The Cockney Sparrow Read online

  ‘Of course. Don’t let me stop you. Will you come to the pub and sing for us tonight?’

  She had lost sight of her next victim. Clemency shivered as the chill crept into the marrow of her bones. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Look, Miss Clemency. I don’t want to be personal, but you’re soaked to the skin and your lips are turning blue. Why don’t you let me help you with your shopping, and then you could come back with me to the pub and try a bowl of Ma’s soup?’

  It was not the most flattering offer, but Clemency was rapidly losing all feeling in her lower limbs, and even her chilblains had stopped tingling. She would sell her soul for a hot meal, but Jack and Ma were depending on her for their supper. She hesitated. ‘I dunno.’

  ‘What do you need? Bread, vegetables, fruit?’

  ‘I – I lost me purse.’

  ‘And yet you gave that old trout’s purse back to her. Now I call that real honest. Some folk would have said finders keepers and pocketed it, especially when they’re hard up.’

  ‘I ain’t hard up. I told you, I lost me purse.’

  ‘My mistake, but the offer still stands. How about you letting me buy whatever it is you come for, and you can pay me back later.’

  She was tempted, but wary. You couldn’t trust blokes – their idea of repayment usually entailed lots of slobbery kisses, a grubby hand down the front of your blouse and, if you weren’t too fussy, a bit of a fumble, which could easily get out of hand if a girl weren’t quick on her feet. Clemency met Ned’s candid gaze with a suspicious look. He seemed like a nice chap, decent, kindly and honourable, if there was such a thing east of Temple Bar, but she was still smarting from her experience with Jared Stone. ‘No, ta. I got money put by at home.’ She could feel his disappointment and she sensed that her curt tone had hurt his feelings. ‘But I will take up your offer of a warm by the fire. I’m wet as a drownded rat.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Ned hefted the sack containing his purchases over his shoulder, and offered Clemency his arm. ‘Let’s get home afore you turn into a block of ice.’

  Ned’s boast about his mother’s soup had not been a vain one. Clemency sat in a corner of the inglenook at the Crown and Anchor with her skirt pulled up over her knees, toasting her feet by the roaring log fire. She had just finished her second bowl of soup, and was wiping up the last delicious drop with a hunk of freshly baked bread. Ned was serving behind the bar, and the pub was filled with men enjoying a pint of beer and a pie or a hunk of bread and cheese, but they barely gave her a second glance.

  ‘Well, dear. You look a lot better now with a bit of colour in your cheeks.’

  Clemency looked up and saw Nell Hawkes smiling down at her. ‘Ta for the soup, Mrs Hawkes. It’s the best I’ve ever tasted.’

  ‘You needs feeding up, my girl. And just look at you, going about half naked in the middle of winter. Ain’t you got no one at home to care for you?’

  ‘I got a good home, ta very much.’

  ‘And your mum doesn’t mind you going about half dressed in the bitter cold?’

  ‘Me mum is sick. She’s got a weak chest and has to stay in bed.’

  ‘You poor little soul. And what about your dad?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘Dear me, how sad. Sit there a moment, dear. I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’ Nell took the empty bowl from Clemency’s hands with a sympathetic smile and edged her way back to the bar.

  Clemency stared into the orange and blue flames that licked round the coals in the grate. Why she had lied about her mother she did not quite know, except that she could not admit to a stranger that Ma was a common prostitute and a drunkard. Neither had she mentioned Jack or his crippled state. Ma had always said, when she was sober, that Jack’s illness was a punishment for her way of life. God had struck him down just to get even with her for breaking almost all of the Ten Commandments. His disability was her shame. Clemency was not certain that she agreed with this, but there did not seem to be any other logical explanation. She could remember when Jack had legs like any other boy. They had played games of chase up and down Stew Lane like normal children. Her memories of life before that were vague, but she knew that they had to leave the pub after Dad walked out. Then Jack had gone down with a fever, suffering aching limbs and terrible spasms. Ma had packed her off to stay with Mrs Trotter who lived in one of the attic rooms at the top of the building. Mrs Trotter had no children of her own, and smelled horribly of snuff and the raw onions that she liked to eat; Clemency would have run home if the old woman had not locked her in. When she was allowed back into their basement, eight-year-old Jack was lying on his straw palliasse, looking deathly pale and unable to move his legs. Their dad was gone, off to join the Navy, so Ma had said, but he had never returned. Todd Hardiman had moved in, and Ma had taken to the drink. Clemency had been just six years old, and it was then that her childhood had ended.

