A Loving Family Read online

  Stella scrambled to her feet. ‘I am, sir.’

  ‘And I’d say by the amount of mud on your boots that you’ve already walked a fair way.’

  ‘From Havering, sir.’

  ‘And where are you heading for, my dear?’

  The kindly twinkle in his eyes gave her confidence. ‘To Limehouse, sir. Broadway Wharf, where my mother lives.’

  ‘That’s a long way for a child of your age to walk.’ His brow puckered into a thoughtful frown. ‘I have sons who are fairly close to you in age and I wouldn’t like to see them in a situation such as yours. I can take you as far as Stratford. Would that help?’

  Stella hesitated, and then she smiled. ‘My feet hurt, sir. I’d be very grateful.’

  He extended his hand. ‘Come along, then. There’s no time to waste as I’m going to see my own mother on this special day and I’d say she’s a great deal older than yours.’ He hoisted Stella onto the seat beside him and flicked the reins to encourage his horse into an ambling gait.

  By the time they reached Stratford railway station Stella had discovered that the gentleman’s name was Mr Hendy and he owned a farm near Navestock. She in turn had told him of her father’s death by drowning which had left his family to face poverty and near starvation. ‘If it hadn’t been for Mr Walters, the man who owns the house on Broadway Wharf, we would have been living on the streets,’ she said, sighing. ‘He was my pa’s friend and he let us keep the two rooms on the top floor after my gran died.’

  ‘And you have been sending all your money home to help your poor mother.’ Mr Hendy cleared his throat and urged the horse to walk a little faster. ‘I’d say you are a very good daughter, Stella.’

  ‘No, sir. I spent a half-crown on these boots in the dolly shop. I should have saved the money and given it to Ma. She needs it more than me. I get three meals a day at Portgone Place and a nice clean bed to sleep in at night. There ain’t no bedbugs in Sir Percy’s house.’

  She saw his lips twitch and she was annoyed. ‘Bedbugs is no laughing matter, Mr Hendy. My gran used to tell us how some of the corpses she had to lay out was running with the little buggers, and head lice too.’

  He threw back his head and laughed. ‘My word, Stella. You’ve brightened my day.’ He made an effort to be serious but his eyes were bright with amusement. ‘I’m not laughing at you, and I know that bugs of any sort are a dreadful pest.’

  ‘They most certainly are, sir. I don’t suppose you’ve ever suffered that way.’

  ‘No, but I can imagine what it must have been like for your poor grandmother, who doubtless was a worthy soul.’ He drew the horse to a halt outside the railway station. ‘Now, I have a suggestion to make, Stella. You must hear me out and allow me to help you.’

  ‘I don’t understand, sir.’

  He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a leather pouch. ‘I am going to give you the fare to London. I want you to catch the train to Bow, which is much closer to your destination. I’m giving you enough money for the return fare to Brentwood, which is near to where you’ve come from. I want you to promise me that you will keep this money for that purpose and that purpose alone.’ He closed his large fist over the coins and held her gaze with a purposeful stare. ‘Promise.’

  She held out her hand. ‘I dunno why you’re being so kind to me, but I promise.’

  ‘Good girl.’ He dropped the money into her palm. ‘Now go into the station and buy a ticket. Get the first train to Bow, where you must change trains for the Blackwall extension railway which will take you to Limehouse. You should be with your family very soon.’ He leaned over and dropped a kiss on her forehead. ‘You’re a brave child and I’m pleased to have been able to help. Now get along with you, Stella. Don’t waste time chatting to an old man like me.’

  ‘I’ll never forget your kindness, Mr Hendy.’ Stella picked up the basket and climbed carefully down to the ground. She blew him a kiss before turning and hurrying into the ticket office.

  It was a short walk from the station to Broadway Wharf and although it was Sunday the holiness of the day did not seem to have affected the denizens of Limehouse. Barefooted urchins played in the streets and the older boys formed small gangs, loitering on corners of dark alleyways, sizing up passers-by with obvious intent. Feral cats and dogs scavenged in the gutters, seeking anything that was remotely edible. Stella walked on, head held high, knowing that any show of fear would alert the hunter instinct in the bigger boys and she would be their prey.

