Birdcage Walk (17 page)

The second the bell signalling the end of his shift clanged, George scraped back his stool and made for the door.

“You not coming for a drink, Woolfy?” Alf Jones called after him. “Come on, we’re all going over to the Tiger for a couple of pints. It’s Christmas tomorrow, you miserable so-and-so.”

George dutifully laughed but shook his head. “I’ve got somewhere to be more interesting than the Tiger, Alf, and I’m going to be late if I don’t head off now.”

“A woman is it? I thought you was attached to that Charlotte? She’ll still be there after you’ve had a few with us.”

“Nothing like that. I’m attending a do and I’ve got to go home and get myself spruced up.”

“Very nice. Family occasion, is it? I didn’t think you had any family save your dad and little Cissy.”

“Alf, you attend to your own business and I’ll do likewise. Now, have a good Christmas and I’ll see you back here before we know it.”

Alf watched him go and thought he looked jauntier than he’d ever seen him. George’s cheeks had been quite flushed all morning and he’d been unusually clumsy in his hurry to get his jobs done too, like a child waking at daybreak on Christmas morning and tearing off the paper, all thumbs.

Alf turned and headed back to the machine he worked, right next to George’s. His friend had left his desk in a mess in his hurry to leave and the boss didn’t like anything out of place. He gathered up the discarded tools and realised one of the metal files was missing. George must have put it in his pocket for safekeeping and forgotten to leave it behind, he’d done it himself enough times and got warnings for it. He was on his own now in the workshop, the others having gone on to the pub without him. Looking about him to make sure the place was deserted, Alf went over to the corner machine, manned by Chas Fisher. He was sly, Chas, always whispering to the boss about who’d rolled in late. Alf picked up the identical file that George was missing from Chas’ neat pile, checked it for initials or marks and, seeing none, placed it on his mate’s desk instead, giving him the full complement.

Cissy was sitting in her father’s chair under a blanket when George rushed in. He’d counted on her being out, either at the market with her father, hoping to catch any last customers looking for presents or buying up any knock-down sweet treats for their dinner the following day. He reddened as she looked up blearily.

“You back from the print already?’ she said. ‘I thought you’d go straight down the pub with the others.”

“Why aren’t you down the market with dad?”

“He said I could go and get some food for tomorrow and he’d stay with the stall.”

“So why you here, then?”

“I didn’t feel too right, George. I did go off to the butcher’s, see what they were offering, but then my head started feeling strange and I was worried I would faint in the street. So I took a bus home.”

“You took a bus? You never pay for the bus, Cissy, you must have been taken bad.”

He felt her head with a hand cold from the December air and it was hot. He felt a surge of guilty annoyance as she shut her eyes and pulled the blanket up so it was around her chin.

“’S cold in here, George. Can you do the range for me? I’d do it myself but my head is so heavy, like a full sponge. I haven’t got the wherewithal to move. What are we going to do for our dinner tomorrow? Will you get something, George? I’ve got a bit of money here and you got your wages today, didn’t you?”

She opened her eyes and looked imploringly at him. He turned away to tend the fire so he didn’t have to look at her. He wondered why she couldn’t have waited till tomorrow to get ill and then felt sick in his stomach for it.

“I’ve got to be somewhere this afternoon, Cissy, but I’ll get some food on my way back. Dad’ll be back soon and he’ll make you some soup.”

“Seeing Charlotte, are you? That’ll be nice. What have you got her for Christmas?”

She struggled to sit up straighter but her head lolled on her little neck. Her eyes were bright like lit coals.

“I might see Charlotte later,” said George, not meeting his sister’s eyes. “But I’m wanted somewhere else first and I’ve got to change these clothes or I’m going to be late.”

He walked to the other end of the room and pulled the curtain across so she couldn’t see him undress. He pulled open the rickety drawer he kept his clothes in and took a package wrapped in tissue paper out. Inside was a new shirt, as crisp and white as a sheet of uncracked ice. He shook it out and laid it on the bed, careful not to grasp it too tightly until he’d scrubbed his hands again. As he went to the water jug to see if there was any left from the morning’s wash Cissy’s voice sounded weakly through the curtain.