  She realised with a start that the acrid smell rising to her nostrils was coming from her skirt, singeing where a spark from the fire had landed. She crushed the material between her fingers and wiped her hand across her eyes. It was just the smoke from the burning serge that was making them water; she was not crying over the past.

  ‘Here we are, ducks.’

  Once again, Clemency looked up and saw Nell standing before her. She was smiling, and holding out a black garment that was so heavy it weighed her arms down. ‘It’s old, but it’s serviceable. A piece of good woollen cloth like this won’t never wear out, not unless the moths get at it.’ With an effort, Nell held it up for Clemency to see.

  The cloak with its faded crimson lining and large hood must have been fashionable a good forty years ago, but as Clemency fingered the coarse material she knew that it would be warm and probably waterproof to a degree. She stared up into Nell’s lined face. ‘For me?’

  ‘I wanted to get rid of it anyway,’ Nell said, shrugging. ‘It ain’t no use to me and you’d be doing me a favour taking it off me hands. It may not be what the toffs are wearing this season, but it’ll keep out the cold and damp. If you want it, it’s yours. If you don’t, then I daresay there’s an old nag in some stable or other as would be grateful for a horse blanket.’

  ‘I dunno what to say.’

  Nell dropped the cloak onto the settle next to Clemency and her cheeks looked suspiciously pink as she bent over to poke the fire. ‘There’s no need for thanks. Like I said, you’d be doing me a favour – but if you don’t want it …’

  ‘I do want it.’ Clemency jumped to her feet, wrapping the garment around her shoulders. Its weight made her sag at the knees, and it smelled strongly of mothballs, but it would keep her warm and dry. She could steal a leg of lamb or a sack of apples and no one would be able to guess that she had anything concealed beneath the folds of the voluminous garment. She hugged it to her, afraid that Mrs Hawkes might change her mind. ‘Ta, ever so. I’d best be going now.’

  Nell smiled and nodded. ‘Going home to tend to your poor ailing mum, I expect. You’re a good girl, Clemency. You’re welcome round here any time.’

  As she trudged home, warm and snug beneath the woollen cloak, Clemency felt a pang of guilt. She had led Mrs Hawkes to think that she was a good person, when in truth she was the very reverse. Hardiman had always told her she would end up in Newgate, and she had no doubt that he was right. He had set her feet on the downward path, and now she could see no other way of existing: but if she was going to be a thief, then she was determined to be one of the best. She quickened her pace. She would go home and make sure that Jack was all right, and in the evening she would go to the Crown and Anchor to entertain the punters. At least she could earn enough to buy a fish supper for Jack and Ma, and if the opportunity arose, then she might dip the pocket of a drunken city clerk or reporter from one of the Fleet Street newspapers.

  The sleet had turned to rain, and the winter afternoon had succumbed to an early dusk by the time Clemency reached Stew Lane. As she opened the door, she felt the hackles rise on the
back of her neck. The room was in darkness except for a pale circle of light around the fireplace. She could see Jack’s face, a pale shape with great hollows for eyes, like cinders in the snow. His mouth was drawn into a tight line and she knew that something was dreadfully wrong. Her mother was huddled by the hearth with her arms around her knees, rocking to and fro. She turned her head as Clemency entered and her mouth opened in a soundless warning.

  A man leapt out of the shadows. His hands were round her throat – she could not breathe. Red lights flashed before her eyes and she thought she was going to die.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Leave her be, Hardiman.’ Jack’s voice dimly penetrated Clemency’s consciousness. Her attacker released his grip and she collapsed to the ground coughing and choking. Even as she struggled for breath, she was aware of male voices grunting and cursing. She crawled away from the flailing arms and fists as Jack brought Hardiman to the ground.

  ‘Stop, stop.’ Edith’s voice rose to a scream.

  Clemency scrambled to her feet. She would have attempted to intervene but the fight was already over. Jack had great strength in his upper body and arms but he was no match for Hardiman, who had stunned him with a single blow to the jaw.

  ‘You’ve killed my boy,’ Edith cried, burying her face in her hands. ‘You’re a murderer, Todd Hardiman.’

  ‘Shut your trap, woman.’ Hardiman bent over Jack’s prostrate body. ‘He’ll live.’ He straightened up, beckoning to Clemency. ‘Come here.’

  She took a step backwards, shaking her head.

