The Cockney Sparrow (2 page)

‘I couldn’t get up the steps today, they was too slippery. So I never got to play me tin whistle outside of St Paul’s.’ Jack’s dark eyes burned like lamps against his pallid skin. ‘The other buskers will wonder what’s become of me – the crippled boy.’

‘Don’t speak of yourself like that, I won’t have it. You’re a wonderful player, Jack.’

‘It’s the only thing I can do.’ Jack picked up the
penny whistle that lay at his side, and he stroked it as tenderly as if it had been a kitten or a puppy.

‘I can make a hatful of coppers when the worshippers comes out of the cathedral.’

‘Well, they’re all tucked up in their nice cosy homes tonight, so don’t you fret. I’ll pop out and get us some supper and you sit tight. I’ll be home in a couple of ticks.’

‘You can’t go out again tonight, Clemmie. Not in this weather.’

‘Don’t you worry about me, Jack. You keep an eye on Ma.’ She bent over her mother and began searching her pockets. Edith made a noise that was halfway between a snort and a groan, but she did not wake up. Her pockets, as Clemency had feared, were empty, but she dared not tell Jack. She knew he would rather starve to death than allow her to go out on the dip again at this time of night. She closed her hand into a fist and held it up for him to see. ‘She ain’t spent it all. The bastard, Hardiman, must have missed this little threepenny bit. I’ll run to the pub get us some supper.’

She left the room, closing her ears to Jack’s protests. The snow underfoot was so cold that it burned her feet, but Clemency was impervious to the weather. She was on a mission and no one and nothing was going to stop her. There was a respectable pub in Carter Lane used by reporters from Fleet Street, bank clerks and businessmen.
It was not as rough as the pubs nearer to the docks and wharves, and they sold hot pies and buttered rum punch. She went inside and gasped as the heat hit her in the throat like a punch, and the thick pall of tobacco smoke made her cough. The bar was packed with men, smoking, drinking, eating and chatting. She received a few cursory glances, but none of them seemed interested in a ragged girl who had not the strength to elbow her way through the forest of men in order to make her way to the bar.

Hunger growled in her empty stomach like an angry tiger. She was desperate, and she would not stand for being ignored: Jack was close to death from cold and starvation, and Ma would need something other than gin in her belly when she awakened from her stupor. A burly market porter got up from his seat to make his way to the bar, and, seizing her chance, Clemency jumped up on his chair and began to sing ‘Home Sweet Home’ in a clear soprano
. Gradually, table by table, the men stopped talking and turned their heads to stare at the girl who sang with the sweetness of a nightingale. She brought such pathos to the words that, by the end of the song, many of them were left with tears in their eyes. There was an emotional silence, broken only by sounds of men clearing their throats or blowing their noses, and then someone started clapping. Soon the taproom was echoing to the sound of
appreciative cheers. Taking advantage of her success, Clemency leapt down from the chair, snatched a cloth cap from a drayman’s head, and went round to each punter in turn until the cap was filled with coppers.

‘Well done, little girl,’ the young barman said, grinning down at her with an appreciative sparkle in his hazel eyes. Clemency tipped the contents onto the bar and tossed the cap to the drayman. He caught it with a whoop of appreciation and stuck it back on his head. She gave the barman her best smile, ignoring the insult of being referred to as a ‘little girl’. There were times when it paid to be thought of as a child, and this was one of them. ‘I’ll have three of them hot meat pies, mister. And a jug of buttered rum punch, if you please.’

‘That’ll be twopence deposit on the jug, missy.’

‘That’s all right. I got enough here. I’ll bring it back tomorrow, first thing.’

The barman wrapped three hot pies in a piece of butter muslin and handed them to her. ‘You got a fine singing voice.’ He poured rum into an earthenware jug, added a dollop of butter, a generous helping of sugar, and some lemonade. He went to the fire, took a poker from its blazing coals and thrust it into the liquid where it sizzled, sending up clouds of fragrant steam. ‘You can give us another song tomorrow,’ he said,
handing the jug to Clemency. ‘You brought tears to me eyes, girl.’

‘Maybe I will, and maybe I won’t.’ She flashed him a smile.

‘You got the voice of an angel, miss.’ An old man with gnarled fingers and skin wrinkled like a prune patted Clemency on the shoulder.