“I don’t think I told you, George, but I delivered your note alright. I meant to say but I don’t think I’m right in the head at the moment, with this chill that’s been coming on.”

George froze, the jug handle gripped but not felt.

“What note?”

“Your little letter to Charlotte. I found it when I was sweeping up and thought you’d knocked it off the side and forgotten about it. You were out so I took it round there. It was the other night. She was out too, as it happens, but I give it to Mrs. Matthews to give it to Lottie when she got in.”

George replaced the jug on the small dresser with infinite care and then went to all his usual hiding places for private thoughts and notes and sketches. He checked the red leather book last but there was nothing. Besides, he knew there was only one note he’d ever written Charlotte.

“George, did you hear me? Have I done wrong? I didn’t read it or nothing. I sealed up the envelope without looking, honest to God I did, George.”

“It’s alright, Cissy. You didn’t do nothing wrong, it’s alright.”

He sat on the bed and massaged his scalp with his hands. He tried to remember exactly what he’d written, but he’d been so drunk, not so much with the beer as the blow to his ear. What little he could remember made him cringe. He glanced at his watch and, seeing it was already past two, he put the image of Charlotte reading the note out of his mind. As he did, he felt a welcome twinge of annoyance at her, for marring this afternoon without even being there, this afternoon he’d been looking forward to and been so nervous about at the same time. He must hurry, as much to get there on time as to get out of the building before she came calling. The fact she hadn’t come caterwauling already made him feel the first prickle of unease.

When he pulled back the curtain, Cissy smiled widely despite her befuddling temperature. For an instant, she looked like quite a different kind of girl.

“Cor, you look smart, George, quite the gent. That’s a new shirt.”

George blushed and smiled back.

“I wanted to make a bit of an effort.”

“But if you’re not seeing Charlotte, where are you going?”

Clouds of worry formed at her brow, and she looked like her old self again, George noted sadly.

“Tell me the truth,’ she said. ‘Have you met someone else? Charlotte’s convinced that . . . ”

“What about Charlotte? What’s she said?”

“I promised her I’d keep quiet but you’re my brother. She’s got it in her head that you’ve been saying all that about going to Highbury to cover yourself. That you’ve met someone that way who you’re sweet on now. I said you wouldn’t do that but, to be honest, I didn’t know what to think myself. I knew you hadn’t been at that Highbury house, didn’t I, but I couldn’t tell her that. She was already in enough of a state.”

“And why couldn’t I be there? Do you think I can’t call on a house like that just because I’m not delivering something? Little guttersnipe like me?”

“That’s not what I meant,” said Cissy sadly. “Not at all. But when she said you’d told her that’s where you were going, I wondered if that was just a story you’d thought of, you know, to get rid of her. But then when I saw the note I thought you’d made up and so it didn’t matter what had been said and when.”

“She tell you everything about me, does she? I didn’t know you two were so tight. I thought she was stepping out with me, not my little sister.”

Cissy’s eyes filled with tears and she lay back in the chair miserably, too tired to say much more.

“You’ve got the wrong idea, George. I’m always on your side. I just felt sorry for Lottie, that’s all.”

“Felt sorry for her? You don’t know the half of what she’s been up to. You’re too innocent, Cissy, you don’t understand any of this.”

“I know she loves you, I know that much.”

George snorted at that and then panicked as he realised he might cry himself. Cissy turned her face away from him and shut her eyes. After composing himself in the middle of the silent room, George fetched the hat he’d bought second hand. In the glass, his face looked pale but surprisingly gave nothing of his inner emotion away. He looked older and quite unlike himself in the hat, and he was grateful for it. This afternoon, at the party, he was going to need to pretend he was someone else in order for it to go smoothly. He tucked the blanket around Cissy and brushed his lips against her burning forehead before closing the door softly behind him.

