The Cockney Angel Read online

  ‘No, it’s only me. I’ll make us some tea and then I’ll go looking for him.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea, love. You know it makes him angry when we fuss. Anyway, I need you in the shop this morning. Mr Yapp will be making a delivery and me hands is too painful to stack the bottles and jars on the shelves. But a cup of tea would be lovely, and a piece of toast would go down well. I got the fire going upstairs so it shouldn’t take long.’

  After a hasty breakfast of tea and toast, Irene insisted that her mother went back to bed in order to catch up on some of the sleep she had lost worrying about her errant husband. Sometimes Irene despaired of Pa and this was one of those moments. With all the love in the world she had to admit that he had many faults. It was true that he could charm the rooks from the plane tree if he put his mind to it, but at the best of times he was irresponsible, and at his worst he was outrageously feckless. At forty-five he was still a handsome devil, with flashing brown eyes and hair that gleamed black like the best coal. He loved life but never took anything seriously, especially when it came to earning an honest living and providing for his family. And yet, for all his many failings, to Irene he was a dashing corsair and she could never hold his misdemeanours against him – at least, not for long. She struggled to cope with his addiction to gambling and she grew impatient with him when he showed little concern for her mother’s ill-health. Then, by something close to a miracle, he would redeem himself by coming home with some frippery that he had picked up in a street market, or a bunch of flowers that were more than likely to have been stolen from a graveyard, which he would present to his wife with the aplomb of a great stage actor. Irene smiled to herself at the very thought of it. Occasionally, she felt that she was his senior and he was little more than a wayward child, and that made her feel even more protective towards him.

  She spun round at the sound of the door opening, but it was only Yapp’s boy, Danny Priest. ‘Delivery for you, miss.’

  Through the grimy windowpanes Irene could see Yapp’s cart laden with wooden crates and wicker baskets lined with straw and filled with bottles and jars of pickles and sauce. ‘Ta, Danny. Bring it in, if you please.’

  He backed out of the door gazing at her with moonstruck eyes. Irene gave him an encouraging smile. Danny could not be more than twelve or thirteen, and he was a skinny little monkey of a boy, all gangly arms and legs that did not seem to be properly coordinated. He blushed beneath his freckles whenever she spoke to him and he was so eager to please her that he almost fell over himself in his efforts. She watched him rush to the cart and lift off a box which was so heavy that he had to bend almost in two in order to prevent it from dropping onto the cobblestones. With an obvious effort, he straightened up and staggered into the shop, turning red in the face, with his pale blue eyes bulging. He managed to heft it onto the counter, setting it down so hard that the glass jars jangled together. A look of consternation puckered his face. ‘Old Yapp will beat the daylights out of me if I’ve broke anything.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s no harm done,’ Irene said, keeping her eye on Yapp, who was perched on the driver’s seat of his cart with a clay pipe clenched between his teeth. He peered through the window, scowling at Danny, and his hand went automatically to clutch the large horsewhip at his side. Irene smiled and waved to him. ‘Morning, Mr Yapp,’ she mouthed.

  He nodded curtly and she saw his fingers relax on the whip handle.

  ‘Ta, miss,’ Danny said, gazing at her as if she had sprouted wings and a halo. ‘You’re a blooming angel, that’s what you are.’

  ‘If only that were true,’ she said, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Best get on with your work, or you’ll be in real trouble with old Yapp and I wouldn’t want that to happen.’

  Danny made a grab for a basket of bottles and shot out of the door, dodging a cuff round the ear from Yapp as he deposited the basket of empties in the cart and picked up one that was ready for delivery. He staggered back into the shop and dumped his burden on the counter.

  ‘Cash on delivery, the boss says,’ he said breathlessly.

  Irene reached beneath the counter for the cash box. She opened it and frowned. Yesterday’s takings had been reasonably good, but all that remained now was a threepenny bit and a handful of coppers. There was only one person who would rob the till and he still had not made an appearance. She looked up and met Danny’s anxious gaze. ‘I’m afraid I can’t settle the account in full, but I will have the right amount later in the day.’

