‘Betty, do you think I’ll have to move into a room on my own now I’ve been promoted?’
‘I don’t reckon so, not if you say you don’t want to, Sarah. I like having you here. I don’t want to share with no one else, but I don’t know where they’ll put the new nursery-maid when she starts next week.’
The girls were taking their afternoon break. It wasn’t often they had time to spend together during the day. The servants’ hall was busy. Most of the staff had time to themselves between clearing lunch and starting nursery tea or dinner for the family.
Jane, who had become a firm friend of Sarah’s since the incident with her sprained ankle, came over to join them.
‘There’s a right to-do going on upstairs, I can tell you. It seems that the mistress and master have had words, and she’s in floods in the back parlour and he’s in high dudgeon in his study.’ Jane sat down, and Sarah viewed her with displeasure. She was fond of the kitchen maid, but remembering what the housekeeper had told her about below-stairs gossip, she didn’t approve of the way the girl repeated everything she heard.
‘How do you know what happened? You don’t go upstairs, Jane.’
‘I was in the scullery, helping the new girl – you know, the one what’s come to do all the heavy work so I can learn more about cooking. Well, Mrs Hall comes in and speaks to Cook. We weren’t eavesdropping, not deliberate like, but their voices carried right in and we heard everything they said.’
Why hadn’t they thought to bang about and let Mrs Hall know they were close by? ‘Well, I don’t think you should be repeating it to us. It’s none of our business what the mistress and master say to each other. As long as we do our job, and give satisfaction, we get paid. This is a lovely house to work in. I’ve met other girls when I’ve been out for a walk with the children and none of them are treated as well as we are.’
‘I know. They’re ever so fair here, ain’t they?’ Jane smiled and harmony was restored. Betty pushed over a plate of biscuits, some misshapen, some burnt, but tasty enough for afternoon tea for the likes of them.
Sarah helped herself and the conversation became more general. Jane, who was older than both of them, had celebrated her sixteenth birthday not long ago and Cook had kindly baked her a cake on her birthday. Now Sarah knew about this tradition, she’d tell everyone when hers came round this year.
‘Shall I show you what my mother left for me, Jane?’
‘Go on then, show us what it was.’
Delving into her pocket she pulled out one of her embroidered handkerchiefs. She’d never wipe her nose on it, but loved the feel of it and often took it out to admire the exquisite workmanship. Jane exclaimed in admiration. ‘Can I pick it up, Sarah? I ain’t got anything like this. I don’t reckon even the mistress has anything so good.’
‘My ma made it. At least I’ve something to remember her by.’ She had got used to the idea of being deserted; it was high time her friends knew it was safe to talk about what had happened without her getting upset. The two girls were impressed.
‘Can I have it back now, Betty? I don’t want it to get grubby. I like to keep it in my pocket but I’m never going to use it. I’ve got a bit of rag for that.’
Betty yawned and looked shrewdly at Jane who had flushed as Johnny, the under groom, came in for his tea. He didn’t look in their direction, but was clearly aware they were there.
‘Are you walking out with him then, Jane?’ Betty whispered over the table.
‘Hush, he’ll hear you. I reckon we are. He’s very attentive, but we’ve not talked much about the future. We ain’t in a position to do anything about it, are we? If we both save our wages, and he gets a position somewhere else as head groom, then maybe things will work out. You get a cottage with a job like that. We could be wed then.’
The girl’s eyes were misty and she glowed with happiness. Sarah didn’t understand her excitement. Why would any girl want to swap the happy life they had here to live in a tiny cottage at the beck and call of a man? She was getting on just fine as she was and earning good money.
‘Don’t look so sour, Sarah. You’re not old enough to understand,’ Jane said sharply.
‘Understand what? I know I’m not going to walk out with any young man, not at my age. I intend to save all my wages and any tips I get, and when I have enough I’m going to start on my own, maybe a milliner’s or something like that.’
The two older girls exchanged amused glances and she felt excluded. Betty wasn’t much older than her, and looked younger, her being so much shorter than she was.
She put down her unfinished tea. ‘I can’t sit around gossiping with you two. I’ve got work to do. Nanny Brown is on her own with the children and I don’t like to leave them unattended for too long.’
She stalked out and could hear them sniggering behind her back. There was something they knew that she didn’t and it was something to do with young men. She blinked, wishing she had her ma around to ask what her friends had been talking about.
She was busy in the nursery all afternoon and had no opportunity to consider what had taken place over tea. Now she was under nurse she had more responsibility, and until she had a nursery-maid to help there were double duties to perform. Nanny Brown had told her that there would be a new addition to the nursery in October. This would mean she’d have full responsibility for the older children.
