Harry walked briskly over the cobbled pavement, his mind seething at the confrontation he had had with Bella. God damn the woman for sticking her nose into his business. Even the knowledge that her interference stemmed from loneliness didn’t make him feel any more charitable towards her. A passing hansom cab slowed hopefully alongside him and soon he was seated comfortably on the red leather seat, leaving his mind free to wander back into the past.
It had been four years since his first excursion into the East End of London. Together with a crowd of young men friends he had entered the dimly lit back streets searching for adventure, but instead had met grim poverty and dire distress. The alleys and cul-de-sac packed tight with houses three storeys high and hardly six feet apart, the obnoxious smells wafting from the open doorways causing the smartly dressed men to cover their faces with white linen handkerchiefs had created in Harry a deep, overriding sense of shame. They had moved swiftly past the depressing sights and into the nearest tavern where they had ordered whiskeys and then stood uncomfortably in their new surroundings, their voices over-loud and hearty as they’d tried to disguise their unease amidst the hostile company that milled around them. They had nearly choked in their haste to finish their drinks, then with a great show of false bravado they had sauntered casually out of the pub and into the street.
Once outside they had run pell-mell down the narrow, winding alleyways until reaching the safety of the brightly lit high street. It was then that two of Harry’s companions found that they had been the victims of pick-pockets, and although they had tried to put a brave face on, the evening had soured. The party had broken up amid assurances that they must ‘do it again sometime’.
Harry had spent an uneasy night, the memories of the sights he had witnessed refusing to let him sleep. A week later he had found himself once more in the same pub, his heart racing nervously as he’d sipped his pint of beer. The evening had passed without incident, encouraging him to return the following night, and the night after that. For the first few weeks he had drunk his one glass of beer and left, not wishing to tempt fate by overstaying his welcome. Then the one pint of beer had given way to two, then three, until gradually he had felt himself becoming more and more at ease with his unlikely new companions. They in turn came to accept his presence, and once they had assured themselves he was neither ranter, reformer nor plain-clothed policeman, had taken to sitting with him and pouring out their troubles to the sympathetic young man who seemed genuinely concerned with their lives.
Many a guinea found its way into a dirty palm, but Harry was no fool and only gave to those he deemed to be genuinely in need of help. This in turn had led to bad feeling among some of the other clientele, in particular a man called Frankie Fields, a well-known pick-pocket and ruffian of the highest order. He had swaggered into the Black Swan one night, knocking all who stood in his path out of his way, his unsteady gait taking him towards Harry’s table. Resting fists as big as hams on the table, he had at first wheedled and then demanded £10, only to be met by a steely gaze. Infuriated by the toffee-nosed interloper’s lack of fear, the huge bull of a man had heaved over the table spilling Harry’s drink and sending the nearby occupants scuttling for the safety of the far end of the bar. Holding the man’s gaze, Harry had slowly risen to his feet. Without a word his arm had shot out, the iron fist connecting with the bullish jaw and felling the man to the floor. Stunned by the unexpected attack, Frankie Fields had lain prone on the floor while the rest of the room had held its breath. The last man to tackle Big Frank was now lying at rest in Highbury Cemetery. Shaking his head as if to clear it, the enraged man had let out a mighty bellow and charged the tall, slim man only to stop short at the sight of the dagger protruding from the end of the gold-tipped walking cane. His face red with fury he had stared hard into the cold blue eyes, then letting loose a barrage of curses he had stormed from the bar.
An astonished silence had settled on the room, then with a concerted rush the men and women of the East End had crowded round Harry, slapping him soundly on the back, their admiration for his courage shining from their grime-streaked faces. From that moment on he had become a part of their lives, his action earning him their respect and the affectionate nick-name ‘The Toff’.