The noise and bustle out on the street was in such contrast to the scene he’d just left that George had to stop a moment and simply watch. The New North Road was so thronged with intent shoppers and tipsy working men that people were spilling over the pavements and onto the road. Hansom cabs rushed on regardless and George braced himself as a group of boys narrowly missed being mown down by one. He was just about to turn right and head north when a familiar stench assailed him. The cat’s meat man was doing his best day’s trading of the year, successfully tugging on the heartstrings of all those with a pet at home and flogging them a pouch of his rancid meat for their Christmas present. George retreated back into a shop doorway as the man passed slowly with his stinking barrow, wondering if odours could cling to clothes.

Finally the way was clear and he crossed over to the clearer side of the road, careful not to get any horse muck on his shoes. Safely on the opposite pavement, he checked his watch and realised it would be past three o’clock by the time he got to Highbury. He would miss an entire hour of the occasion he so wanted to attend. As he ruminated at the pavement’s edge, a hansom cab drew to a halt. Its driver leapt out to hand down two enormous ladies dressed in severe black crepe and bombazine. One of them nodded and smiled fiercely at George through her veil, and he almost looked behind him until he realised she was acknowledging him. He straightened his new hat and allowed himself a small smile.

“You need to be somewhere, sir?”

The driver, pleased with the tip he’d received from the mourning sisters, was looking at George with an eyebrow raised. He felt in his pocket and remembered his wages and the money Cissy had given him for meat.

“How much to Highbury, Aberdeen Park?”

“Let’s say a shilling and sixpence, as it’s Christmas.” He grinned at George and opened the carriage door to admit him.

The experience was quite different to the bus, despite the means of locomotion being much the same. To George the trip in the carriage was far too brief, despite his anxiousness to get to the Drew residence. The carriage was well sprung and he felt as though they flew an inch or two above the filthy cobbles. Too soon, they turned into the now familiar road and drew to a halt.

“What number did you want, sir?” the driver’s voice floated down to George.

He thought of getting out and walking from here but it seemed a shame not to arrive at the very door and perhaps be seen, not walking but arriving in some style. Much to his delight, the driver seemed to sense what he wished and the horses walked to the door at a very stately pace, giving plenty of notice with the satisfying clop of their hooves. George had counted the agreed price out already and recklessly added another shilling to the pile he handed over. The driver wished him a happy Christmas and departed, his expression friendly but slightly puzzled by the combination of his fare’s manner and the address he’d brought him to.

George lingered for a moment on the top step of the Drew house, making sure he was sufficiently hidden from the large front windows by the shadows of the tiled porch. The scene was so like and yet so different to his very first visit here, back in September. He’d been so hot and flustered then, and fearful the heavens were going to open and soak him and his brown paper package with a late summer shower. The trees lining the street were bare now, their branches black and filigreed against the dying light in the sky. They looked as though they were forged out of the same cold metal as the street’s ornate lanterns, drawn from memory in his little book.

He had turned to lift the knocker and was about to brace himself against Milly’s habitual animosity when he heard a whistled tune he vaguely recognised carried on the breeze. He peered into the almost-twilight and saw a figure approach at a leisurely pace, his silver hair visible like a halo before the rest of him could be made out. He was up the steps before George could gather his wits.

“It’s Mr. Woolfe, isn’t it? Ha, these old eyes do not deceive me yet. Mrs. Drew told me that you would be attending and I was most interested to hear it. I understand you’ve made yourself quite indispensable to the dear woman in the last few months. Who’d have thought such a connection could be made from the simple purchase of a birdcage!”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Booth. I hoped I would see you, sir, because I particularly wanted to say how grateful I am to you. I can’t tell you how I’ve enjoyed visiting and helping out Mrs. and Miss Drew where I’ve been able. There was a great deal to be done in the attic but it’s clean as a whistle now.”

George wished he hadn’t used such slang, but Mr. Booth didn’t seem to notice, and continued to look at George with intense interest.

