Authors: Dilly Court
Farmer Mason grinned and shook his head. ‘Just giving the lad a lift as far as my place.
He’s
on his way to Havering to see his Aunt Greenwood. You know, the odd lady who lives in the Round House.’
The landlord placed a foaming tankard on the counter. ‘That’s the second time today I’ve heard her name mentioned.’
‘I’ll have two hot rum toddies,’ Farmer Mason said, placing Irene’s sixpence on the bar counter. ‘And who was that then, asking about the lady in question?’
The landlord slid the sixpence into the till and reached for the rum bottle. ‘It was the police. It seems they’re looking out for one of her relations. A bad lot, I’m told. One of them gangsters from the East End.’
There was a sudden silence, as all eyes turned on her and Irene leapt to her feet. ‘They ain’t looking for me, mister. Honest, I’m no gangster.’
Chapter Nine
SHE HESITATED, POISED
for flight, but the silence was broken by a bellow of laughter from Farmer Mason. ‘Just look at him standing there all white and shaking like a girl. Is that your idea of an East End villain?’
A murmur ran through the taproom followed by a ripple of amusement. Farmer Mason slapped his hands on his thighs and tears of mirth ran down his cheeks. ‘Sit down, boy. No one could mistake you for a gangster unless they was deaf, dumb and blind.’
Irene’s knees gave way beneath her and she collapsed onto the settle. She managed a weak smile. ‘I should hope not, Gaffer.’
The laughter died away and Irene found herself largely ignored as the men’s conversation turned to topics more close to their hearts.
A young barmaid brought her a rummer filled with hot toddy. ‘So you’re the boy from London. Do you know any of them bad men up there?’
‘Nah! Not me.’
‘Oh, you’re no use then.’ The girl flounced
off
to collect empty tankards, leaving Irene to sip the heady brew in peace, but her heart was still thumping against her ribs. If the police had traced Arthur to Miss Greenwood’s house, she would be too late. He might already have been arrested and taken back to London. She swallowed the drink in a couple of gulps, and as the strong spirit warmed her stomach she began to feel more optimistic. She might still be in time, but she would have to make haste. She was about to ask if anyone might be travelling as far as Havering-atte-Bower when Farmer Mason put his glass down and said goodnight to his friends. He strode over to the door, beckoning Irene to follow him. ‘C’mon, lad. We’d best be on our way. I think there’s a hint of snow in the air.’
Half an hour later Old Tom pulled the wagon into the farmyard. It seemed to Irene that they had been travelling for hours and it must be close to midnight, but when Farmer Mason ushered her into the kitchen she saw by the clock on the wall that it was just half past seven. Mrs Mason, a thin scrawny little woman with a neck like a plucked chicken, was ladling soup into bowls from a black pan resembling a witch’s cauldron. Seated round the table were six children ranging in age from a toddler of about two to a strapping lad of fifteen or sixteen.
‘You’re late, husband,’ Mrs Mason said angrily. ‘The children have almost finished their supper. I was thinking that you must have suffered a broken axle or something of the kind, but I can tell by stink of your breath that you stopped off at the pub.’
Ignoring this accusation, Farmer Mason pushed Irene forward. ‘This here is Jim. He’s on his way to Havering but I said he could stay here tonight since it’s too far to walk and with snow threatening.’
Mrs Mason cast an accusing look at Irene. ‘I hope you wasn’t imbibing strong liquor, my boy. It’s the work of the devil.’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Well, take a seat at the table then,’ Mrs Mason said, pointing the ladle at a vacant chair.
Irene sat down next to a scruffy little girl who sniffed the air like a bloodhound. ‘You was telling whoppers, boy. I can smell rum on your breath.’
‘Shut up, Cora.’ The girl seated on Irene’s left scowled at her younger sister. ‘Take no notice of her, Jim. She’s only ten. I’m fourteen.’ She fluttered her eyelashes.
Cora poked her tongue out. ‘You’re not fourteen until January, Hilda.’
Irene crammed a hunk of bread into her mouth. It was hot from the oven and spread thickly with farmhouse butter. It tasted good
and
she was starving. She applied herself to eating the savoury soup, ignoring the children’s chatter. Most of them had finished eating and she could feel six pairs of eyes staring at her.
‘You should take you cap off indoors,’ Mrs Mason said, sniffing. ‘It’s bad manners to keep it on. Didn’t your mother teach you that, boy?’