  Hardiman grabbed Edith by the hair, tilting her head back at an unnatural angle. ‘Come here, I said. Or do you want me to snap Edie’s neck like a twig?’

  ‘What d’you want?’ Clemency took a step towards him, keeping out of arm’s reach.

  ‘You was seen, my girl. I got spies all over the place, and you was seen.’

  ‘I dunno what you mean.’

  Hardiman curled his lip. ‘You was with Stone. You went to his drum with him. What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Edith yelped as Hardiman tugged at her hair. ‘Tell him what he wants to know, for God’s sake, Clemmie.’

  ‘All right,’ Clemency moved swiftly to grab Hardiman’s hand. ‘Let her go and I’ll tell you.’

  Hardiman threw Edith to the ground, and wiped his hands on his greasy jacket. ‘Are you cheating on me, girl? Because if you are, you know what you’ll get.’

  Clemency was almost deafened by the blood drumming in her ears. She knew him well enough to be terrified of crossing him, but she held her head high and looked Hardiman in the face. ‘I tried to lift his wallet and he caught me. Took me to his place whether I wanted to go or not. I run off as soon as I got the chance. Satisfied?’

  ‘If I find out you been lying to me, I’ll strangle you with me bare hands.’

  ‘You won’t do that, Hardiman. I’m too useful to you and I’m one of the best when it comes to picking pockets.’ Her words were bold, but inwardly she was quaking. She had learned long ago that he was a brute and a bully – if she let him see that she was scared, he would treat her all the worse.

  ‘So good that you let Stone catch you in the act. You’re slipping, girl.’ Hardiman glanced down at Jack who had come to his senses, and was sitting up, rubbing his jaw. He aimed a savage kick at Jack’s wizened legs. ‘Keep out of me way, cripple.’

  ‘Oh, Todd. Don’t treat me boy so cruel,’ Edith sobbed, holding out her hands to him as she rose unsteadily to her feet. ‘Let’s go back to your place. I’ll make it right with you.’

  ‘You’re a drunken old whore, Edie. When I wants a woman, I got another in mind.’ Hardiman leered at Clemency. ‘And I likes them young. You’re too grown-up now for dipping handkerchief and wallets, Clem. That’s kids’ stuff. I got an older profession in mind for you.’

  A low growl ripped from Jack’s throat as he pitched his body towards Hardiman. Clemency leapt between them, catching the full force of Hardiman’s fist on her mouth. Staggering backwards, she held her hand to her bleeding lips.

  ‘Stupid little cow, getting in the way.’ Hardiman backed towards the door as Jack slithered towards him, using his knuckles to propel himself across the flagstones. Even in the dim light, Clemency could see that Hardiman’s face had paled.

  ‘Keep away from me, cripple.’ He pointed a shaking finger at Clemency. ‘And you, girl. I’ll be back for you when your face don’t look like a Christmas pudding.’ He slammed out of the room.

  There was a moment of stillness, with only the sound of the vermin scrabbling behind the brickwork and Jack’s heavy breathing, punctuated by a rasping sob. He broke the silence by beating his fists on the floor. ‘I’m so bloody useless. I’d kill him if I could.’

  Edith sank to the ground, covering her face with her hands and sobbing.

  Clemency wiped the blood from her lips, which had already swollen to double their normal size. ‘He’s not worth it, Jack. They’d hang you for sure.’

  ‘Well, what use am I with no legs? Tell me that, Clemmie? I can’t do nothing except busk on street corners and I can’t protect you or her.’ He pointed to the shivering figure of their mother, huddled in the corner. ‘At least if I got rid of Hardiman then you and Ma would be safe.’

  ‘Shut up, Jack. I won’t hear you talk so.’ Suddenly weary, Clemency picked up the galvanised bucket from its place by the hearth. Her head and limbs felt as heavy as her heart. Was nothing ever going to go right for them? She started towards the door. ‘I’m going to get some water to make a brew.’

  Edith raised her head. ‘I need a drink. For pity’s sake, Clemmie. I’m shaking all over. Please get me a proper drink.’

  ‘I’ll try, Ma.’ Clemency frowned at Jack, shaking her head as he opened his mouth to protest. ‘I’ll be back as quick as I can. Keep her here, Jack. Don’t let her stray out into the street, not in her state.’