  Danny shook his head and his bottom lip trembled. ‘He’ll beat me if I don’t get the cash, miss. You know he don’t allow credit.’

  She emptied the coins onto the counter and pushed them towards him. ‘Take this to Mr Yapp and tell him that I need an hour or two, but he will be paid by close of business today. I promise.’

  ‘I’ll tell him but he won’t like it.’

  A shout from Yapp made Danny glance nervously out of the window. He scooped up the coins and hurried from the shop. Irene watched as the boy handed the money to his master, receiving yet another clout round the head for his pains. Yapp stood up in the well of the cart and for a moment Irene thought that he was going to climb down and come blustering into the shop, but he shook his fist at her mouthing words that she was glad she could not hear. Having apparently vented his feelings he slumped down on the seat and cracked the whip over the horse’s rump, causing the poor animal to lurch forward. Danny was left to run along behind until he gathered enough speed to take a flying leap onto the footplate at the back of the cart.

  Praying silently that Pa would return home soon with at least some of his winnings intact, Irene set about the task of stacking the shelves with jars of Yapp’s Best Pickled Onions, beetroot and mustard pickle. She lined them up like soldiers on the parade ground, and having satisfied herself that all the labels were clearly visible and any stickiness had been wiped clean, she started on the bottles of sauce. Taking each glass container from its nest of straw, she wiped and polished them until they sparkled in the shredded shafts of sunlight that filtered through the small windowpanes.

  Tomato, anchovy and hot chilli sauce with tamarind were all specialities created by Obadiah Yapp, as he was proud to tell anyone who was prepared to listen. As a young man he had joined the army and when his regiment was sent to India he had developed a taste for hot and exotic foods. On his return home he had missed the spicy condiments with which they flavoured their food, and had experimented until he discovered the exact recipe that would titillate the taste buds of Londoners. Irene had heard the story so many times that she knew it by heart.

  She set the last bottle on the shelf and stacked the boxes and baskets beneath the counter to await collection. It was still early and trade was slow, but as the morning wore on a gradual trickle of customers came through the door to make their purchases. Irene kept glancing anxiously at the clock on the wall, and every time the door opened her hopes were raised, only to be dashed when it was not her father who walked into the shop.

  Clara came downstairs at midday, looking pale but slightly less drawn than she had first thing. She leaned against the newel post at the foot of the stairs. ‘He hasn’t come home then?’

  Irene was quick to hear the note of despair in her mother’s voice and she forced herself to smile cheerfully. ‘Not yet, but I’m sure he’ll arrive any minute now with a sore head and feeling very sorry for hisself.’

  ‘I don’t know, Irene. I got a bad feeling about this. He’s usually home afore noon. I heard the church clock strike twelve and that’s what woke me.’

  ‘Do you want me to go looking for him, Ma?’ Irene glanced out through the window at the sunny street. Suddenly she longed to be free from the dark little shop with its low ceiling supported by beams that resembled the spreading roots of the great plane tree. Sometimes it felt as though the tree itself was reaching into the room to strangle and overpower her. Spending twelve hours a day behind the counter was not her idea of fun, nor was it
her chosen path in life, but Ma needed her. Unless Pa mended his ways, which was very unlikely, she knew that there was little chance of leading her own life. Sometimes she almost envied her older sister Emmie who had married the first man who came along as a means of escape.

  She had married Josiah Tippet, a middle-aged draper with a taste for mustard pickles and a house in Love Lane. He had buried two wives and had apparently been on the lookout for a third when he came into the shop and had laid eyes on Emily, who was quick to spot the main chance. Emmie was a sweet girl and a loving sister, but Irene had to admit that she had always had ideas above her station, and now she fancied herself as quite a lady, wed to a man who was a well-respected member of the Drapers’ Company and cherished hopes of becoming an alderman before too long.

  ‘Would you, ducks?’

  Her mother’s voice broke into Irene’s thoughts, dragging her back to the present. ‘Of course, Ma. I’ll find him and bring him home safe and sound.’