  As she drew closer to the river she caught a whiff of the rank mud at low water together with a mixture of aromas from the warehouses and manufactories on the water’s edge. The sickly sweet smell of hot molasses mingled with the heady aroma of roasted coffee beans and exotic spices, but even the fumes from Curtis’s gin distillery did not quite mask the overpowering stench of overflowing sewers, coal tar, soot and animal excrement.

  She stopped, getting her bearings, and realised her mistake too late. A hostile cry, the thudding of bare feet on cobblestones, a rush of air, and flying bodies hurled her to the ground. She lay, gasping for breath, covering her head in expectation of a beating, but the gang had got what they wanted and vanished as quickly as they had come, disappearing into the maze of narrow courts that threaded like spidery veins between the warehouses and factory buildings. It was only when she managed to rise to her feet that she realised her basket had gone. The precious cake intended as a present for her mother had been taken by ravening youths who were probably fighting over it like wild animals. She felt in her pocket and to her horror it was empty. The money that Mr Hendy had so kindly given to her had also been stolen. She was too angry to cry and too bruised from the fall to think clearly. All she wanted now was to go home to her mother.

  She limped towards the river. She had spent her early years with the sound of the great Thames as it roared past Limehouse Reach ringing in her ears, and she had seen its strong currents merging with the surge of the incoming tide. The creak of the wooden hulls of boats moored alongside the many wharves and the flapping of stays against wooden masts had lulled her to sleep as a baby, and her playground had been the muddy foreshore at low tide. She was coming home and she began to run.

  She arrived at Broadway Wharf breathless and sobbing. Soon she would be with her family at the very top of the ramshackle weatherboard house, which balanced precariously on piles driven into the mud and was sandwiched between the harbour master’s house and a one-storey building advertising craft for hire. She clambered up the rickety outside steps but no one answered her frantic raps on the door. Close to panic she descended at breakneck speed and hammered on the lighterman’s door. She waited, hardly able to contain her impatience. Any moment now kindly Mrs Walters would open the door and welcome her home. She would ask her in and make her a cup of tea while she waited for Ma and the nippers to return.

  The front door opened and a stranger stood there, glaring at her. ‘What d’you want?’

  ‘Where is Mrs Walters?’

  ‘That ain’t none of your business, girl. Clear off.’

  Stella could see that the woman was about to slam the door in her face and she put her foot over the threshold. ‘I live here, ma’am. Or rather my mother does.’

  The woman’s beady eyes narrowed and her thin lips compressed into a line as if pencilled on her plump face. ‘I dunno what you’re talking about. This is Perkins the lighterman’s house and I’m Mrs P.’

  ‘But Mr Walters lives here, and my ma and brother and sister live in the top rooms overlooking the wharf. I was born here, Mrs Perkins.’

  ‘Mr Walters passed away six months ago and his wife not long after.’ Mrs Perkins removed a wad of tobacco from her mouth and spat on the ground, narrowly missing Stella’s feet. ‘But if you’re referring to that Spanish woman and her brats she left here weeks ago and good riddance. We don’t want no foreigners in our house. Now clear off or I’ll call Mr Perkins, who is at present having a rest. He don’t like being disturbed when he’s h
aving a snooze.’ She attempted to close the door by crushing Stella’s foot against the jamb but, despite the pain, Stella was not going to give up so easily.

  ‘Please, ma’am, if you know where my mother might have gone, won’t you tell me? I’ve come a long way to visit her.’

  ‘I don’t know and what’s more I don’t care. Now move your foot or I’ll crush it like a bug.’

  Stella moved away just in time as the door was slammed in her face. She stood on the step, staring at the rusty doorknocker in disbelief. She was living her worst nightmare and surely she would wake up and find that it was all a horrible dream. She pinched her arm and winced. She was not dreaming. This was real and she did not know what to do. It had started to rain. Seized by panic she ran to the harbour master’s house and beat her hands on the door panels, but no one came to answer her pleas for help. She tried each door in the street until at last a tired-looking woman with a baby in her arms answered her frantic cries. ‘What’s up with you?’ she demanded crossly. ‘You’ve woken the baby with your noise.’