  With Nell’s cloak wrapped around her, Clemency ventured into the bitter cold of the early evening, heading for the pump in Knightrider Street. Hardiman’s punch had split her lips, and she doubted whether she would be able to sing in the pub tonight. Her mouth hurt, but the real pain was inside her: a gnawing, nagging ache in the pit of her stomach that made her feel sick. Hardiman had dominated their lives for too long and he was destroying them slowly, one by one. She must do something to get Ma and Jack away from his clutches. To stay in their lodgings would bring about disaster, even death.

  The water gushed from the pump in ragged spurts as she worked the handle. Every jerking movement of her arm caused her lips to throb painfully, and she stopped for a moment to rest. All around her there was the hustle and bustle of people who had finished their day’s work, and were heading for the mainline railway station at Ludgate Hill, or the underground railway at Mansion House. The pondering clouds had given way to a deep starlit canopy above her head, and there was a hint of frost in the smoky air. Out here, the crowd absorbed her, and she felt small and insignificant like a tiny insect in a marching army of ants. She began pumping again, and allowed her mind to wander, following the homeward bound travellers as they hurried towards the underground station. She had never had the opportunity to investigate that awesome, and rather frightening, wonder of the modern age. One day, when things were better, she would join the passengers who travelled on mechanical moles burrowing their way beneath the city. One day, when they were safe and free – the water was spilling from the overfilled bucket, soaking her skirt and trickling into her boots. She was standing in a deep puddle. Clemency stopped pumping and listened.

  Above the sound of tramping feet and the constant clatter of horse-drawn traffic, she could hear music: the rhythmic beating of a drum, the warbling of a flute, the breathy tune from a concertina, and the clear voice of a woman, singing. The air was filled with a happy sound, as though the birds had awakened early and begun their dawn chorus. As Clemency strained her eyes to peer into the yellow glow of the gas lamps, she saw the set expr
essions on the faces of the passers-by relax, as if the tensions of the day were being leached from them by the music. Her own mood lightened, and she found that her foot had begun to tap of its own accord in time to the beat. The musicians were coming nearer and the weary workers trudging along the pavements parted ranks, allowing the band to pass.

  The pump was in the middle of the street, next to the stone horse trough, and the music makers stopped so close to Clemency that she could have reached out to touch them. The girl had stopped singing, and she rushed to the pump, working it with one hand and cupping the other in an attempt to catch some water, which she drank thirstily. Someone in the small crowd of office workers, clerks, tellers, type-writers and bankers, began to clap their hands, and soon it was taken up in a welter of applause. The girl curtsied and blew kisses, but it was a middle-aged man who strode to the forefront. He doffed his rather battered top hat and bowed, exposing the shining pate of his balding head. As he straightened up, smiling broadly, Clemency noticed that his ill-fitting tailcoat was threadbare and too short in the arms, and the cuffs of his shirt were grey and frayed. A red carnation drooped from his buttonhole and his trousers only just reached the tops of his black boots. He jammed the topper back on his head, and with an expansive wave of his arms he glanced over his shoulder at the musicians. ‘Gentlemen, if you please,’ he intoned in a deep theatrical voice.

  The band struck a chord and the man in the top hat stuck a monocle in his eye and began to sing ‘Champagne Charlie is me name …’

  Clemency clapped her hands enthusiastically when he had finished. He swept off his topper and bowed to the audience. When the applause died down, he signalled to the girl to join him. Shaking the droplets of water from her hands, she held up her skirts just far enough to reveal a pair of shapely ankles beneath a frilled, scarlet-taffeta petticoat. With her hands clasped in front of her, she launched into the plaintive ballad ‘Come into the Garden Maud’, but a bout of coughing caused her to stop singing. There was a polite silence while the onlookers waited for her to catch her breath; she made another attempt to sing but her voice cracked. Almost without knowing what she did, Clemency stepped forward and carried on where the girl had left off. She forgot all about her cut and swollen lips, ignoring the salty taste of blood as it trickled into her mouth. She had never before sung to an accompaniment other than that of Jack’s tin whistle, and the music flowed through her veins like molten lava. She did not feel the water seeping through the cracks in her second-hand boots, nor the shards of sleet that had begun to pelt down from a passing storm cloud, pricking her face with a hundred tiny needles. Her heart soared with the music, and her voice echoed off the surrounding buildings, coming back to her and turning the solo into a round. As she uttered the last note, the applause was tumultuous and Clemency stepped aside, embarrassed by the realisation of what she had done. She glanced nervously at the man in the top hat. ‘Sorry, mister. I didn’t mean to butt in. I dunno what come over me.’