Nanny’s role would be to take care of the infant, hers to manage the other four with the help of the nursery-maid. Nanny had said there might be a second girl appointed, but the master hadn’t yet decided on the matter.
When she eventually wandered up to bed, she recalled how she’d felt that afternoon. She was determined to ask what it was she didn’t know; it wasn’t nice to be considered ignorant. She pushed open the bedchamber door to find Betty waiting for her.
‘I’m that sorry about this afternoon, Sarah; we didn’t mean to upset you. You’re my best friend, and I thought we should have a bit of a chat about things. What do you say?’
‘I was going to ask you to explain it to me; there’s something I don’t know, something my ma should have told me but you can tell me instead. That’ll do just fine.’
She noticed then there were two mugs of chocolate steaming by the fire and two plates of Cook’s plum cake. ‘Where did those come from? I hope you didn’t pinch them.’
‘As if I would? I was telling Cook how we had a falling-out and Mrs Hall overheard. She asked if you wanted to move into Smith’s old room and I told her that you preferred to stay with me as we was good friends. It were she told Cook to give us this, said you’re a good girl and she didn’t want you unhappy.’
Sarah beamed. ‘It was kind of you to think of me, Betty. I’m not annoyed any more; I just felt awkward at the time.’
Hastily taking off her soiled apron, cuffs and cap she dropped them in the laundry basket to be taken down in the morning. She hung up her uniform dress and slipped into her flannel nightgown, pulling her shawl around her shoulders. She joined her friend on the rag rug in front of the fire. ‘Now, Betty, tell me what it is that makes Jane look so pretty when she stares at Johnny. It’s a mystery to me.’
By the time her friend had explained the facts of life to her, what actually took place between a man and woman when they were wed, and before if they weren’t careful, she was dumbfounded. She couldn’t believe a woman would wish to go through such a strange experience with a man. She’d seen animals mating, thought it disgusting – the idea that she would have to endure that if ever she got married convinced her she would remain a spinster.
‘I can’t believe it, Betty. I shan’t do it. The very idea disgusts me.’
‘It might do now, but when you meets the right man, falls in love, you’ll get them feelings right enough. You’ll want to do it – I can promise you that.’
‘It doesn’t bear thinking of. I can’t credit the mistress and master do that in the privacy of their bedchamber. I shan’t be able to look at them without blushing in future.’ She stopped in horror as she remembered the strange noises she used to overhear coming from the other bedroom back home. ‘My ma and pa must have done it.’
Betty laughed out loud. ‘Well you wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t.’
They sat and chatted about more pleasant things, and finished the hot chocolate and cake with relish. When she eventually climbed into bed she had lots to think about, most of it unpleasant.
Then she recollected how pretty Jane had looked, how her features had softened from plainness to beauty, how her eyes had glowed with happiness when she’d been staring at Johnny. Maybe there was something in this love business; it was just that she wasn’t ready. One thing she would do, she’d always keep her knees together when alone with a man. She’d not risk catching on and getting in the family way unless she had a ring on her finger. She hoped Jane would be as sensible. Then she recalled something she’d overheard Cook saying to the girl.
‘That Johnny, he’s got a roving eye. None of the pretty girls are safe around him. You need to watch out for yourself with that young man.’
* * *
London, February 1842
One miserable day followed another, but Alfie didn’t notice. Christmas and New Year passed him by. The first weeks were the worst, but then his arms and shoulders strengthened and he was able to develop a rhythm of his own, getting most of the coal safely into the basket each time. His days settled into a pattern, his life ruled by the tide.
Twice a week he got a decent meal; the rest of the time he made do with potatoes cooked in the brazier and bread and gruel. When they finished emptying the lighter, Black Ben took him to The Whalebone and bought him a dish of stew; he always saved a handful to give to the dog, which waited patiently outside for his treat.
The second hot meal was when they’d finished filling the lighter from the Queen of the Mersey and were invited on board for supper. He no longer noticed the roughness of the men, had soon learnt it was the way they spoke in the north of England what made them sound foreign. He could understand them well enough, just didn’t like most of what he heard.
He was paid nothing, was expected to work like a slave, waiting on his master when he wasn’t shovelling coal. It was relentless. Every day the same, but by the time the snow melted he’d toughened up, was a different boy to the one that had been sold to the lighterman.