In the years he had been among them, many a family had been saved from being thrown out into the street when they could no longer pay their rent by the intervention of ‘The Toff’. The calls upon his purse had been great over the years, but he was careful to temper his generosity, and was quick to send packing the loafers and street scavengers who thought him to be an easy touch. Word soon travelled round the tightly knit community. Generous he might be; a fool he was not. For his part, Harry had the greatest admiration for the indomitable spirit that kept the people of the East End going. They accepted their lot with fortitude, their attitude for the most part cheerful and optimistic. There were of course those who didn’t try to help themselves, resorting to thievery from laziness rather than necessity, and these Harry avoided wherever possible.
Harry had been content with his life until recently. For some months now he had been growing increasingly discontented with his day-to-day existence, experiencing a growing desire to make something of himself, to do something worthwhile with his days. It was all very well to help his friends on occasion, but his monetary aid was merely a temporary solution to their many problems. If only he could think of a way in which he could alleviate their poverty-stricken way of life – not only for them, but for himself too.
At 25 years of age, it was time he stopped his carefree, casual lifestyle, combined his sharp intellect and wealth and put both to good use. He had never imagined he would feel envious of his younger brother, not poor Hugh with his painful shyness and lack of confidence. Not the small boy who had looked up to his elder brother, obeying his every command without question, his eyes shining with adoration and respect. As for Harry, he had taken the fair-haired boy under his wing from the moment he could walk and talk. He had protected him from the playground bullies, collecting many a bruised eye and cut lip for his pains, while a wailing Hugh had looked on as his dark-haired brother received a beating meant for him.
But Hugh was a boy no longer. He would always need someone to lean on, to make life easier for him, yet in spite of his shortcomings, Hugh had done something with his life, he had achieved his goal, carving out a niche for himself in the arduous medical world. In doing so he had forced Harry to take a long, hard look at his own affairs. He remembered the undisguised look of pride on his parents’ faces as they had toasted the red-faced Hugh, and felt again a twinge of envy. The hansom cab jolted to a stop, jerking Harry out of his reverie. Alighting quickly he paid the cabbie, smiling reassuringly at the man’s worried face as he watched his passenger walk cheerfully into the dark warren of houses where even the police only went en masse.
Harry pushed open the heavy pub doors and was immediately enveloped in a sea of noise, smoke and loud music and smiled broadly. Here was life – roaring, teeming vibrant life that made his nerve ends tingle. Walking briskly to the bar he was greeted cheerfully by the people that thronged the tightly packed tap-room. A tall glass of ale on the bar-top in front of him, he took a deep swallow and glanced around the room. Over in the corner sat the dilapidated piano, its well-worn keys being thrashed mercilessly by an old dock worker named Bob who earned a few extra shillings a week for entertaining the customers.
As he surveyed the boisterous scene an image of Bella’s spiteful face flashed before his eyes, and he gave a short laugh. What if he had given in to her entreaties and brought her along with him? He could imagine the reception she would have received, for if there was one thing the people of the East End wouldn’t tolerate, it was disdain, or worse still, well-meaning pity from people who were ill-prepared to do anything constructive to alleviate their plight.
The smile slipped from his face as he visualised his parents’ reactions if they ever found out about his twice weekly visits to this now familiar place. Yet would they be so horrified? His mother had spent many a day helping out in the many soup kitchens of London. She deplored snobbery, and often shed tears when reading of the numerous, poverty related incidents retailed eagerly in the daily papers. His father too, had no time for people who considered themselves better than others, but would he understand his son’s need to align himself with the very people who stood before him in the dock every day?
