The Cockney Sparrow (3 page)

He executed a mock bow, chuckling. ‘Sorry, Miss Skinner. But whatever age you happen to be, you sing like an angel. How would you like to come along tonight and give the punters another treat.’

She was not sure if he was serious or simply teasing her. She eyed him suspiciously. ‘What sort of treat, mister?’

‘It’s Ned, Ned Hawkes. And I meant a song or two, of course.’

‘Maybe I will and maybe I won’t. Tell your Ma I thanks her for the offer of tea, but I got business to do what won’t wait.’ Clemency met his eyes and relented when she read genuine hurt and disappointment in his frank gaze. She smiled. ‘I might just happen along around nine o’clock.’ She had the satisfaction of seeing his features relax, and she left the pub with the coins jingling in her pocket. The cold outside hit her like a smack in the face, and she gasped as the icy air seemed to freeze in her lungs. She had secreted the toff’s wallet in her skirt pocket and now she headed for Minski’s pawnshop in Fish Street.

Minski was huddled behind the counter in his cellar room beneath a tobacconist’s shop. He was muffled in an army greatcoat with several scarves wound round his scraggy neck, and his fingers protruded from greasy woollen mittens like bent twigs.

‘Hello, young Clemmie. What you got for me today?’

She slapped the wallet down on the counter. She had been dealing with Minski, who was a notorious fence, since she first started pickpocketing at the age of seven. Hardiman had
started her in the business by making sure that Ma was permanently drunk and incapable. He had found Clemency one day, hanging round in Stew Lane, cold and hungry, having returned from the ragged school and finding herself locked out of their lodgings. Jack had been out selling bootlaces in the street, and Hardiman had promised that he would take her to her mother. Instead, he had taken her to St Paul’s Churchyard and left her with a group of urchins who worked the area picking pockets. Operating in pairs, they taught her how to lift a handkerchief from a gentleman’s pocket so that he was quite unaware that he had been robbed, and how to avoid capture if the victim raised the alarm. Clemency had learned quickly and had soon become more adept and skilful than any of the boys. She had graduated on to scarf pins and pocket books with no trouble at all, and Minski was always waiting to do a deal.

‘How much?’ Clemency demanded. ‘It’s good leather and it’s nearly new.’

He examined the wallet, peering at it in the glimmer of light from an oil lamp. ‘Empty, was it?’

Clemency nodded.

‘I’ll give you a tanner for it.’

‘You old villain. It’s worth ten times that.’

‘Not to me it ain’t. Take it or leave it, young Clemmie.’

She thought quickly. She was used to bargaining with Minski and she knew that he was trying to do her down. She strolled round the dank cellar, rifling through the racks of clothes that hung damply in the foul air. If she were to oblige young Ned Hawkes, and she was considering it, then she would need to dress up a bit. She fingered a pink satin gown, stroking the cool, slippery material with the tips of her fingers. It felt like a baby’s skin and it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, but much too fine for her to wear, and not at all suitable. The punters would think she was a harlot touting for business. Reluctantly, she passed it by and found a navy-blue serge skirt and a white, if slightly yellowed, cambric blouse with a high neck and full sleeves. ‘Throw in these duds and we got a deal.’

‘I ain’t the bleeding Sally Army, girl. This ain’t a charity.’

Clemency snatched the garments off the rail; she knew by the whining tone of his voice that she was going to win. ‘And a pair of boots.’

‘Over my dead body.’

Clemency chuckled. ‘I’m sure Hardiman could arrange it. Tell you what, Minski. I’ll give you another twopence for the boots and I won’t tell Hardiman of our little deal.’

She left the cellar wearing a pair of rather down-at-heel, but quite serviceable, high-button
boots, and with the skirt and blouse wrapped in a tight bundle beneath her arm.

On her way home, she stopped at a shop in Knightrider Street, and purchased a bag of coal, some kindling, a bundle of candles, a poke of tea and one of sugar, a loaf and a pot of beef dripping. She gave the shop boy a halfpenny to carry the coal back to Stew Lane. He managed to heft it to their door but slipped as he attempted to negotiate the snow-covered steps and scraped his shins. His flesh was mottled and so cold that, at first, the wound did not bleed. He seemed almost too weak to cope with the pain and his small face, covered with weeping sores, puckered into a grimace. Tears spilled from his eyes and rolled down his hollow cheeks. Stricken with pity, Clemency gave him her last penny for his trouble. His simian face cracked into a grin, and he scampered up the remaining steps as if the devil were after him.