‘Ta, Granddad.’ His rheumy eyes were either watering from the smoky atmosphere or filled with tears, Clemency did not know which, but she kissed him on the cheek anyway. She carried the precious bundle of food and the pitcher of rum punch carefully so as not to spill a drop, and the men who had previously ignored her stood aside to let her pass. As the pub door closed behind her, Clemency was conscious of a feeling of elation that was not just due to the anticipation of a good meal. She had felt a connection with those men as she sang to them, a sharing of emotion that she could not explain. The snow was falling in earnest now. The streetlights were almost obliterated in the swirling, dancing flakes that floated down so pure and white from the dark night sky. She quickened her pace. She must get home before the food cooled and the heat went from the punch.

She slept well that night with a full stomach and a head that swam pleasantly from the unaccustomed alcohol. She did not feel the cold seeping up through the crude stone slabs that
were laid on bare earth, nor the bites of the fleas and lice that inhabited her bed of straw. She dreamed that she was on stage in the Strand Theatre, singing her heart out, and the toffs in the audience were clapping and cheering. She awakened with a start, and she realised that the sound of flesh on flesh was not clapping, but slapping. She sat upright, blinking and shaking off the remnants of sleep.

‘Get off me, you sod,’ Edith screamed, lashing out with her feet and fists at the man who was standing over her, slapping her about the face and body with the flat of his huge hand.

‘Get up then, you idle slut. I got work for you.’

Clemency leapt to her feet, making a grab for his arm in an effort to stop him hitting her mother. ‘Leave her be, Hardiman.’

He threw her off so that she staggered and fell back on the pile of straw that served as her bed. She struggled to her feet as Jack dragged his withered limbs across the stone floor. ‘Get off her, you bastard.’

‘Don’t, Jack,’ Clemency cried, terrified that one blow from Hardiman could kill him. She threw herself between them. ‘Leave Ma be. Can’t you see she’s sick?’

‘The bitch is still drunk.’ Hardiman caught Edith by the hair and dragged her to her feet.

She screamed but she did not attempt to fight him off. ‘For pity’s sake, Todd.’

‘Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you.’ Still holding Edith by her fiery red hair, Hardiman turned to Clemency with a threatening scowl. ‘You stay back. Your ma has to earn her living like the rest of us. Say another word and I’ll give you what for.’

‘I ain’t frightened of you,’ Clemency cried, sticking out her chin. ‘You’re a pimp and a rotten bully. She’s had enough of you making her sell herself to dirty old buggers.’

Edith rolled her eyes, stretching her arms out to Clemency in a pleading gesture. ‘Don’t get his temper up, Clemmie. I’ll be all right.’

‘You’re coming with me,’ Hardiman said, twisting her hair around his hand with a spiteful jerk. ‘And you’ll walk proper. No calling out for help or making out you’re badly done to.’

‘You’re scum,’ Jack roared, trying ineffectually to get past Clemency. ‘If I had me legs I’d knock seven bells out of you.’

‘But you ain’t got no legs, have you, sonny?’ Hardiman grinned, displaying a row of blackened stumps that had once been teeth. ‘You’re a cripple what lives off the immoral earnings of his slut of a mother. And it won’t be long afore your sister goes down that road too. I got me eye on you, Clemmie. But first we needs to fatten you up a bit.’ He plunged his hand in the pocket of his pea jacket and producing a silver sixpence, he tossed it on the floor at
Clemency’s feet. ‘There’s an advance on your ma’s earnings, not that she’s worth more than a threepenny bit, but you put on a bit of flesh, chicken, and I reckon I could get a sov a time for you.’

Clemency fisted her hands and went to punch him, but he fended her off with the toe of his boot. ‘Sparky little thing, ain’t you? Well, the punters like a bit of spirit.’

‘Don’t touch her, Todd,’ Edith screamed. ‘I’m warning you.’

‘I’ll see you in hell,’ Jack said, beating the flagstones with his fists.

‘Very likely.’ Hardiman hoisted Edith over his shoulder and slammed out of the basement.

‘I will kill him, Clemmie.’ Jack punctuated his words by punching the ground. ‘One day I’ll get him, if it’s the last thing I does.’

‘He’s a devil, Jack. I hates him.’ Clemency stared at the frosted windowpanes, watching helplessly as Hardiman hefted her mother up the area steps. Her body hung slackly over his shoulder like a rag doll and her hair trailed in the snow.

‘Why does she let him treat her like that? She could set the rozzers on him for what he’s done to her.’ Jack ground his knuckles into his eyelids as if he were trying to gouge out the sight of his mother’s helplessness. ‘Why?’