Harry took another swig of his ale. Many of the crowd present had probably been up before the Honourable Judge Stewart at one time or another, and it was the one fear in his otherwise carefree life that his friends would discover his parentage. He loved his father dearly, and respected him more than any other man he had ever known, but he doubted if the people here would share his view. Nobody knew his full name. He was known as Harry ‘The Toff’ and he hoped they would never learn his true identity. Finishing his drink, he beckoned to the bartender to replenish his glass, then leant his elbow on the stained bar-top, his eyes sweeping the packed room. His glass halfway to his lips he noticed a new face among the familiar crowd and paused. She sat alone in a corner, her face defiant and pinched, her small fists clenched in her lap as her eyes moved restlessly round the room. Placing his glass back on the bar-top Harry looked more closely at her and felt a stirring of pity swell inside his chest. God; she couldn’t be more than 15, and judging from the scared look on her face this was her first outing. Shaking his head sadly he turned away. There was only so much he could do, yet no matter how many times he witnessed such a scene, the feeling of helplessness never lessened.
It was on occasions such as these that he wished he had never entered this world. A world that could turn the old and the sick onto the streets and force the young, girls and boys, to trade their bodies for money to buy food for their starving bellies.
Still there were hundreds like her, and within a month the scared look would be replaced by a world-weary expression. If she was lucky she would be picked up by a costermonger, or some other such man willing to house her in a small room for his pleasures until he tired of her. But this happened rarely. At best she could hope for a few years before her looks faded and the light died in her eyes from the constant attacks on her body, at worst she would contact a venereal disease that would eventually kill her. His eyes bleak he stared at his empty glass, wondering whether to order another beer or take his leave. The sight of the young, vulnerable girl had put a blight on his evening.
Before he could make up his mind he heard a commotion break out over the raised voices gathered around the piano. Turning his head in the direction of the corner he felt his body stiffen at the sight of three heavily-painted women crowding in on the girl.
Hesitating for only a moment, he pushed his way to the table, and laying his hand on the arm of the woman nearest to him, he said cheerfully. ‘Here, what’s going on, Clara? Leave the girl alone, she’s not doing any harm.’
‘What the… Oh it’s you, ’Arry.’ The woman addressed as Clara faced him, her hands planted firmly on her ample hips.
‘Now, stay out of it, ’Arry. You knows the rules round ’ere. We all got our own little patch to work, and we can’t ’ave outsiders coming in and pinching our trade. ’Specially little bits of girls like ’er.’
Turning her attention back to the girl she shook her fist in the startled face, shouting fiercely, ‘Go on, git out of ’ere afore yer gits yer pretty face bashed in. I ain’t gonna tell yer twice; get going.’
The girl got to her feet, her face set in defiance, the trembling of her bottom lip the only sign of her fear. Without uttering a word she walked through the jeering women, and as she passed Harry she stumbled and reached out blindly, her hand catching hold of his coat sleeve. Harry caught a fleeting glimpse of a pair of large brown eyes glazed with unshed tears and then she was gone, leaving him shaken by the encounter. For one wild moment he was tempted to follow her, but he quickly quashed the idea. In all the years he had been coming here, he had never availed himself of the services so readily offered by the steady stream of prostitutes that touted their wares openly in the bar; he wasn’t about to start now. He had a mistress tucked away in a comfortable house in Bow whom he visited every Wednesday and Sunday. In return for her favours he paid the rent on the house and left a ‘gift’ on her bedside table after every visit. There was no romance between them, simply a convenient arrangement that suited them both.
‘Fancy a couple hours of bliss, ’Arry?’ Clara was back by his side, her eager painted face garish in the bright, over-hanging gas lamp.
Laughing loudly, Harry disentangled her arm. ‘Now then Clara, you know me better than that,’ he answered good naturedly. ‘I come here merely for the pleasure of the company, nothing more.’
‘’Ere, you ain’t one of them nancy boys are yer, ’Arry? Be a crying shame if yer was, a fine figure of a gentleman like yerself.’
‘Clara, how could you think such a thing?’ Harry said reproachfully, his eyes twinkling as he enjoyed the familiar repartée. Edging closer to his side the woman stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear, ‘I could make yer ’appy, ’Arry. I knows what men like, and I wouldn’t charge yer, and yer’d be doing me a favour as well. It’s years since I ’ad a real man in me bed.’