With her hand on the latch, Clemency was about to go inside when she heard raised voices. One was Jack’s and the other she did not recognise. She burst into the room to find a brute of a man with his hands round Jack’s throat.

Clemency dropped her packages on the floor and hurled herself on top of Jack’s assailant, punching, kicking and screaming at him. He lurched to his feet tossing her to the ground as if she weighed less than a bag of feathers.

‘Jack, are you all right?’ Her first concern was for her brother, who lay back against the wall, blue in the face, clutching his hands to his throat and gasping for breath. He nodded dumbly. Clemency jumped up to face the intruder. ‘You bugger! What d’you think you was doing to a poor crippled boy?’ For a moment, she thought the big brute was going to strike her to the ground, but he seemed to change his mind, and he shuffled towards the open door.

‘Ask him,’ he growled. ‘Ask him.’ He barged out of the room, slamming the door behind him so that the sash window rattled.

There was silence except for Jack’s rasping cough as he fought to regain control of his breathing. Clemency bent over him, peering anxiously into his face. ‘Are you all right?’

Jack nodded.

‘Who was he, Jack? And why did he go for you as if he meant to kill you?’

With beads of perspiration standing out on his forehead, Jack attempted a wobbly smile. ‘He’s one of Hardiman’s gang …’ He broke off, overcome by a fit of coughing.

‘Never mind that now.’ Clemency straightened up. This was not the time for explanations – they would come later. ‘I’m going to get a fire going, and then I’ll fetch water from the pump and make you a nice cup of tea. You rest there, ducks.’

It took her some time to drag the sack of coal from the snow-filled area into the room and to get a fire going in the small grate. It took even longer to negotiate the slippery streets to get to the communal pump to fetch water. By the time she had made a pot of tea, cut slices from the loaf and spread them with dripping, making sure that Jack had most of the nourishing brown jelly at the bottom of the pot, he had recovered enough to tell her what had happened.

‘He come bursting in,’ he said, in between sips of hot, sweet tea, ‘without a by your leave, saying that Hardiman had sent him.’ He paused, shaking angry tears from his eyes. ‘And all I could do was sit here and try to fend the bugger off with me bare hands.’

With anger and hatred for Hardiman raging in her breast, Clemency bit into a chunk of bread,
allowing Jack time to compose himself. If only she were a man, she would show Hardiman and his bully boys what was what.

Jack wiped his eyes on his sleeve and took a shuddering breath. ‘It were a warning, Clemmie. He never meant to kill me; it were a threat of what was to come if I didn’t do what he wanted.’

‘But what did he want?’

‘Hardiman is dangerous, Clemmie. He sees you taking Ma’s place in his dirty dealings, and he wants me to persuade you to go with him. You got to get away from here, girl. You ain’t safe and I’m only half a man. I can’t protect you.’

‘I won’t have it.’ Clemency jumped to her feet, dropping her bread on the floor and ignoring the rat that popped out of a hole in the wall to scurry across the floor, seize the food and carry it off in the blink of an eye. ‘I’d rather die than sell me body to dirty, stinking men like Hardiman. I’m going to get us all out of this hell-hole if it’s the last thing I do.’ She retrieved the bundle of clothes that she had dropped near the doorway and began stripping off her ragged garments.

‘Clemmie, for God’s sake, what are you going to do?’ Jack’s voice rose in alarm.

Used as she was to living in the confines of one cramped room, Clemency was not shy about undressing in front of her brother. Shivering in her thin cotton shift, she reached for the white blouse and put it on, fastening the tiny buttons
with trembling fingers. ‘I don’t know yet, but I’m going to put a stop to Hardiman’s game.’ She stepped into the skirt and wrapped it around her slim waist. ‘How do I look?’

‘Fine. Promise me you won’t do nothing stupid, Clemmie.’

‘I wish I had a mirror,’ Clemency said, peering into the glass windowpanes in an attempt to view her reflection. ‘I got to do something with my hair.’ She went down on her hands and knees, feeling under the thin flock mattress that was Edith’s sleeping place. ‘I seen her hiding her bits and pieces somewhere.’ Her fingers closed around a cotton pouch. ‘Found it.’ She sat back on her haunches and tipped the contents into her lap. In the dim light of the tallow candle, she went through the items one by one. Her mother’s treasured possessions were pathetically few: a string of glass beads, a black velvet ribbon and three tortoiseshell combs. ‘I can remember her wearing these. She was so pretty in them days.’ There was a lump in Clemency’s throat as she remembered her mother before drink and prostitution had left her with a broken spirit and faded beauty.

