The Cockney Sparrow (6 page)

Above the sound of tramping feet and the constant clatter of horse-drawn traffic, she could hear music: the rhythmic beating of a drum, the warbling of a flute, the breathy tune from a concertina, and the clear voice of a woman,
singing. The air was filled with a happy sound, as though the birds had awakened early and begun their dawn chorus. As Clemency strained her eyes to peer into the yellow glow of the gas lamps, she saw the set expressions on the faces of the passers-by relax, as if the tensions of the day were being leached from them by the music. Her own mood lightened, and she found that her foot had begun to tap of its own accord in time to the beat. The musicians were coming nearer and the weary workers trudging along the pavements parted ranks, allowing the band to pass.

The pump was in the middle of the street, next to the stone horse trough, and the music makers stopped so close to Clemency that she could have reached out to touch them. The girl had stopped singing, and she rushed to the pump, working it with one hand and cupping the other in an attempt to catch some water, which she drank thirstily. Someone in the small crowd of office workers, clerks, tellers, type-writers and bankers, began to clap their hands, and soon it was taken up in a welter of applause. The girl curtsied and blew kisses, but it was a middle-aged man who strode to the forefront. He doffed his rather battered top hat and bowed, exposing the shining pate of his balding head. As he straightened up, smiling broadly, Clemency noticed that his ill-fitting tailcoat was threadbare and too short in the arms, and the cuffs of his
shirt were grey and frayed. A red carnation drooped from his buttonhole and his trousers only just reached the tops of his black boots. He jammed the topper back on his head, and with an expansive wave of his arms he glanced over his shoulder at the musicians. ‘Gentlemen, if you please,’ he intoned in a deep theatrical voice.

The band struck a chord and the man in the top hat stuck a monocle in his eye and began to sing ‘Champagne Charlie is me name …’

Clemency clapped her hands enthusiastically when he had finished. He swept off his topper and bowed to the audience. When the applause died down, he signalled to the girl to join him. Shaking the droplets of water from her hands, she held up her skirts just far enough to reveal a pair of shapely ankles beneath a frilled, scarlet-taffeta petticoat. With her hands clasped in front of her, she launched into the plaintive ballad ‘Come into the Garden Maud’, but a bout of coughing caused her to stop singing. There was a polite silence while the onlookers waited for her to catch her breath; she made another attempt to sing but her voice cracked. Almost without knowing what she did, Clemency stepped forward and carried on where the girl had left off. She forgot all about her cut and swollen lips, ignoring the salty taste of blood as it trickled into her mouth. She had never before sung to an accompaniment other than that of Jack’s tin whistle, and the music flowed
through her veins like molten lava. She did not feel the water seeping through the cracks in her second-hand boots, nor the shards of sleet that had begun to pelt down from a passing storm cloud, pricking her face with a hundred tiny needles. Her heart soared with the music, and her voice echoed off the surrounding buildings, coming back to her and turning the solo into a round. As she uttered the last note, the applause was tumultuous and Clemency stepped aside, embarrassed by the realisation of what she had done. She glanced nervously at the man in the top hat. ‘Sorry, mister. I didn’t mean to butt in. I dunno what come over me.’

He hooked his arm around her shoulders, propelling her forward and taking her down with him in a series of deep bows. ‘Don’t worry, miss. You were splendid.’ He straightened up, signalling to the band, which struck up a military march. He grasped her hand and shook it, pumping her arm up and down. ‘Augustus Throop, musical director of this splendid troupe of street artistes. And you are?’

‘She’s got a blooming cheek.’ Having recovered from her coughing fit, the girl pushed Clemency aside. ‘Pa, you ain’t going to let her get away with pinching me song, are you?’

‘Now, now, my silver-throated poppet. This young woman saved you from a nasty tickle. We are indebted to you, Miss – er …?’

‘Clemency Skinner, sir.’

‘Well, Miss Skinner, you have a sweet voice and a good ear for music, but,’ he added hastily, wrapping his arm around his daughter’s shoulders, ‘not quite in the league of my little songbird, Lucilla. Daughter of my heart, pride of my soul.’

‘Oh, Pa. Give over.’ Lucilla pouted and nudged him in the ribs with her elbow.

‘Such spirit!’ Augustus pinched her cheek, smiling fondly. ‘My little plum-pie.’

Clemency picked up the bucket. It was heavy and her feet were wet, her mouth was sore and the audience had begun to disperse, their enthusiasm curbed by the sudden downpour. ‘I’d best be going.’

