting for you.’
She took a deep breath, struggling
to control her erratic heartbeats.
She had thought for an instant that it was the police, who had been lying in wait to trap her into telling them where Bart had gone.
‘How did you know I’d come out this way?’
‘I knew you’d have to get some
grub and the old skinflint wouldn’t be asking you round to dine as his place.’
Even in the darkness, Eliza
sensed that Davy was grinning and suddenly her own mood lifted.
‘I got tuppence,’ she said, jingling the coins in her pocket. ‘Let’s go to
the pie shop.’
‘I wouldn’t say no to a plate
of pie and mash. The old man’s drunk
his wages again this week. We’re on
bread and scrape until Pete brings his wages home from the brewery.’
‘Come on then,’ Eliza said,
breaking into a trot. ‘I’ll race you
to the pie shop.’
Later, having enjoyed a plate of steak pie, mash and gravy washed down with mugs
of sweet tea, Eliza and Davy walked down
Old Gravel Lane
to Execution Dock, where pirates had once been hanged and left in cages to rot,
as a warning to those who might consider following their bloodthirsty profession. Despite its grim history, or maybe
because of it, Eliza and Davy often walked this way; deliberately ignoring Bart’s
stern warning never to venture there, especially at night.
Drunken sailors of all nationalities were weaving their way back to their
ships, some with equally intoxicated women hanging on their arms, singing, laughing
and taking swigs of jigger gin from crusty bottles. Eliza cast a pitying glance
at an old woman bent double, skimming the pavements for dog faeces, which she would
sell as pure to be used in the tanneries.
Turning her head away, Eliza held her nose. ‘I don’t know how she can do that.’
‘I don’t expect she’s got much choice,’ Davy said, guiding Eliza away from a particularly putrid pile of turds. ‘Hey, lady, there’s
a tuppenny-worth
of pure here.’
The old woman raised her head. ‘Ta, ducks.’
Shuffling up behind them she scooped the revolting mess into her bucket.
Eliza walked quickly on. ‘Poor soul!
I don’t suppose she was always like that.’
Davy fell into step beside
her. ‘It’s easy to fall on hard times.’
Coming to a halt on the edge
of the quay wall, Eliza stared down at the
oily black water slithering out to sea
on the high tide. The reflections of
the gaslights shimmered in fractured pools on the surface.
‘It looks like dead people holding flaming torches beneath the
water,’ Eliza said, shuddering.
Davy looked over her shoulder.
‘It’s just your imagination, Liza.
It looks like reflections of the street lights to me.’
She gave him a sideways glance,
unsure whether or not he was laughing at her; he wasn’t. ‘That
bloke died in the
river; the one that Bart pushed off the quay wall.
He never meant to kill him.’
‘Did he drown then?’
‘He was dead when they fished
him out. Bart thought his neck was
broke.’
Davy hooked his thumbs
into his belt with a careless shrug.
‘There’s plenty of corpses dragged from the river every night.
The dead houses is stacked high with suicides and them what’s met a sticky
end. Me dad says that poor sods chuck
themselves off bloody bridge in New Gravel Lane, sometimes two or three a night.
They ends up floating in the East London Dock or
else they gets carried out through
the basin into the river. He drags
them out all bloated and swollen - that’s when he’s sober enough to know what he’s
about.’
Eliza had seen the odd dead
cow or dog floating downstream but never a human body; she quickly put the image
out of her mind. ‘Don’t let’s talk about it.’
A noise from across the street
put a stop to the
conversation as two drunken men lurched out of a pub, falling
into the gutter. Punching and kicking,
they rolled over and over on the thick carpet of straw, mud and horse dung. Men and women staggered out of the
pub door, forming a small crowd and egging them on. Then the fight seemed to escalate
as minor scraps broke out, was and soon there was a tangle of flailing limbs, shouting,
swearing and grunts of pain.
‘Come on,’ David said, grabbing
Eliza by the hand. ‘Let’s get out of
here.’ They ran along the quay wall
in the direction of home. Davy slowed
down a little as they reached the workhouse at the end of
Old Gravel
Lane
. They were out of range of the brawling
drunks now, but he would not allow Eliza to rest until they reached the alley behind
the chandlery.
Breathless, and with a stitch
in her side, Eliza leaned against the gate.
‘You’d best get home, Davy; it’s late and you got to get up early.’
‘Will you be all right on your
own, Liza?’
‘Of course I will.’ She tossed
her head, but inside she was quaking at the thought of going back inside the empty
building.
‘I’ll see you in the morning then. Ta-ta.’ Davy loped off in the direction
of
Farmer Street
, where his large family dwelt in a damp, overcrowded cellar.
Eliza crept into the
yard. In the distance she could still
hear the blasts of police whistles and men shouting.
A pair of eyes glowing in the dark made her stifle a scream,
but it was only a cat out hunting: she could have cried with relief when it leapt
on top of the wall with an angry miaow.
Having locked and bolted the
gate, Eliza was fumbling for the key to the back door when someone grabbed her from
behind and a hand clamped over her mouth.
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