Little Bones (10 page)

The Big Book of Knowledge
was kept in its thin brown paper and wrapped inside a petticoat under Jane’s bed. Agnes knew it was there, but she didn’t like to
see
it. The words were overlong. It made her chest feel tight.

Jane usually opened the book when everyone was sleeping, or her parents were lost inside the tavern. It had a blue cover. Some of the pages were foxed. A bookplate said:
This Book Belongs to Emily Anne Prosser. Presented by St Stephen’s for Regular Attendance
. Jane could see Miss Prosser in church. Emily Anne. She was a small straight girl in a black velvet frock coat. She always listened. There was never any dirt on her gloves.

It was a thick book. It pressed at her knees. Twenty-two sections. Sixty illustrations.
Twelve Colour Plates
. On page 49 a large yellowing water stain appeared like the map of India Liza Smithson had shown her. Bombay was settled over
Hook-Tip Moth
, Calcutta nudging
the perfect insect will ultimately emerge
, the warmth of Madras spilling onto
both male and female are the same size and very similar, but the female is a little darker in colour. The male is shown (left)
.

*

Three years had passed.

‘We’re leaving this place,’ said Ivy.

‘Why?’ asked Agnes, now nudging fourteen.

‘Money,’ said their father, already pulling on his coat and stuffing his pockets with the silver-plate cutlery he’d pulled from the half-empty drawer.

‘Quick sharp,’ said Ivy, clapping her hands. ‘We haven’t got all night.’

Agnes filled a small cotton bag with her hairbrush,
a
slab of scented soap and a small pink pebble a boy called Henry Rook had offered her, saying he had polished it, and in his opinion it was nicer than a jewel. She wore all her clothes. She pressed some torn fashion plates into her bodice, which would keep her amused wherever they were going, and would stave off the cold on the way. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked Jane, who was staring out of the window. ‘Start getting your things together, we’ll be leaving in a minute!’

Jane was thinking about the years spent inside the house, the familiar cracks patterning the walls and the view she’d always known. The river. She looked at the trees where the birds always sat. She thought about Honor Fletcher, and how she hadn’t said goodbye. School. ‘I’m taking nothing but my book,’ she told her sister.

‘That old book?’ said Agnes. ‘You can’t take the book, it would be like carrying a box of flat irons. Pack your sewing box and your best grey gloves, and what about your hairpins?’

‘Hairpins?’

‘Yes,’ said Agnes. ‘I could borrow them.’

‘Girls!’ their father bawled. ‘We are off! This minute! Now!’

Ignoring her sister’s advice, Jane pulled the book close to her chest, the brown paper rustling, though before they stepped through the door, Agnes had managed to push a few stray things into Jane’s empty pockets.

It was dark. Ivy was dragging a packing case. Arthur held a wooden chest, a present from his father, something that resembled a very small coffin, now
full
of odds and ends and a pair of (filthy) moleskin trousers.

By the time they reached the end of the wharf-side, Jane’s arms were already throbbing. She tried to shift the cumbersome weight of the book. On Lime Street she thought about losing some of the pages, Chapter 9 for example (‘Chemical Compounds’), or the index. Twenty minutes later she was kicking the book along the street, her eyes blurred with tears, watching the paper tearing in the lamplight, the puddles soiling it with water, oil and manure.

When they arrived at the terrace on Cross Street, with its row of small black houses where a man Arthur had met in the market had offered them a room for less than half the price of their old rent, the book at Jane’s feet was nothing more than a few shattered pages and some binding string. She had kept it safe for more than three years. When the door opened, they were greeted by the man’s wife, already in her night attire and not in the least bit pleased to see them. As the woman ushered them inside, Jane bent to pick the last remaining page from the ground.
37. The Cross Pollination of Roses
.

It was a small, L-shaped room. Jane and Agnes were squashed into a corner. Arthur was lying on the thin mattress, his right leg over his wife as if he were pinning her down. The mattress was torn, and every so often a piece of straw would poke through the top like a nail.

The girls woke at dawn, when the blushing pink light make everything look softer. It was a generous light, turning the mould on the walls into peonies,
wild
horses and wide scraps of lace. From the glowing window they could see more broken houses and a scrubby patch of land where a few black hens pecked and fluttered.