‘I’m an orphan,’ Irene said, keeping her head down. ‘And I got a bald spot. It might be catching. I have to keep me cap on or I’ll die of lung fever.’
‘What nonsense. George, don’t stare.’ Mrs Mason clipped her son round the ear and she glared across the table at his younger brother, who had begun to giggle. ‘Don’t think I can’t reach you, Ronald Mason, because I’ve got a long arm and a strong hand.’ She looked round the table. ‘If you’ve all finished you can go into the yard and wash your hands and faces ready for bed.’
The younger children rose in silence and marched out into the farmyard, leaving Hilda and the eldest boy to clear the table. Irene gave up her plate reluctantly. She would have welcomed another helping of soup but she did not like to ask anything of the fierce woman sitting opposite her. Farmer Mason ate his meal in silence and with a good appetite. He seemed unperturbed by his wife’s sharp manner and
quick
temper, or perhaps he simply found it easier to let her vent her feelings without comment.
Irene cleared her throat. ‘Thank you for my supper. It was very good.’ She rose from her chair. ‘If you could just tell me how to get to Havering from here, I’ll be on my way.’
‘You’ll never find your way in the dark,’ Farmer Mason said, glancing up from his plate. ‘Best wait until morning.’
‘Ta, but I really need to get there tonight.’
Mrs Mason rose to her feet. ‘My husband is right. You’d be lost before you’d walked a hundred yards. You can sleep with the boys and leave first thing in the morning. We’re early risers.’
‘Ta very much.’ Irene struggled to think of a plausible reason for not sharing a bed with the boys, but perhaps it was safer than doubling up with Hilda and Cora. It would be almost impossible to keep her secret from the girls. Hilda would have the cap off her head and the rest of her clothes too, if her flirtatious glances were anything to go by. Irene surmised that the boys would barely notice if she kept her head covered. She managed what she hoped was a grateful smile. ‘You’re very kind, missis.’
‘Get along with you and your London ways.’ Mrs Mason rose from the table, flapping her
apron
at Hilda and George. ‘Clear the table and take Jim with you to the pump. Nobody goes to bed dirty in my house.’ She shooed them out into the yard where the younger children were crowded around the trough, splashing and flicking water at each other seemingly impervious to the cold. Irene was reluctant to join in but Cora flapped a wash rag at her. ‘Let’s see your bald patch then, Jim.’
‘You’ll catch the disease,’ Irene said gruffly.
‘Leave him be.’ Hilda gave her sister a shove that send her tumbling backwards into a pile of wet straw. ‘Serves you right, you pest.’
Cora began to howl and George bent down to pull her to her feet. He shot a withering look at Hilda. ‘Say you’re sorry, or I’ll tell Mum.’
Hilda hid behind Irene. ‘Shan’t.’
Irene was tempted to bang their stupid heads together, but she managed to restrain herself. What would Jim have said in similar circumstances? She ruffled Cora’s curls. ‘No harm done, eh?’
Cora wiped her nose on her sleeve, leaving a snail-trail of mucus on the thin cotton. ‘She’s a bully.’
George slapped Irene on the back. ‘Sisters! Who’d have ’em?’
‘Yeah! They’re nothing but trouble.’ Irene nudged him in the ribs, chuckling and
deepening
her voice. ‘Hey, it’s blooming freezing. Do we have to stay out here all night?’
George curled his lip. ‘You London folk are soft. You’d best go into the house then, city boy, while me and Ronnie go and lock the hens up for the night.’
‘Lock the hens up?’
George thrust his face close to hers. ‘Or the foxes will get them. Don’t you know nothing?’
Irene bit back a sharp retort. ‘I never been in the countryside afore, but I bet you wouldn’t be so cocky if you was on your own in London with sewer rats the size of dogs and cutthroats lurking round every corner.’
George shrugged his shoulders and stomped off in the direction of some wooden outhouses with Ronnie trotting after him.
Hilda linked her arm through Irene’s. ‘C’mon, Jim. I’ll show you where you’re going to sleep tonight.’
Irene pulled her arm free with a grunt. ‘It ain’t bedtime yet.’
‘It’s near eight o’clock. We always goes to bed at eight, and gets up at five. Don’t you do that in London?’
‘Nah!’ Irene said, swaggering towards the kitchen door with her thumbs tucked in her belt. ‘We goes to bed at midnight or later if we feels like it, and don’t get up until dinnertime.’
‘I’d like that,’ Cora said enthusiastically. ‘Maybe I’ll come to London and see you one day.’