‘Sorry, Clara, thanks all the same, but it’s time for me to leave. I’ll see you next week. Be good.’
The woman’s face fell, her eyes turning hard at the all too familiar rejection, then pulling her arm away she smiled tiredly, ‘Go on then, but I’ll get yer upstairs one of these days, ’Arry, I don’t give up easily.’ With a toss of her head she walked back to her friends.
Weaving his way through the tap-room Harry made for the door. He normally stayed longer, but the incident with the young girl had left a sour taste in his mouth. He wondered briefly where she would go, then dismissed her from his mind. Taking out his pocket watch he saw that it was nearly ten o’clock, plenty of time to get to his club and play a few hands of cards in the back room before returning home. His mind decided, he buttoned up his thick woollen coat and set off for the club.
Maggie walked along the cobbled road, her head hung dejectedly as she fought a silent war within herself. How could she have been so stupid? What on earth had possessed her to come here tonight when she knew deep down that she would never have gone through with it? The idea had seemed so easy back in the basement, but faced with the reality her nerve had quickly vanished. Her bolstered-up courage had lasted no longer than it had taken her to walk into the pub; it had only been the spectre of the workhouse that had enabled her to order a glass of ale and sit at the table by the wall. As she’d sipped the strange-tasting liquid she’d tried to keep her resolve, her mind forming questions such as how much should she ask? Where would she go to accomplish the deed, and most fearful of all, what was she supposed to do while the act was being performed? Would she be expected to participate or simply let the man get on with it? The more she thought about what she had planned to do, the more frightened she had become. And when those horrible women had ganged up on her she’d needed no second bidding to abandon her plans and flee.
God, she must had have a brainstorm to have even thought of such an idea. Things were desperate, but she could always apply for parish relief, even though it was next to nothing. Then there were the soup kitchens run by the Sally Army; this thought caused her to shiver with shame and quickly she pulled herself upright. Neither she nor her family could afford the luxury of pride, and when Mr Bates came for the rent tomorrow, she would make one last attempt and plead with him for an extra week, even though she knew it wasn’t up to him, but instead the faceless man or woman who owned the house she lived in. Hugging her shawl tighter around her chest she hurried on, ignoring the tears that were stinging her eyes. It was hopeless, there was no way they could survive without a wage coming into the house. The workhouse loomed before her eyes, causing her to stop in her tracks. The streets were her only chance of keeping herself and her family out of the grim building, but she couldn’t do it; she just couldn’t. The tears were falling freely now and as she stumbled into the darkness of the alleyway she failed to see the man waiting by the wall. The first she knew of his presence was a rough hand on her arm, and then she was being pulled into a narrow alley and thrown roughly against the brick wall.
‘How much?’ the man’s voice whispered urgently, his hands tugging at the buttons of her blouse. Stunned by the attack Maggie could only pull at the strange hands that were invading her breasts, her mouth opening and closing futilely as she tried to find her voice.
‘No, no, you’ve made a mistake, I’m not a pr—’
She got no further. Her skirt was suddenly pulled up and over her face muffling any sound she might have made. When the cold hands came into contact with her bare stomach she froze for a moment, then as if coming out of a stupor she began to fight the unknown stranger. Her hands clenched into tight fists she pounded the man’s head and shoulders while trying to move her legs in an attempt to kick out at the man’s shins, but he had her pinned firmly against the wall. The cold night air hit her exposed body and then she felt the pain as the man invaded her body. She tried to scream but the heavy skirt muffled any sound she may have made. As the pain became more intense she thrashed about wildly, but the more she struggled the more excited the man became. And then mercifully it was over, and with a soft moan she slid silently down the wall and onto the cold, dirty pathway. She sensed rather than saw the man bend down towards her, then her fingers were prised apart and the unmistakeable feel of money pressed into her palm.