Alfie discovered if he stood more than an arm and shovel’s length from Ben, when he was too exhausted to continue and paused for a moment, the blow aimed at him could be dodged. In spite of this he was black and blue from the punches and kicks he couldn’t avoid. The only thing of cheer in his bleak life was his growing friendship with the scruffy dog. One of the sailors had given him an old coat and a blanket, which made his nights and days less hideous too.
On a dark cold night, after they’d emptied the hold, and he’d had his bowl of stew at the alehouse, he thought to ask one of the other children the date. He had been astonished to find it was already the beginning of February. What had happened to the weeks? He counted back on his fingers and discovered he’d been working for over four months. What must his family be thinking? He’d never intended to run away, just earn some money to help Ma out.
His former softness had long gone. Now he could hold his own in a fight with the boys who tried to steal his food whilst they were waiting, like him, for their masters outside the inn.
Every night his sleep was dreamless, but he wasn’t kicked awake nowadays. Buster nudged him when it was time to stir the brazier into life, get the gruel on and fetch the water.
This particular evening Black Ben had drunk even more than usual, and had to be held upright on his way home. The man had toppled head first into the empty hold. For a wonderful moment Alfie thought he might be dead and he could make his escape. But his master had sworn volubly, heaved himself upright, and scrambled back up the rope ladder.
Ben aimed a vicious blow at Alfie’s head, but he was so drunk it was no problem to dodge. ‘Find me blanket, and get over the other side where I can see you. I’ll not have you run orf whilst I sleep.’
This was the usual pattern. Ben always positioned himself where the boat touched the wharf, the only place it would be possible to scramble over and escape. Alfie wished he’d learnt to swim, for there had been several opportunities to jump overboard, but he would drown if he did that.
Any life, even this one, was preferable to death.
When Buster nipped him awake he rose, collected the pail, and climbed over the snoring man to head for the pump. He looked down at his owner. Was this his chance? There might never be a better one; it was barely light, the bodiless man who worked the pulley hadn’t arrived; the horses were still in their stables, the carts lined up alongside.
The dog was his friend. He’d let him go, not savage him as he’d once feared. He dropped over the side, the bucket clanking noisily as it bounced off the lighter. It was always difficult to disembark when the boat was canted over on the stinking mud at low tide. He strolled, in what he hoped was a casual way, towards the pump, stopped and filled the bucket, letting the dog have his drink.
As soon as the animal’s nose was buried in the bucket, he turned and ran towards the exit; he was at the archway when a massive weight crashed into his back and he was flattened. A hideous snarling sounded in his ear and teeth sunk into his shoulder, and he knew they’d broken the skin. How could he have made such an error? Buster accepted his food, but when it came to it, he was his master’s dog. He’d never let him go.
The noise of the dog’s barking woke Ben, and Alfie heard him shouting. The threats he was making so terrified him, his bladder emptied. He must get to his feet; on the ground the monster could trample him, even cut his head off with the shovel. He would be unable to defend himself.
He realised, belatedly, the dog was growling but wasn’t tearing him to pieces. He turned his head and saw that Buster’s tail was wagging slightly, the dog was play-acting. Reassured by this, he rolled out from underneath the animal and scrambled to his feet, covering his embarrassment with the long coat; with one hand beside the dog’s head, he turned to face Black Ben.
‘You miserable little guttersnipe, you snivelling bastard. Think you could run away from me, did you? You’re lucky Buster didn’t kill you.’ His master didn’t have a shovel in his hand, he had a length of rope – a beating with this was preferable to one with a shovel, and Alfie was determined to endure his punishment without crying out.
‘I wasn’t planning to run off, mister, honest I wasn’t,’ Alfie whined, trying to sound cowed and terrified, which wasn’t difficult. ‘I wanted to look at the street. I ain’t never had a chance to see what goes on there, you see. Even the dog knows I weren’t running away. He’d have killed me otherwise, wouldn’t he?’
Ben scowled, his matted hair obscuring one bloodshot eye. ‘I reckon you’re right; still, it don’t change nothing.’ Moving with surprising speed for a man of his size, one that had so recently been dead drunk, his arm shot out catching Alfie by the shoulder. Before he knew what had happened, the rope was tied firmly around his neck. ‘There, you little bugger, you ain’t going nowhere now, unless I go with you.’
Alfie wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not; at least if he’d been beaten he would still have the chance to escape, but tethered like a beast, he’d never get away.
* * *
London, April 1842
The rope around Alfie’s neck made his miserable existence even more unbearable. He was no longer able to climb up to the coal ship for his supper when he’d finished loading the lighter. He was left below with the dog and was lucky to get a hunk of bread tossed to him when his owner returned the next morning. Once a week Black Ben bought his meal, but now he was obliged to eat whilst tied up outside, aware that the other children treated him differently, gave him a wide berth.