‘No more school,’ said Agnes. ‘That’s one good thing about it.’

It was true. Miss Prosser was far away with the slates, the bookcases and the stuffed tawny owl. There would be no more marching, or hoop-rolling. Jane could no longer stand and stare at the map of the world curling on the wall. Honor would have to find a new friend to share her sweets with, though she might be leaving at Easter to work in her father’s shop.

Jane reached for the remains of
The Big Book of Knowledge
. ‘Choose a rosebud with outer petals that are just beginning to open and inner petals that are still wrapped around one another.’ The street was empty. Agnes pressed her nose to the window and yawned, then a man appeared wearing a long black cloak, and when it leapt from his ankles they could see its purple lining. Turning, he glanced towards the window, holding Agnes’s gaze before quickly moving away.

‘A priest,’ said Jane.

‘He doesn’t look like a priest,’ said Agnes.

THE DOME OF
St Paul’s was pillowed in cloud, like a dirty celestial carpet, a well-trodden path to the heavens, though occasionally the sun would press through and offer something glittering. The doctor had left Jane a message. She was to meet him at a coffee house in Cheapside.

At Waterloo Bridge, Jane decided to take a detour, pausing to lean over the filthy balustrades to see the water churning, the shore scattered with bottles, papers and the skull of what might have been a small sheep or a dog, the water lapping slowly through the broken eye sockets.

‘Anything to spare for a brother?’

Jane turned. A cripple in a dog cart sat in a mess of brown rags, his hands appearing like flippers, pressing into the thin concave of his chest. He grinned at her, his mouth toothless and lopsided.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Jane. ‘I have nothing.’

The man narrowed his eyes. He was slavering. ‘We should stick together,’ he said. ‘You might be in a cart one day, waiting for your so-called pal to come rolling
out
of the tavern to push you to a corner, where the nuns often pass, throwing halfpence now and then, or more often than not a blessing that sounds sweet enough, but does nothing for your stomach.’

‘I really have nothing.’

‘Then push me,’ he said. ‘It’s all downhill from here.’

Jane looked at the cart with its thin wooden handles. The man was small, but the bulk of him looked heavy. She wanted to turn and walk away, because what a sight they would make, two poor cripples, a rolling, moving target. She could already hear the insults and feel the pelting of the stones.

‘I’m helpless,’ he said. ‘Look at me.’

Saying nothing, Jane took the handles, which felt huge in her hands, and tried her best not to moan as the cart careered towards the wall. She could feel the man bouncing, her boots slipping, every bump on the flagstones and the wind from the river brought tears to her eyes. Towards the bottom of the slope the cart built momentum; she could feel it running from her fingers as the man screamed pitifully, narrowly avoiding a crowd, finally crashing into the closed black door of a mission house.

‘I’m sorry,’ Jane panted. ‘It slipped from my hands.’

The man, who had miraculously managed to stay aboard the wretched dog cart, his cheeks now puffing and blowing, his hands flapping wildly, started laughing. ‘What a ride! What a great, wheezy ride!’

Rubbing her shoulders, Jane pulled the cart from the door, where it had splintered much of the paintwork.

‘I’ll be all right here,’ he told her. ‘The nuns are very reliable.’

Two men with a scabby-looking mongrel were heading in their direction, and Jane could feel her heart pounding as they approached, their heads shaved, their bony frames lolloping. She could feel herself shaking as she backed against the wall. Did the man in the dog cart look frightened? No! He was smiling and waving his hands.

‘Georgie! Digger! Butch!’

The men slapped him on the shoulders as the dog started nuzzling the man’s soiled rags and Jane began to sidestep, but the man with the dog walked towards her saying, ‘Are you after begging on his patch? This is Charlie’s patch. Everyone knows Charlie. Even the Old Bill throw him something now and then.’

‘No,’ she swallowed. ‘I was helping.’

‘That’s right,’ said the man in the dog cart. ‘She pushed me.’

‘Those carts are meant to be pulled.’

The other man spat between his boots. ‘Professional beggar are you?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Would you like to be?’

Jane shook her head. She could see a policeman in the distance. She thought about the doctor, and now perhaps she would be late.