  ‘It’s Mrs Stubbs, isn’t it?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’ Mrs Stubbs brushed a strand of lank hair from her forehead with a grubby hand.

  ‘It’s me, Stella Barry, from Mr Walters’ house.’

  ‘Old Walters died and some other cove with a miserable bitch of a wife took the place on.’

  ‘But you must remember my family, Mrs Stubbs. My mother is a beautiful dark-haired lady from . . .’

  ‘The Spanish woman,’ Mrs Stubbs said, curling her lip. ‘We got enough foreigners here what with the sailors from all parts swarming over the place like water rats. I don’t hold with people from abroad. You can’t trust ’em, and your ma was probably no better than she should be.’

  ‘Don’t speak of her like that,’ Stella cried angrily. ‘My mother is a good woman and my pa is dead. He was lost at sea when his ship went down.’

  The puny baby opened his eyes and his bottom lip trembled as he worked himself up to a whimper which swiftly turned into a howl. ‘Now look what you’ve done.’ Mrs Stubbs retreated into her cottage. ‘Go away. I dunno what’s happened to the Spanish woman and what’s more I don’t care.’ She slammed the door, making what little glass there was left in the window frames rattle dangerously, and small shards fell to the pavement like hailstones.

  Stella stuffed her hand in her mouth, stifling a sob. She looked around but the normally busy street was quiet at this time on a Sunday, and the small shops were closed and shuttered. There was no one to whom she could turn and she had to be back at Portgone Place by nightfall. Tears coursed down her cheeks and she stood in the middle of the road, not knowing what to do or where to turn for help. She must find Ma, but where to start? Her breath hitched in her throat and she felt a sharp pain in her chest. There was only one place where a destitute woman and her children could go and be assured of being taken in, and that was the place that struck fear into the hearts of the poor. She set off for Church Lane and Limehouse workhouse.

  The iron gates were locked and she had to ring the bell several times before an elderly man shuffled across the yard to glare at her through the ornate scrollwork. ‘Well?’

  ‘Please, sir, can you tell me if my mother and brother and sister are here?’

  ‘Stop pestering me and go away.’

  She reached through the gate to clutch his sleeve as he turned away. ‘I’m not pestering, sir. I came home to see my mother on Mothering Sunday and found her gone. I don’t know where else to look.’

  ‘Ain’t you got no other relations?’

  Stella thought hard. She had heard Ma and Granny talking in hushed tones about relations who lived in Bethnal Green who would have nothing to do with them. She remembered her father’s Aunt Maud as being a kindly soul, but she had only seen her on a couple of occasions. Aunt Maud had seemed like an old lady then and might well be dead and buried. ‘No, mister. There’s no one.’

  He shook her hand off with a careless shrug. ‘I can’t tell you nothing.’

  ‘Is there no one who can help me?’

  He glanced at her clothes and booted feet. ‘You ain’t a pauper by the looks of you. Go back to where you came from. If you can’t find your ma it’s probably because she don’t want to be found. Now be on your way; I’m going to finish me dinner.’ He ambled off, leaving her standing by the gate, staring into the empty yard. A feeling of desperation and hopelessness overcame her. She had no money and worst of all she had been robbed of the present she had brought for her mother. She felt its loss almost as deeply as she experienced the pain and desperation of not knowing where to find Ma. Where were Freddie and Belinda? The East End of London could swallow up people like a greedy monster and many were never seen again. For all she knew her family might be living under the railway arches or in the filthy confines of the Thames tunnel. She had heard of such things but had never once thought that it could happen to them.

  She stood for several minutes in the pouring rain, which seeped through her woollen shawl and soaked the thin material of her best frock. Water dripped off her sodden straw bonnet and trickled down between her shoulder blades, but she was oblivious to anything but the pain and desperation of her situation. Blinded by tears and raindrops she heard the familiar sound of an approaching vehicle and she stepped into the road, waving her arms. The startled horse reared in its shafts and the driver drew it to a halt. ‘You stupid little brat. What d’you think you’re doing, frightening my old mare like that?’