‘I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought… I thought you were looking for… for a customer. Oh, God, I’m sorry…’
Maggie heard the mumbled apology through a mist of pain, but kept her eyes firmly shut. Only when she heard the footsteps hurry away did she open them, her gaze concentrating on the dim coins nestling in her outstretched hand. The coldness of the ground was seeping through her clothes and with all the effort she could muster she rose shakily to her feet.
The sound of footsteps approaching hastened her effort, and when she felt her arm grabbed for the second time that night she didn’t hesitate. Opening her mouth wide she went to let out a loud scream, a scream that was cut off by a hand being placed gently but firmly over her lips.
‘Shush, it’s all right, don’t be frightened. I’m not going to hurt you.’
The alley was situated between the two lamp-posts that lined both ends of the street, their pale light showing the dim outline of the man beside her. Her heart was beating so wildly she thought it must surely burst from her chest. The man was still talking although his head was turned in the direction of her assailant.
Harry peered into the gloom. He had seen the man run off and had wondered at his haste. Now he squinted as if to see him better. As the man reached the lamppost at the end of the road Harry felt his breath catch in his throat. It couldn’t be, not Hugh. No, of course it wasn’t, there must be hundreds of men with that colour hair, his mind was playing tricks on him.
Turning his attention back to the girl he gently removed his hand, and his voice pitched low, he said kindly, ‘He’s gone, are you all right? Did he hurt you?’ The violent trembling of the slight body answered his question, and moving away, he screwed up his eyes as if to see her better.
‘You were in the pub, weren’t you? Just a little while back, before Clara and her cronies set about you.’ He saw the head nod silently and wondered what to do now. He had assured himself she was all right; there was nothing more he could do for her – by the look of it the damage had already been done. Yet he was loath to leave her standing here alone. That maniac the papers had daubed ‘The Ripper’ was still at large, and even though he hadn’t struck for over a year, who could tell when he might return to the back streets of the East End. Knowing he wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight unless he knew she had reached home safely, he took hold of her arm, his face twisting with compassion as he felt her flinch under his touch.
‘It’s all right, I intend you no harm, I just want to see you get home safely. Now come along, I’ll find you a cab.’
‘I don’t have money to waste on a cab.’ The words were spoken so low he had to strain in order to hear her properly.
‘Don’t worry about the money. I’m on my way to Piccadilly, you can ride with me. If you tell me where you live, I can get the cab driver to let you off on the way.’
Maggie looked at the man in astonishment. Why on earth would a gentleman like him be worried about her welfare unless he was after something?
Moving away from him she answered stiffly, ‘Bethnal Green, but I can make my own way home, thanks all the same.’
‘Don’t be a fool!’ The man’s voice had risen. ‘You don’t know who may be waiting to jump out on you. You don’t want another repetition, do you?’
Did she want a repetition? God, no. She never wanted to feel a man’s hand on her ever again. Anxious to get away she began to walk on, then stopped as her foot came into contact with something lying in her path, and without thinking she stooped to pick it up.
‘What have you found?’ Harry asked curiously.
Not trusting herself to speak she held out her hand, revealing the brown leather wallet she held between her fingers. Even in the gloom of the street Harry recognised the wallet, and felt his stomach contract painfully. It was the one he had given Hugh for Christmas; he could just make out the fancy initials set in gold lettering on the flap of the wallet. So it had been Hugh he’d seen running away. But why? What in God’s name had brought his young brother to this part of London. Had he taken a leaf out of Bella’s book and taken to following him. No, he shook his head, that wasn’t it; then why?
The girl was walking away from him, her movements stiff as if she were in pain and again he shook his head. Hugh would never deliberately hurt anyone. Oh, Lord, Lord, what should he do? His first impulse was to race home and confront his brother, but he dismissed this idea. Firstly he would have to explain what he himself had been doing in the area, and secondly, his brother was no longer a young boy to be chastised for his actions. And it wasn’t as if he had pounced on some unsuspecting young lady out for a stroll in Hyde Park. Quickening his step he caught up with the girl as she passed under the lamp-post, the bright light illuminating the warm brown colour of her hair as it fell in curls over her shoulders and back. Careful not to alarm her, he gently placed his hands on both her arms and pulled her round to face him. The warm brown eyes he had first seen in the pub stared up at him, still defiant in spite of the tears that glistened on the black eyelashes.