The days dragged on and without two hearty meals a week he knew his strength was ebbing, wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to keep up the punishing routine without injuring himself. Well, it was more likely Ben would hurt him worse if he didn’t get his share of the shovelling done to the man’s satisfaction. Thankfully the rope was left dangling when he was working so much of the time he was able to avoid the vicious blows aimed at him when his master thought there might be a moment’s slackness.
After his attempted escape he ignored the dog. The animal reverted to type; curling his lip, snarling at him whenever he walked past. He’d lost his only friend. He had nothing left to live for.
He was kicked awake a week or so later to discover that the biting wind that had been whistling up the Thames had abated. The sun, although not warm, shone a little more brightly, and his misery lifted a bit. He reckoned it must be spring, perhaps April? Hadn’t he heard the church bells ringing a few Sundays back and thought it might be Easter?
‘Get up, you lazy tyke, there’s work to be done. The tide will be turning and we ain’t cleared the hold yet. We’ll miss the next tide and not get a load if we ain’t careful.’
Alfie rolled upright, wishing Buster still woke him with a lick, but that had stopped when the animal had prevented him from escaping. The one benefit to being tethered was that he couldn’t run errands any more. When his master wanted water, or provisions, he was either tied to the lighter and Buster left to guard him, or he was dragged along behind like a beast being taken to market.
Staggering to his feet he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, putting more coal dust in than he removed. Tossing his blanket out of the way, he waited. He didn’t answer. He’d decided to ignore the man; the only conversations he had now were with himself. He could see no way of escaping since the dog was untrustworthy, not the friend he’d thought. His future stretched out in front of him with no hope of a change in circumstances.
If he managed to survive another year he reckoned he might be heavy enough to take on Black Ben and win his freedom. From what he’d heard, in the many hours spent outside the beerhouse, none of Ben’s boys remained when they got big enough to fight back. Apart from the ones that ended up dead, or were so badly beaten they were carted off to the hospital. He shuddered. They might as well be dead if they were taken in there.
The basket arrived, as it always did, and his grim routine began again. By noon the remaining coal had been sent skywards and the boat was moving restlessly on the incoming tide.
‘I’m off to get me money and a jar or two. I’ll be back before the tide turns. Why don’t you sit here and wait for me? Don’t wander off.’ Ben walked away chuckling at his joke. Alfie glared at his back. No mention of any food for him. He’d have to make do with what he could scavenge from the locker. Even though the dog wasn’t on his side he couldn’t leave the animal to go hungry, so whatever he found was still shared.
He didn’t think of trying to leave, thought of nothing apart from surviving from day to day. With his eyes shut he rested his head on the side. Then after stretching out his legs he listened to the seagulls squabbling overhead. There was shouting in the distance as men worked on the nearby wharfs but he ignored it. He would doze for an hour then look for something to eat.
The sun shone on his face, making him feel human again. The rope chafed his neck and he tried to loosen it, but it was too tight and with a sigh he dropped his hand and drifted off to sleep. His nostrils twitched and he opened one eye to find himself nose to nose with Buster. The dog pushed him and then his tongue flicked across his cheeks.
‘Go away. I don’t trust you.’
The animal dropped on his stomach and yelped. Alfie pushed himself up; in spite of his fatigue the dog’s behaviour was making him curious.
‘What’s the matter with you, Buster? Can’t you see I’m trying to rest? I’ll find you something to eat in a while.’
The dog continued to whine and bark, his matted tail banging rhythmically on the deck. It was no use – he’d get no rest until he found the wretched beast some food. Standing up he picked up the slack on his tether and moved towards the lockers in which the meagre supplies were stored. The rope was just long enough to allow him to move about, but not sufficient to allow him to scramble over the side.
When he stood he saw the cobbled area was deserted. Even the basketman, whose face peered through the hole high up in the warehouse wall, had gone to lunch. The dog was trying to tell him this was his chance to get away. He put his fingers in the rope and pulled, but it was too snug. He’d not get a knife between it and his neck, even if he had one. He had to cut the tether. Glancing around the debris strewn about the deck area he spotted a lump of coal that had split, leaving a razor-sharp edge. Snatching it up he began to saw feverishly at the hemp. Ben might be back at any moment.
Buster watched him as he worked, as if encouraging him to cut faster. At first the fibres refused to fray. He wouldn’t be able to do it in time. Then after ten minutes the outer covering peeled away revealing the whitish inner core. He could do it. He increased the pressure and after a further ten minutes of furious activity the two ends finally parted. He was free.