“Mrs. Drew went on at some length about her refurbished attic and I imagine it will be the main topic of conversation this afternoon. You must be prepared to be treated quite as the hero of the moment. Talking of which, I believe you are meeting our returning hero for the first time today, my good friend the captain.”

George swallowed.

“I am, sir. I have heard such a lot about him and I’ve been looking forward to meeting him a great deal.”

“You mustn’t be nervous of him, my boy. He’s a pussy cat, quite honestly, and if you’ve endeared yourself to his beloved Clemmie then you’ll do very well.”

He chuckled to himself, straightened his collar and then lifted the knocker himself.

“We can’t establish a rival party on our hosts’ doorstep, I think that would be most improper, don’t you? It’s time we announced our arrival.”

Milly ushered them in in surly silence, looking even more thunderous than usual thanks to the numbers of guests and the inevitable detritus they would leave in their wake.

George closely followed Mr. Booth into the drawing room, but the older man was instantly swallowed by the gathered crowd. George hovered on the threshold and looked about him, desperate to find Clemmie or Mrs. Drew’s familiar faces. He wasn’t sure how this was done, whether he should announce himself to Mrs. Drew, or perhaps seek out Captain Drew and introduce himself.

As he deliberated, he noticed a table loaded with drinks at the far end of the room, close to the decorated tree, which was lit with scores of tapered white candles. He weaved through small clusters of people to get there and then gratefully took his time in choosing a drink. In the end his trembling fingers alighted on a glass of sherry, deliberately picked because it was full almost to the brim. He needed the heat and warmth of it to still his nerves. Checking no one was watching he gulped it down and then picked up another, hiding the telltale empty glass at the back of the tray.

Just as he’d begun sipping it, determined to make this one last as he could already feel the good spirits flooding and thawing the bones in his legs and chest, he sensed someone’s approach. A man not much taller but a good deal broader stood in front of him. His eyes seemed kind to George, but he did not smile.

“Mr. Woolfe, is it?”

George nodded and felt a strange loosening sensation in his stomach.

“I am Captain Drew and if you don’t mind, I would like to talk to you briefly in private. Would you follow me?”

The man was a stranger to George, but he knew enough of manners, and enough of the man himself, to know that this was irregular behaviour. He had thought Mrs. Drew would make it alright for him to be there, but clearly the Captain didn’t want a working man at his Christmas party. He followed the Captain out into the hall where a cry from above made both of them startle.

“George! Here you are, I thought you would never arrive. I made sure there would be some chocolate orange peel for you. I remembered you said how you liked it.”

Clemmie rushed down the remaining stairs and would have grasped George’s hands in her own if her father hadn’t been present. She suddenly realised how serious they both looked and her own face fell, showing confusion and the very beginnings of alarm.

“My love, Mr. Woolfe and I need to discuss something important in my study, undisturbed,” said her father quietly.

“Oh, are you going to show him your books?”

She looked beseechingly at her father but he looked down at the rich rug under his feet and cleared his throat. George, already nervous, now began to feel clammy dread clutch at his heart. Clemmie looked at George and back to her father, but both men stayed silent and for a second she looked like she might cry out with the frustration of being a girl too young to be told anything of significance. Instead, she clamped her jaw tightly shut, swallowed any tears that might have threatened to well up and, descending the last few stairs, disappeared into the swelling number of guests in search of her mother.

George followed Captain Drew into his study and instinctively closed the heavy door behind them. Immediately the murmur of voices was extinguished, the only remaining sound within the wood-panelled walls was the occasional soft explosion of hot coals. Though the flames were still high, Captain Drew poked at the fire distractedly, sending up a fine grey ash that came to settle in a layer on the polished hearth. George imagined Milly’s face when she saw it, knowing all the work she had already had to do in the aftermath of the party.