‘Clemmie, please.’ Jack’s voice cracked with emotion. ‘Don’t go that way.’

A hoarse laugh ripped from her throat. ‘I’ll go me own way, not that of bloody Hardiman. I’ll see the bugger burn in hell fire afore I do what he
wants.’ She twisted her long, flame-red tresses into a knot on top of her head, fixing them in place with the combs. Getting to her feet, Clemency turned to Jack. ‘How do I look now? Be honest.’

Jack swallowed hard and his lips moved soundlessly. She raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to answer.

‘Beautiful, Clemmie. You look so fine. Please don’t do nothing rash.’

She hooked up her shawl and did a twirl. ‘I’m going out to conquer the world, Jack. And I’ll make Hardiman pay for what he’s done to you and Ma. You see if I don’t.’

The fire was burning brightly in the hearth, and Jack had enough food in his belly to keep him going for the rest of the day. Clemency left him sitting close to the comforting blaze, having extracted a promise from him that he would not attempt to go out into the snow. In return, she gave him her word that she would not do anything foolish. However, once outside in the bitter cold of a January day, with the future looking equally bleak, Clemency knew that this was one pledge to her beloved brother that she might not be able to keep. With little idea or plan in mind, she made her way to Cheapside, where she sauntered along the pavements looking for a likely victim who might have a full purse or a gold watch. But the weather was her worst
enemy, and there were few people out of doors braving the slippery pavements and winter chill. Those who did venture abroad were huddled beneath greatcoats, striding along with their hands in their pockets. The ladies travelled in hackney cabs, and were assisted across the treacherous pavements to the door of their destination by burly cabbies, men who could spot a dipper at a hundred yards or more.

Clemency was getting desperate. Her clothes were decent, but without a bonnet or cape she was poorly dressed for such inclement weather, and this made her stand out in the crowd. She stopped for a moment inside the doorway of a jeweller’s shop, stamping her feet and wrapping her arms about her chest in an effort to get warm. If she did not pick a pocket soon, there would be no supper tonight and she would go home to a helpless cripple, and a drunken mother who had spent her immoral earnings on jigger gin. She would leave herself open to Hardiman and his evil intentions.

Then she saw him – a well-dressed young man wearing a city suit beneath a topcoat that was left casually undone, as if he was impervious to the cold. On his head he wore a bowler hat, tipped at a rakish angle, and he carried a silver-headed cane. He was studying something that had caught his eye in the jeweller’s window. She sidled out of the doorway and stood beside him.
He did not appear to have noticed her and she slid her hand into his jacket pocket. Her fingers caressed a leather pouch, bulging with coins, and her heart began to race. With her gaze fixed on his absorbed profile, she curled her fingers around the pouch and began to lift it slowly from its warm resting place. Suddenly, and without even turning his head, he caught her by the wrist. She tried to break free but he held her in an iron grip.

‘Let me go, mister. I was just trying to get me hand warm. A girl could freeze to death out here.’

He looked at her for the first time and his eyes gleamed like blue diamonds. ‘Amateur,’ he said in a cultured drawl.

Panic clutched Clemency’s heart in an icy fist. ‘No, honest, guv. I weren’t up to no good. I tells you I was cold and you look like a …’

‘Nice, kind man? Believe me, young woman, I am not.’ He dragged her hand from his pocket. ‘And you are not an accomplished thief.’

‘I am so.’ She could not let that remark pass unchallenged. ‘Why, I’ve been on the dip since I were a nipper of seven.’ She stopped, clamping her free hand to her lips. She had done it now – condemned herself out of her own mouth.

‘Have you now? I suppose you might suit my purpose, with a bit of training.’ He looked her up, with a glimmer of interest lighting his eyes.
‘Yes, you might be exactly what I’m looking for.’

Clemency raised her chin defiantly, even though she was inwardly quaking. ‘I dunno what you mean. If you’re going to call for a copper then do it now, and get it over and done with.’

‘I shan’t call for the police.’ He clamped her hand in the crook of his arm and began walking along the pavement, leaving her no alternative but to run to keep up with his long stride. ‘I have plans for you.’