‘Pity,’ he said. ‘I could find you a nice easy spot not far from Oxford Circus. We could cut up your clothes and have you acting up a palsy, perhaps a few sorry ribbons for your hair? In my experience,’ he said, ‘ribbons are heartbreakers, and the money comes pouring in like sunshine. It’s the guilt, you see, they’re after clearing their conscience, and it’s quicker than
seeing
a priest. You have lovely mournful eyes. Excellent eyes for begging. What do you say?’

‘No, thank you,’ she told him. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘So you should be,’ he hissed, and Jane could smell his rancid breath, could see the thin pink veins pulsing in his eyeballs. ‘Still, if you do happen to change your mind, you could come and find Charlie and wait. We could make a very pretty profit, you and me.’

Nodding, she took her chance to leave, not walking too quickly. She could feel the tears coming, could hear the men laughing as a line of nuns appeared, their bone-white rosaries swinging from their thick black sleeves.

By the time she reached the coffee house she was exhausted. Hastily straightening her clothes she squeezed past tables and customers with cups in their hands to where the doctor was sitting. Much to Jane’s surprise he was sharing his table with the pomaded strutting dandy from the theatre.

‘Mr Treble,’ said the doctor, pulling back a chair, ‘this is Jane, the assistant I was telling you about. You might have seen her with Monsieur Duflot at the theatre?’

The man dropped his teaspoon with a clatter. ‘Your assistant?
Really?
She looks more like a crawler just freed from the workhouse.’

Biting her lips, Jane looked away, though now thanks to the dandy all eyes were on her. She could see a woman wiping a plate, pausing with the dishcloth, a girl cutting biscuits with her mouth agape, and at a table near the door all four occupants were staring indiscreetly.

‘Now, whatever you might think,’ the doctor told him, ‘the girls always warm to her, seeing past her
crooked
bones. Jane will sit with them for hours if she has to, talking and calming them down. I am certain you will find her very useful.’

‘I will?’

‘Yes,’ the doctor said, though Mr Treble was now busy admiring the ladies loitering at the counter, cocking his head, slowly licking a finger before passing it over an eyebrow.

‘I think they recognise me,’ he said. As the doctor now explained, Mr Treble was no ordinary gentleman. Mr Treble happened to be ‘Mr Johnny Treble, Cockney Song and Dance Man’, the most popular act of the season, especially with the ladies.

‘Perhaps,’ the doctor whispered, ‘we should be a little more discreet?’

‘What’s that you say?’ Johnny threw a wink towards the girl in the pretty white bonnet, a Bath bun poised between her small open lips.

‘What I meant to say,’ the doctor continued, ‘is perhaps we should not bring quite so much attention to ourselves?’

‘You’re the boss,’ said Mr Treble, looking disappointed. Pouting, he leant back in his chair. ‘Frankly, I can’t wait for this whole awful mess to be finished with. I dream about it,’ he said, staring into the dark brown depths of his coffee cup. ‘Her family are there, it’s always raining, and they’re always after shooting me.’

A few days later at Gilder Terrace, the doctor started to fidget. He looked uncomfortable. He stuttered and played with his cufflinks. In the hall, he beckoned Jane
towards
him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, looking at his boots. ‘I’m sorry about the coffee house.’

‘Sir?’

‘Mr Treble’s rude behaviour,’ he said, placing a hand gently on Jane’s shoulder. ‘You must take no notice, he is simply a young man in an awkward situation, but I’ve had words with him, and not only does he send his humble apologies, but this very good ticket for the stalls.’

Jane looked at the ticket pressed between his fingers, and though she had always loved the theatre, the thought of seeing Mr Johnny Treble in all his cockney glory seemed more like a punishment than something to look forward to. But the doctor was smiling, expectant, and how could she refuse it?

‘Thank you, sir,’ she managed, pulling the ticket from his fingers, folding it into four and thrusting it into the dark, crumby depths of her pocket.

It was almost eight o’clock and Jane was on her way to the Alhambra, where at that very minute she supposed Mr Treble would be putting the finishing touches to his greasepaint, combing through that jet-black pomade, fending off the hoards of female admirers – unless they appeared particularly attractive, in which case he would invite them into his room for a tipple
and what are you doing later on?
Jane assumed Mr Treble was in need of the doctor’s services. Some poor girl would be swallowing the tincture. Or perhaps there’d be a queue of them.