‘As we must also,’ Augustus said, signalling the band to stop playing. ‘We will move our pitch under cover to Ludgate Hill Station. I can’t have my little canary catching a cold.’

Lucilla’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘I expect I’ve caught a chill by now. I told you it was too cold and horrible to come out tonight, Pa. But would you listen to me? No, you wouldn’t. Just like a man.’ She flounced off to join the bandsmen who had formed a huddle, with their instruments tucked beneath their jackets.

‘Artistic temperament,’ Augustus said in a stage whisper. ‘My little Lucilla is a real trouper.’

‘Yes, I’m sure.’ Clemency started to walk away but Augustus caught her by the hem of her cloak. She stopped. ‘What?’

He leaned towards her, lowering his voice. ‘My little songbird is rather delicate and easily upset. Have you ever thought of a musical career, Miss Skinner?’

‘I sing in the Crown and Anchor most nights.’

‘You have an exceptionally good voice. Surprisingly mature for one so young.’

‘I ain’t so young, mister. I’m eighteen.’

‘Really?’ Augustus stood back, looking her up and down. ‘You could easily pass for twelve or thirteen. With that face and that voice you would tug at the toughest heartstrings.’

‘I dunno,’ Clemency said, eyeing Lucilla who was cuddling up to the young man who had played the flute.

Augustus put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a coin that shone silver in the lamplight. He pressed the florin into Clemency’s cold hand. ‘There’s money to be made in street entertainment, Miss Skinner. I’m offering you a place in my troupe.’

She shook her head. ‘I got a crippled brother to think about and a sick mother too. I can’t just up and leave them.’

He delved into his pocket once more and this time he produced a business card. ‘This here is our address in Spitalfields. Think about my offer.
You won’t do better than to cast your lot in with Augustus Throop and his musical troupe. It has a ring to it, don’t you think?’ His booming laugh terrified a passing horse so that it reared up in the shafts, almost unseating the carter, who let out a string of expletives.

Clemency nodded. ‘I’ll think about it.’

Augustus clapped her on the back. ‘Splendid. Now we must hie to Ludgate Hill for our next curtain call. Troupe, are we ready?’ He strode off, shooing the musicians in front of him like a flock of geese.

As she trudged homewards, carrying the bucket of water, Clemency thought hard about his proposal. The business card was still clutched in her hand, together with the florin that Augustus had given her. On the corner of Knightrider Street she stopped and set the bucket down on the pavement. Before she plunged into the dark gullet of Stew Lane, she needed to know what was written on the card. Peering at it in the light of a street lamp, she wished that she had paid more attention to lessons at the ragged school. She spelt out the address, mouthing the letters, working them into syllables, and finally forming the words:
21 Flower and Dean Street, Spitalfields
. She tucked the card into her skirt pocket, frowning and thinking hard. Spitalfields was a fair way from here, and it was far from Todd Hardiman’s usual stamping
ground. The florin would pay for a night or two in a respectable lodging house, but if she were to join his troupe, could she rely on Augustus Throop’s continued generosity? If they remained in Stew Lane they would be at the mercy of Hardiman. She might be able to add to the money she made picking pockets by singing at the Crown and Anchor, but if Hardiman found out, he would want his cut. His plans for her future filled her with horror. Then there was Jared Stone. He would not have taken her to his drum in Hog Yard if his intentions had been honourable. She knew very little about him, but Stone was a man to be reckoned with, and he had intended to exploit her skill as a pickpocket. Men like Hardiman and Stone thought of women as chattels and objects of pleasure. She had seen what happened to poor Meg, cast off because she was in the family way. That was not going to happen to her. She was not going to be any man’s slave. Clemency picked up the bucket and hefted it into the slippery darkness of Stew Lane.

The plaintive sound of Jack’s penny whistle filtered through the cracked windowpanes as she clambered down the steps, endeavouring not to spill a drop of the precious water. It was all they would have for drinking and washing until she made another trip to the pump.

Jack looked up as she entered the room. He stopped playing the mournful tune and jerked
his head in the direction of Edith, who had curled up in a ball by the fire and was sleeping fitfully. ‘She dropped off after a while. I reckon I could get a job as one of them oriental snake charmers.’