After a time, Captain Drew decided he could no longer put off the unsavoury business and went to sit at the desk he’d taken refuge behind only a few hours earlier, when the young woman had come to call. He gestured for George to sit in the same chair in which she had also sat, her face reflected in the same fire. He looked at the man who sat in her place now, though really he seemed more like a boy. He was accustomed to young men on the ships he commanded and it was surprising how similar they were, with their bravado that barely masked the insecurities simmering underneath. This boy was no different, his every thought seemed to be marked on his face as clearly as if he’d written it there. He was dreadfully nervous; his entire being strained with the effort not to speak, and ask what he’d done. Captain Drew didn’t want to prolong his agony any longer, he had deliberated long enough.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve brought you in here.”

George leaned forward in his chair but didn’t answer.

“I won’t hold you in suspense. I had been told much about you by my wife in her letters and I was, I remain in fact, very grateful to you for your assistance to my family. It’s difficult when I am away so often. A house needs a man, even if it is but to fetch and carry.”

He paused, realising he was still skirting gingerly around the subject.

“I have not got to the nub of it, I’m afraid I am rusty at conversation. There is not so much call for it at sea. In short, Mr. Woolfe, I had a visitor this afternoon. A woman of your close acquaintance.”

He watched George closely as he spoke and noted the genuine disconcertion that entered his face and stayed there.

“A woman . . . who knows me? Sir?”

The possibilities raced through George’s mind in an instant, they were so few. The captain interrupted the frantic racking of his brain.

“Her name was Miss Cheeseman. She came to speak to me about you, she thought I ought to be party to some important information concerning you. She had learnt that you were friendly with my wife and my . . . my daughter Clemency, and thought it her duty to come.”

Now that he had broached the heart of the matter, the captain grew more stern.

“I must say that now I have seen you for myself I find it hard to equate the George Woolfe I have heard about this afternoon from Miss Cheeseman and the man before me—not to mention the person my family have become so fond of.”

“How did she know where to come?” asked George quietly, the nerves in his stomach having solidified abruptly into heavy lead. “What did she say about me?”

“She told me about your . . . understanding. Your relations. That you promised yourself to her but have since lost interest. At least, you have lost interest in the sense of making an honest woman of her. She is quite desperate and yet she tells me you will not help her, take the only right course for a woman in her condition.”

“In her condition? I don’t know what you mean, sir. Charlotte had no right barging in here and telling you our private business. I can’t believe she would do it, just for revenge.”

George sat ashen-faced and disbelieving, his eyes focused on the middle distance, too shocked to be angry.

“I don’t think she was thinking about what were her rights and what weren’t, Mr. Woolfe. She came out of desperation, I tell you.”

“Sir, I am not meaning to be stupid, but I don’t understand what she might have said to you that could have been of concern. If it’s about the fight I got into the other week, well, it wasn’t my doing. I got lost and went into a rough sort of pub by mistake and someone set upon me. Mrs. Drew knew all about it and didn’t mind too much. I was honest with her and explained all about it.”

“I didn’t know about any fight, and it doesn’t help your case with me to bring it up now.”

The captain paused, his fingers seeking out his tobacco and pipe as he wondered how to frame his next sentence.

“Miss Cheeseman sent me a note asking for an audience today. She called by at noon and told me of her predicament. It was too late to contact you then, and so I thought I must wait to speak with you when you arrived for our little gathering.”

“She’s lying, sir. Whatever she said, it’s all lies. She is angry with me, we haven’t spoken for days now. Something happened between us and I threw her over for it, sir. She deserved it, every bit of it after what she’d done herself but now—“

“Mr. Woolfe, I do not wish to hear the minutiae of your domestic relations with Miss Cheeseman. I would never presume it was any of my business. I prefer to deal only with facts and the facts I have been presented are these. Miss Cheeseman was promised marriage by you and is expecting your child, and you have become close, ill-advisedly close, to my young daughter. Do you not now understand my agitation, sir?”

The captain had grown quite crimson in the face and now busied himself tamping down a generous pinch of fresh tobacco in his pipe. George was silent, staring unseeing into the fire, his worry entirely replaced by shock.