Leaping to his feet he reached down to rub the dog’s head. ‘Buster. Are you going to let me go? Because if you ain’t, when our master returns he’ll kill me this time.’ The dog thumped his tail and he took that as a signal of friendship. He grabbed his blanket and then stuffed a spoon, tin mug and battered plate into the pocket of his coat. With one bound he was over the side of the lighter and running for the archway. He could hear Buster behind and braced himself, but nothing happened. Instead of knocking him to the cobbles, the dog raced at his side. They were to make their escape together. The animal wanted to be with him; they would take their chances as a team.
Alfie paused at the corner, not sure which way to turn. As he came out through the archway he ran down the nearest alley, dodging in and out of stinking tenements until he reached a main thoroughfare. Here the street was full to bursting with folk going about their business, thankfully one or two as black as he was. There were so many raggedy children he was fairly sure he’d not stand out.
During the months he’d spent on the lighter he’d watched the sun rise in the east and set in the west. Colchester was in the east of England, so all he needed to do in the morning was walk towards the sun and in the evening, walk away from it. He turned right and hoped he was heading in the correct direction. There was a sign high up in a dirty brick building and it said Thames Street. That made sense, as it ran parallel to the river.
His one thought was to get as far away as possible from the coal wharf and lose himself somewhere Black Ben couldn’t find him. It was too risky to stay one street from the river. Them watermen stuck together; they’d all be on the lookout for him once his master spread the word.
The dog pressing against his hip gave him courage; if Black Ben did catch up with him Buster was now on his side. It would be a brave man who took on the dog when it was angry.
He noticed as he jogged along the crowded pavement people stepped out of his way. He must look fearsome, his clothes so thick with coal dust they’d stand up on their own, his face black, eyes red and hair as matted as the dog’s. He’d not washed, nor changed his clothes, since he’d run away. Even Ma wouldn’t recognise him like he was.
He was used to his smell. He reckoned most of the folk around the docks smelt as bad as he did. The first smile for months twitched his lips apart; maybe it was the reek of the pair of them that was getting them a clear passage, not their appearance.
The cobbled road was packed with lumbering carts; huge diligences weighed down with goods, wagons carrying barrels of beer, coal carts, like the ones he’d been seeing going to and fro all this time, handcarts and the occasional jarvey. There weren’t many smart folks around here, though he could see the odd black-suited businessman, topper standing out like a chimney pot above the crowd. Most men wore caps pulled down over their eyes and the women had tatty shawls tied about their shoulders.
The traffic was thickening. The sound of cracking whips, of drivers swearing and cursing as their wheels locked and the dray horses plunged and snorted, drifted towards him. He slowed. He knew what it was; he was approaching London Bridge where Thames Street crossed the road that led to the bridge. He’d passed under it often enough over the months.
He must turn into whatever street it was and make his way north-east, away from the river. He recollected watching the stagecoach drive in and out of The Red Lion in the High Street back home. Pa had told him it took a day to get from Colchester to London on the toll road. Would he be able to walk that distance without food or shelter?
In this maze of streets he’d never find his way out. Would it be better to keep heading east until he reached the coast, then follow it round? It would be much further but eventually, if he was on the correct side of the river and got his bearings right, he must come to Colchester. He’d feel better once he was in the countryside where there were hedgerows to hide in, and he was sure the dog would hunt down a coney or two. He knew how to skin a rabbit, and he reckoned he might be able to light a fire by cracking a couple of stones together.
The crossroads were busy and he slipped unnoticed through the throng heading for the bridge. He hoped he’d got it right, that he didn’t have to cross the river. With the huge dog, as black as he was, he was sure they looked an eyesore, but he saw worse, and everyone was busy about their own business and didn’t spare them a glance.
The road he turned up was Fish Street Hill. It was wider and far more congested than Thames Street. He was waiting to catch his breath when he saw two constables marching in his direction, their faces fierce, sticks held ready in their hands. How had Ben alerted the police so quickly? He’d not been gone an hour, but they were definitely looking for him. There was no one else around they could be after. Black Ben owned him. He was his property, so was Buster. By running away and taking the dog with him he’d broken the law. He was a common felon, could be transported, or even worse.
‘Buster, we’ve got to run for it. Them constables mustn’t catch us. And I don’t want you biting them neither.’ Not daring to look back and see how close his pursuers were, he dodged past a group of stevedores and fled, expecting to hear them shouting, ‘Stop thief, catch that boy.’