‘Don’t pay no heed to her,’ Hilda said, elbowing Cora out of the way. ‘She’s just a kid. You and me is grown up compared to her, Jim.’
Irene would have loved to cut and run at that point, but sleety rain had begun to fall and the air was so cold that each breath she took was like swallowing shards of ice. She had no alternative but to follow the girls into the welcome warmth of the farmhouse kitchen. As soon as the boys returned from securing the livestock Mrs Mason packed them all off to bed, and Irene followed the children up a narrow flight of stairs to a room beneath the eaves.
In the light of Hilda’s candle stub, Irene was mortified to discover that the brothers and sisters shared this space, which was little more than a draughty loft. She could see chinks of moonlight filtering through gaps in the roof tiles and a cold wind whistled around her ears. It appeared that the boys slept top to toe on one straw-filled palliasse and the two girls shared another.
‘You can sleep with me and Cora if you want,’ Hilda said with an arch smile. ‘You’ll not get a wink of sleep crowded in with our smelly brothers.’
‘That’s all right,’ Irene replied, edging away from her. ‘I’ll sleep on the floor. I don’t care.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Tossing her head, Hilda began unlacing her boots. ‘Get into bed, Cora, and warm my side up or I’ll pull your hair.’
Cora uttered a cry of fright and dived into bed, pulling the covers over her head.
Hilda sloughed off her print frock like a snake shedding its skin and she slithered beneath the thin coverlet, patting the space beside her with an inviting smile. ‘There’s room for you here, Jim?’
Irene shook her head. ‘No, ta. I said I’d sleep on the floor.’
‘Well, you ain’t coming in with us,’ George said firmly. ‘You city folk have fleas and lice. If she wants to cuddle up to you that’s Hilda’s business, but I’d rather sleep with the pigs than share her bed.’
Irene did not respond to his insult or the suggestion that she might sleep with the girls. She leaned against the wall and slid to a sitting position, wrapping her arms around her knees. The candle had guttered and gone out but at least the almost complete darkness hid the fact that she was still wearing her cap. She was cold and cramped and she longed to stretch out in a warm bed. Judging by the rhythmic sounds of the Mason children’s breathing, they had all fallen asleep almost as soon as their
heads
touched their pillows. The temperature seemed to be dropping still further, and she could hear strange rustlings in the exposed rafters above her head. It could be mice or rats, Irene thought, peering nervously into the gloom. Or even worse, it could be bats. When something skittered across the floor passing just inches away from her she had finally had enough. Forgetting all about Hilda’s suggestive behaviour, she crawled into bed beside her and curled up in a ball.
When Irene opened her eyes it was still dark and for a moment she thought she was back in her own bed at home, but as the mists of sleep cleared from her brain she remembered where she was. Someone was breathing down her neck and she could feel a warm hand caressing her belly. It took her only a few seconds to realise that Hilda was awake and it was her hand that was sliding downwards to where she expected to find Jim’s manhood. ‘Leave me be,’ Irene hissed as she rolled out of bed almost taking Hilda with her. ‘What d’you think you’re doing?’
Hilda made a futile attempt to grab her hand. ‘Don’t go. I know how to pleasure a fellow; I done it a dozen times or more in the barn with Davey Tanner.’
‘I’m not like that.’ Irene clambered to her feet. She straightened her cap, which had come
askew
in the night but luckily had stayed on her head, and she rearranged her clothes. ‘You’ll end up in trouble, my girl,’ she said severely.
‘I might be already for all I know.’ Hilda pulled her shift up to expose her bare legs. ‘Davey will have to marry me, so what’s the difference if I does it with someone good-looking like you?’
Irene backed towards the doorway, praying silently that George was a heavy sleeper and would not wake up to defend his sister’s maidenhood, although judging by Hilda’s performance that had been lost long ago. Ignoring the soft pleading sounds from the bed, Irene let herself out of the room and tiptoed down the stairs to the kitchen. Mrs Mason was on her hands and knees riddling the ashes in the range. She looked up, frowning. ‘What are you doing creeping about the house this early, boy?’
‘I must be on my way, missis.’
‘You was going to rob us. I’ve heard all about the goings-on in London town. Mr Mason told me that one of them gangsters has come this way and the police are searching for the villain.’
‘No, truly I wasn’t. As a matter of fact I was going to leave some money for my bed and board.’ Irene took a threepenny bit from her pocket and put it on the kitchen table.