  She looked up into the man’s grubby face and suddenly the world seemed to spin about her head and she felt herself slipping into a deep pool of darkness.

  Chapter Three

  Portgone Place, 1878

  STELLA STIRRED THE cake mixture, pausing to sniff the delicious aroma of cinnamon, nutmeg and dried fruit. These simnel cakes would be the best she had ever baked and the youngest servants who were taking them home to their mothers would be assured of a warm welcome. She sighed and resumed stirring. It was ten years since that terrible day in March when she had gone to Broadway Wharf and found that her family had disappeared without leaving a trace. If it had not been for the drayman who had found her wandering the streets of Wapping on that fateful day she might have perished from cold and exhaustion, but he had taken pity on her and his wife had looked after her when she succumbed to a fever. As soon as she had recovered sufficiently the kindly man had driven her back to Portgone Place. Cook was unforgiving but Lady Langhorne had been sympathetic and had forbidden Stella to do any work until she had regained her health and strength. During her convalescence Annie had brought her specially prepared food that might tempt a jaded appetite and Stella had recovered rapidly, but the pain in her heart had never quite gone away.

  Lady Langhorne had championed her cause and had sent one of the grooms to make enquiries in the area, but no trace of Jacinta Barry had been found. The Spanish lady and her two children seemed to have vanished into thin air, and there were murmurings in the servants’ hall of foul play, suicide and murder. The River Thames, they said, held many secrets and rarely gave up its dead.

  Stella had suffered nightmares and daytime torments during the months that followed her illness, but life in the great house had gradually returned to normal. Hers was a personal tragedy, but almost all the servants could relate traumatic incidents from their past, and self-pity was not encouraged. She was careful not to say too much to Annie, who had never known her parents and whose only home before coming to Portgone Place had been the foundling hospital.

  ‘Stop daydreaming and get those cakes into the oven.’ Mrs Hawthorne’s voice broke into Stella’s reverie, making her jump.

  ‘Yes, Cook.’ She began spooning the cake mixture into the prepared tins but a stifled gasp from Mrs Hawthorne made her look up. ‘What’s the matter, Cook? Are you ill?’

  Mrs Hawthorne pulled up a chair and sat down, fanning herself with her hands. ‘A funny turn, that’s all. It’s nothing to worry about. Get on with your
work.’

  Stella beckoned to Ida, one of the kitchen maids who had replaced Tess and Edna after they left to get married. ‘Fetch a glass of water for Cook. She’s not feeling well.’

  Mrs Hawthorne shook her head. ‘I’m all right, I tell you.’

  ‘Just rest a while,’ Stella said gently. ‘I expect it’s the heat from the range. With all the ovens going it’s like a hothouse in here.’

  ‘I told you it’s nothing.’ Mrs Hawthorne accepted a glass of water from Ida and shooed her off with an impatient wave of her hand. ‘Get back to work, girl. I want all those vegetables prepared and ready to cook for the family luncheon.’

  ‘Yes, Cook.’ Ida retreated to the scullery carrying a basketful of potatoes, carrots and turnips.

  ‘Where is Annie? She should have finished the bedrooms by now. She should be helping me. I can’t do everything on my own.’ Mrs Hawthorne gulped down a mouthful of water. ‘We need more kitchen maids. I must tell her ladyship so.’

  Stella placed the cake tins in the oven and closed the heavy cast-iron door. ‘You should take things easy, Cook.’

  ‘You just want to take my job. I know your sort, Stella Barry. You’ve taken every opportunity to get on her ladyship’s good side. I wouldn’t be surprised if you made up that tale about your ma going off without a word. Or maybe it was true and she took up with another seafaring man and went back where she came from.’ Mrs Hawthorne fanned herself even more vigorously. ‘Foreigners can’t be trusted. Blood will out, Stella.’