‘I dunno. But for all he’s done to her, I think in
a funny sort of way that she still loves him. Don’t ask me why, but whenever I’ve tried to talk to her about Hardiman, on the odd times when she’s sober, she says he weren’t always like this. She says he can be kind and loving. If that’s kind and loving, then I don’t want none of it.’

Jack sniffed and wiped his nose on the frayed sleeve of his jacket. ‘I hates being so bloody helpless. I hates meself for being a cripple, Clemmie. I’m no use to man nor beast.’

‘No, don’t you never say that, Jack. You’re a better man than any I know. One day you’ll walk proper, I’m sure of it.’

Jack took a deep breath and gave her a wobbly smile. ‘You know that ain’t true, poppet. But I swear to God, I will do for Hardiman. One day, I will.’

‘You’re not to talk like that.’ Clemency bent down to retrieve the sixpence. ‘I’d like to ram this up his bum so far that he coughed it up out of his mouth, but seeing as how that’s impossible, I’ll go out and spend it on candles, coal and something to eat.’

‘No!’ Jack’s deep voice reverberated round the bare walls. ‘It’s blood money. Help me up the steps, Clemmie. I’ll beg in the streets rather than take anything from him.’

‘It’s freezing outside. You wouldn’t last five minutes out there. Be sensible, Jack.’ Clemency snatched up her damp shawl and wrapped it
around her head and shoulders. ‘I got to take the pitcher back to the pub and they’ll give me back me deposit. I’ll see what I can get with it, but only if you promises to stay here until I gets back.’

Jack bowed his head, saying nothing, but she could see his shoulders heave and she winced, feeling his pain. There was nothing she could say, and she hurried from the dingy basement, and set off for Carter Lane.

The taproom of the Crown and Anchor was empty except for a couple of old men crouched by the fire in the inglenook. The potman was busy collecting tankards that had been left from the previous night’s drinking session, and a whey-faced girl of twelve or thirteen was wiping the wooden tables with a damp rag. Clemency marched up to the bar and set the empty pitcher on the polished oak counter. ‘Shop!’

The door behind the bar opened and a middle-aged woman wearing a mobcap and a frown gave her an appraising glance. She hesitated, and then bustled up to the bar counter wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Yes?’

‘I come to claim back me deposit, missis. Twopence it was.’

‘I doubt if the jug is worth twopence. Who give it you?’

‘Are you calling me a liar?’

‘We’ll see.’ The woman went to the inner door. ‘Ned, come here.’ She turned back to face
Clemency, folding her arms across her ample bosom. ‘Ned was serving last night. He’ll sort you out. And what’s a child like you doing in a place like this, I ask myself? And you with barely any clothes on your back and bare feet too. In this weather! What is your ma thinking about letting you go out like that?’

Clemency shifted from one foot to the other. She did not want to admit that her mother was always dead drunk, or else flat on her back beneath some punter, or the bastard, Todd Hardiman. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’m an orphan, ain’t I? Not that it’s any of your business, lady.’

‘Mrs Hawkes to you, girl.’

‘What’s the problem, Ma?’ Ned Hawkes poked his curly head round the door. A smile of recognition lit his face as he looked past his mother and saw Clemency. ‘Why, if it ain’t the youngster what sang like a lark last night and had hard men weeping into their beer.’

‘So you know her then, Ned?’ Nell Hawkes’s expression softened as she looked at her son. ‘Give her what’s due to her and then send her round to the kitchen. The poor little scrap looks perished, and I daresay a cup of tea wouldn’t do her no harm.’

She disappeared through the door leaving Ned to take two pennies out of the till, which opened with a loud
kerching
. He handed them to
Clemency with a friendly grin. ‘There you are young ’un.’

‘Ta!’ Clemency seized the money and was about to leave when Ned called her back.

‘Don’t go, nipper. Didn’t you hear what me mum said? She don’t give out cups of tea to every waif and stray what comes begging.’

‘I ain’t begging. And she can keep her tea for them what is.’

Ned threw back his head and laughed. ‘Hoity toity!’ He lifted the flap in the bar counter and stood looking at her with a mixture of admiration and amusement. ‘What’s your name, nipper?’

Clemency shot him a sideways glance. He was not exactly good-looking, but he had an open, pleasant face with a snub nose and a generous mouth. He was not much above average in height, but he looked as though he could heft a barrel of beer on his broad shoulders without too much difficulty. Last night it had served her purpose to be thought of as a child, but now it was mortifying. ‘Me name is Clemency Skinner and I’ll have you know I ain’t a nipper. I’ll be nineteen in September.’