  ‘Don’t go too far then. Just take a walk around the courts and alleys where he goes at night, and if you see any of his mates you might ask them if they know where he might be found.’ Clara’s voice broke on a sob and she clutched her hand to her throat. ‘I’m afraid he might have been set upon by thieves and left for dead in the gutter somewhere. My poor Billy.’ Tears welled in her eyes and she raised her apron to cover her face.

  Irene hurried round the counter to hook her arm around her mother’s shoulders and she led her to a bentwood chair that was normally reserved for privileged customers. She pressed her gently down onto its hard seat. ‘Don’t upset yourself, Ma. It’s just your imagination taking over. Pa can look after hisself. I expect he’s just lost track of time. You know how he is when his luck is in.’

  ‘I know I’m probably worrying over nothing, but I just can’t get these thoughts out of me head.’

  Irene snatched up her shawl. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can, and you mustn’t worry or you’ll make yourself ill. Trade’s slow today, so you shouldn’t be too busy while I’m gone.’

  ‘You’re such a thoughtful girl,’ Clara said, wiping her eyes. ‘I dunno what I’d do without you.’

  ‘I’ll be back in two shakes of a cat’s tail, and I’ll bring Pa home with me.’

  Irene stepped outside into the warm sunshine of a late September afternoon. Wood Street was now thronged with horse-drawn vehicles both private and commercial. Hansom cabs, brewers’ drays and wagons laden with sacks of hay or crates filled with everything from tea to cow horns clattered over the cobbles, jostling each other for space. Bare-footed street urchins stood on street corners selling matches or bootlaces, and others, too young or too poor even to afford small amounts of goods to trade, begged for money to buy food. Office clerks, merchants, law writers, housewives going to market and servants running errands crowded the pavements, making Irene’s progress slow and difficult.

  She headed for Goldsmith Street and the rabbit warren of dark alleys and courts that led off Gutter Lane. Opium dens and gambling hells were tucked away behind respectable city offices, banks, small shops and businesses. She knew them all by heart. As her recurring nightmares reminded her, she had stood on street corners from the age of five, acting as lookout while her father worked as a bookie’s runner, risking arrest by taking illegal bets. She had been too young to know what she was doing, but she had been instructed to watch out for the copper on his beat, and to warn her father if she saw one so that he had time to pocket the cash and run. They would slip into the shadows and disappear down the very alleyways that she was searching now. It had been terrifying at times but there had also been an element of fun, like playing a game of hide and seek. Pa could make the dullest day turn into an adventure, especially when they were escaping the clutches of the law, which Pa said was designed for the benefit of the rich toffs and not for the likes of them. Irene had been indoctrinated at an early age to be wary of anyone wearing a uniform and above all to distrust the police. On the other hand, Ma had taught her the difference between right and wrong, and insisted that the cops were only doing their duty and should be respected. It had been very confusing.

  As her search progressed with no sign of her father, Irene was beginning to fear the worst. By late afternoon she was tired and hungry. Her feet were sore, her legs ached and she was just about to give up and go home when she heard a man’s voice raised in song. There was no mistaking the melodious notes of Pa’s pure baritone, and she had heard that particular ditty often enough to know that it was one of his favourites, only sung when he was well oiled. The sound was coming from the depths of a narrow alley in the shadow of Newgate prison. Without thinking of her own safety, Irene entered the twilight world between the grim buildings with soot-blackened windows peering blindly into the gloom. Men lounged in doorways smoking strange-smelling substances. She could tell by the other-worldly look on their faces that they were drugged with opium, but they paid her scant attention as she hurried towards a patch of light where the tenements and warehouses formed a square open to the sky. Sprawled on a pile of old sacks, she saw the familiar figure of her father who lay flat on his back singing loudly and interspersing the risqué words with loud guffaws of laughter. But he was not alone, and she skidded to a halt at the sight of a man dressed in black bending over her father. Her heart gave an uncomfortable thud against her ribcage. Was he robbing Pa? Or was he attempting to help him to his feet? She ran at the stranger and grabbed him by the arm. ‘Leave him be, mister. Don’t hurt my pa.’

  He straightened up, flicking free of her grasp as if she were a small and irritating insect. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I mean him no harm.’