Clearing his throat he said softly, ‘I’m sorry for what happened to you, but you must have known what you were walking into when you came down here; why did you come if you weren’t prepared to… to…’ His voice trailed off, not knowing quite what to say next.
Maggie gulped noisily, then dashing away the tears with the back of her hand, she shouted angrily, ‘Look, mister, I don’t know who you are or why you’re so bothered about me but seeing as you’re so interested I’ll tell you. I’ve got a brother and sister at home depending on me to look after them, but I can’t look after them any more because I can’t find any work. We’re cold and hungry and behind with the rent. If I don’t pay it by tomorrow we’ll be thrown out into the street, and from there it’s only a short step to the workhouse.’ Her chest heaving with anger, she glared at the well-dressed man who looked as if he’d never done a day’s work in his life.
‘But what would you know about being hungry and cold,’ she carried on bitterly. ‘You come here from your big houses to do a bit of slumming, and once you’ve had your fill you go back to your comfy beds with servants to wait on you hand and foot. People like you never have to worry about where the next meal is coming from, or if you’ll have enough coal to keep you warm – you just take it all for granted. Well, some of us aren’t that lucky, some of us have to sell whatever we can just to keep alive for one more day, and when there’s nothing left to sell we end up in a place like this. So, now you know why I came here, only, only I changed my mind, I… I couldn’t go through with it. I was about to leave the pub when those horrible women started on me, and then, just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, that man grabbed me. I tried to… to tell him I wasn’t on the game, but he wouldn’t listen to me.’
Her voice broke, and she would have fallen if Harry hadn’t grabbed hold of her.
Fighting down the impulse to gather her into his arms he carefully held her away from him and said soothingly, ‘I’m sorry, truly I am, but what’s done is done. Now, please let me see you home safely, your family will be waiting for you.’ Her body totally drained, Maggie allowed herself to be led from the alley and into the main road.
Minutes later she was sitting for the first time in a hansom cab, but the experience meant nothing to her. Her body rigid, she sat stiffly on the edge of the red leather seat, her eyes averted from the man sitting opposite her. Watching her, Harry wondered how much Hugh had paid the girl. Whatever the amount, it wasn’t enough. Opening the flap of the wallet he held in his hand he extracted the four white £5 notes and folded them in a small square. When the cab drew up outside the address she had given him, he alighted quickly and helped her down from the carriage.
‘It’s none of my business, but I hope you’ll never find it necessary to visit the Black Swan again,’ he said quietly. His gaze dropped to her tightly clenched fist and taking hold of her other hand he pressed the wad of notes into her palm together with a gold-printed card.
‘This is my card. If ever you need a friend, please don’t hesitate to call upon me.’ The moment the words were out of his mouth he cursed himself for a fool. He didn’t know the girl; for all he knew she could be the sort who would cause trouble – but he didn’t think so. Also he felt in a way responsible for her, seeing it was his brother who had brought her to this pass. Bowing slightly from the waist he left her standing on the pavement and climbed back into the carriage.
Lord, what a night, and how he was going to face Hugh knowing what he did he couldn’t imagine. Closing his eyes wearily he tried to rest but the image of a pair of brown eyes kept floating in front of his eyelids. With an impatient ‘tut’ he sat upright and shook his head. The girl had made an impression on him, but now he must put her out of his mind. Their paths would never cross again; it had been mere chance that they had met tonight. The knowledge that he had seen the last of the girl should have been met with relief; so why then did he feel so despondent? All at once the prospect of an evening spent playing cards lost its appeal, and banging on the roof of the cab he ordered the cab driver to change direction and take him to the house in Bow.