His cheerful grin brought a lump to Clemency’s throat. There was no hint of reproach in his voice, even though she had been gone for much longer than it would normally have taken to fetch water from the pump. She busied herself by filling the kettle and setting it on the trivet over the glowing embers of the fire. She added the last few lumps of coal. There would be no fire tomorrow, but then they would not be here. She had made up her mind on that score. She went to sit cross-legged on the cold stones next to Jack. ‘I got something to tell you. Just hear me out afore you says anything.’ In a low voice, she told him of her plan.

Jack listened in silence. His mouth set in a grim line and he stared down at the tin whistle as he twisted it round and round between his slim fingers. He did not look up until she had finished telling him of her plan to join the street entertainers, taking them to the relative safety of Spitalfields.

Looking him in the eye, Clemency felt a cold shudder run down her spine. Never had she seen such a bleak expression in his dark eyes, nor such pain and despair. He turned his head away,
saying nothing. Clemency waited, giving him time to control the emotions that were causing his whole body to tremble. At last, he nodded. ‘You got to get away from here, girl. I’ve known that all along. I knew it would come. But you got to leave me and her. There ain’t much that Hardiman can do to us that ain’t already been done.’

‘What are you saying? What nonsense is this, Jack?’

‘Save yourself, Clemmie. Go with the theatricals and make a life for yourself.’

She leapt up, resisting the temptation to give him a good shaking. ‘What rubbish you do talk, Jack Skinner. I’d as soon cut off me right arm as leave you here. Even Ma don’t deserve that fate.’

‘Clemmie!’ Jack’s eyes widened with alarm, and he clutched at the hem of her skirt. ‘What are you going to do?’

She yanked the material from his grasp, too fraught with nervous energy to be gentle. ‘I’m going to see about getting transport for you and Ma. You make the tea. I’ll not be long.’

She snatched up her cloak and hurried from the room, buoyed up with righteous indignation. How could Jack think that she would leave him, or Ma? She ran all the way to the pub in Carter Lane. She burst into the taproom of the Crown and Anchor, dishevelled and breathless, pushing her way through the forest of burly men until she reached the bar.

Ned’s face was a picture of surprise and consternation when he saw her. He called to the potman who was collecting up empty tankards, and, leaving him to serve the waiting customers, he lifted the flap in the bar counter. ‘What’s up, Clemency? Who done that to your face?’

She managed a weak smile, even though it made her lips crack open and bleed. ‘I can’t talk here. Can we go outside?’ She glanced nervously over her shoulder, wondering if there were any of Hardiman’s spies amongst the men who crowded round the tables. She went into the street, glancing warily over her shoulder. There were a few stragglers making their way home. A hansom cab went past, sending up a shower of muddy spray, but there were no suspicious characters loitering in shop doorways. Her nerves were throbbing like the plucked strings of a fiddle. She jumped when Ned took her by the shoulders.

‘What’s happened, Clemency? You can tell me.’

‘Oh, Ned! I need help. I was lying when I said we was all right at home. The truth is that me mum is a drinker and me brother is a helpless cripple. There’s a man, a bad man, what’s got a hold over us and we got to get away from him, double quick. I needs a favour, and I didn’t know who to turn to, except you.’

‘Who is this bastard?’ Ned’s jaw hardened and
his eyes narrowed. ‘Just say the word and I’ll get some of my mates. We’ll beat him to a pulp.’

Her fingers curled into a claw as she grasped his bare forearm. ‘You don’t understand, Ned. Todd Hardiman is dangerous. It would be folly to cross him.’

‘Hardiman! I know of him and he’s a true villain. Tell me what you want and I’ll do it.’

‘Jack can’t walk. I need a cart or a wheelbarrow, anything with wheels, so that I can get him away from Stew Lane.’

Ned hesitated for a moment, looking down at her as though he would like to argue, then he nodded, and covered her cold fingers with his hand. ‘Leave it with me. Just tell me where to find you and what time you wants the cart, and I’ll be there.’

It was pitch dark in Stew Lane. Clemency had been waiting at the top of the area steps for what felt like an hour, although it could not have been more than ten minutes, when she heard the approaching rumble of wooden wheels rolling over cobblestones. She had slept very little, and she knew that Jack had spent the night tossing and turning. When Ma had awakened in the early hours, craving a drink and becoming violent, Clemency had given her a cup of cold tea, spiked with the last drops of laudanum left in the brown-glass bottle, which she kept hidden
behind a loose brick. Ma had slept then and had remained in a drugged stupor.