  He was much taller than she had at first supposed, and this man was no common thief. His dark suit was well cut and his shirt collar and cuffs were starched and dazzling in their whiteness. From the crown of his black bowler hat to the tips of his shiny black leather shoes he had the appearance of a City gentleman, but the piercing gaze of his startlingly blue eyes set beneath straight dark eyebrows seemed to bore into her soul. She was unused to such scrutiny and she backed away, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Unless she was very much mistaken, this bloke was a copper. She had been trained to spot one a mile off. ‘I’m sorry, mister. My mistake.’

  He inclined his head in a brief acknowledgement of her apology. ‘If this man is your father, I suggest you take him home before he gets into real trouble.’

  She bent down to tug at her father’s hand in a vain attempt to drag him to his feet. ‘Get up, Pa.’

  Billy opened his eyes, grinning foolishly. ‘Hello, Irene my duck.’

  ‘Please get up, Pa. I’ve come to take you home.’

  ‘I’m nice and comfy here, girl,’ Billy said, closing his eyes again and snuggling into the pile of dirty sacks as though it were a feather mattress. ‘I’ll just have forty winks …’ His voice trailed off into a loud snore.

  Irene knelt down on the filthy cobblestones. ‘Wake up or you’ll get done for being drunk and disorderly.’ She shook him by the shoulders, but Billy did not respond. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that the stranger was about to walk away. ‘Excuse me, mister,’ she called. ‘Could you give me a hand, please?’

  He turned his head and regarded her with raised brows. ‘I have more important things to do right now.’

  ‘I don’t think I can lift him on me own,’ Irene said, attempting to heave Billy to a sitting position. The alleyway had suddenly cleared of the men who were previously hanging about, but she knew they would reappear the moment that the officer of the law departed, and she was afraid that if her father had any of his winnings left in his pockets they would fall on them and take his money by force. She met the police officer’s cynical gaze with a straight look. ‘I’d be obliged, mister. Since it’s you who wants him moved on.’

  He was at her side in two long strides and he hoisted Billy to his feet. ‘Can you stand on your own, man?’

  ‘Shall we dance, cully?’ Billy asked with a tipsy gr
in, throwing an arm around the police officer’s neck.

  ‘Behave yourself, Pa,’ Irene said, blushing with embarrassment. She took her father’s free arm and hooked it around her shoulders. ‘I think I can manage him now, mister,’ she murmured.

  ‘Are you sure of that?’ He allowed her to take Billy’s full weight for a second or two but her knees buckled beneath her and she almost fell to the ground.

  ‘It’s obvious that you cannot,’ the officer said, relieving her of her burden and signalling to two uniformed constables who came hurrying towards them.

  ‘I’m afraid we lost them, Inspector Kent,’ the elder of the two said, eyeing Billy suspiciously. ‘Is this one of the gang, guv?’

  ‘That’s my pa,’ Irene said hastily. ‘He’s a bit swipey but he’s no criminal.’

  ‘Take him, Burton.’ Kent thrust Billy’s swaying frame into the arms of the fresh-faced younger officer. ‘He might have been involved but he’s too drunk to give us any useful information.’

  Irene plucked at Kent’s sleeve. ‘My pa don’t have nothing to do with the street gangs, mister – I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’

  His lips twitched and a glimmer of humour lit his eyes. He inclined his head in a formal bow. ‘Inspector Edward Kent of the City of London Police – and you are?’

  ‘I’m Irene Angel, and this here is my pa, Billy Angel. We’re respectable folk. My mother has a pickle shop on the corner of Wood Street and Cheapside. Pa likes a drink occasionally but he’s not a bad man.’

  ‘We all know Billy Angel, sir,’ Constable Burton said in a low voice. ‘He’s a professional gambler, and he’s known to frequent illegal gaming houses. He’s also suspected of having dealings with the Sykes gang.’

  ‘Now that’s a big black lie,’ Billy said, shaking his fist. ‘I’ve never been near Blue Boar Court in me whole life. It’s a case of mistaken identity.’

  ‘I never mentioned Blue Boar Court,’ Constable Burton said with a triumphant grin. ‘See, guv, he’s convicted hisself out of his own stupid mouth.’