"Mama," said Harriet. "Dark."
Sally turned and sat down, taking the child on her lap. She unfastened the fur bonnet and took it off, smoothing down the fair curly hair that was almost as stiff as her father's had been.
"Yes, it's dark, but the landlady's bringing some candles for us, and then we'll make it light. And we'll have a fire to keep us warm, and we'll have some biscuits, shall we?"
"All bikkits."
"We'll keep some for tomorrow. And then we'll put you to bed."
"All the bikkits."
"We'll see. Look, here comes the fire. . ."
Harriet craned round to look at a lanky boy with a sniff, who brought in a coal-scuttle and a bucket containing a few hot coals, and put them in the hearth. Without taking any notice of Sally or Harriet, he produced a candle from his waistcoat pocket, fitted it into the candle-holder on the mantelpiece, and struck a match. Once it was lit, he shovelled a few lumps of coal into the fireplace and then emptied the bucket on to it. He stirred the red coals into the rest, and drifted out again.
"I hope that'll catch," Sally said. "I haven't got any matches. He might have brought some wood. . ."
She got up and arranged the fire more purposefully. The room looked a little more welcoming in the candlelight, though not by much. Harriet settled back in the sofa and tugged off her glove, so as to put her thumb in her mouth.
"Tired, little one?" Sally said.
"Mmm."
"Don't go to sleep yet. Wait till we've got you undressed and in bed. Won't be long."
Presently the landlady came in with more candles, a little bundle of kindling wood, and a stiff oilcloth. She agreed to provide some milk for Harriet and some tea and bread and cheese for Sally; and five minutes later, the fire was burning brightly, the candles were glowing, the curtains drawn and the door shut.
While Harriet sat at the table with her milk and biscuits, Sally took a candle into the bedroom. It was chilly, and the bed felt as if it hadn't been aired; there was a smell of damp. Sally took off the blankets and sheets and brought them through to warm in front of the fire, and then unfolded the stiff, crackling oilcloth and laid it over the mattress.
"You'll have to grow up quickly, little one," she whispered.
There was a chamber-pot under the bed, a bathroom and water-closet on the next floor down. Sally took the jug from the washstand in the bedroom and brought up some hot water, and then took out their washing things.
Harriet had finished the milk, and when Sally undressed her, she found that she was still dry, which was a mercy. She was very sleepy; her cheeks were flushed and she was chewing her thumb. Sally sat her on the pot and then washed her and put her nightdress on and brushed her hair, and then made the bed again with the sheets a little warmer now.
When she carried her to the bed, Harriet suddenly began to cry - desperate, howling sobs.
"What is it? What's the matter, dear?"
"Lamb - Lamb -"
Since the loss of Bruin, her woolly lamb had become her necessary bedtime toy. And they'd left him at the Molloys'. Sally sat down on the bed and held Harriet close, rocking her gently as the child pressed her face into Sally's shoulder.
"Hush, darling - hush - listen - we'll write a letter to Mrs Molloy and ask her to give Lamb to the postman to bring here, shall we? We'll put the letter in the post tomorrow. We're having an adventure. Lamb's - Lamb's staying to look after Mr and Mrs Molloy for tonight. Because he's such a brave lamb. But look -" An idea came: she put Harriet down so quickly that her crying stopped from sheer surprise. "Look, here's a mouse!"
Hoping she could remember how to do it, she swiftly took a handkerchief from the bag, shook it open, and folded it over, twisting and pulling and knotting until there was a rough-looking thing with two ears and a tail. Her father had showed her how to do it when she was young.
Harriet took it and clutched it to her chest with one hand, the other thumb still firmly in her mouth. Sally kissed her and laid her down on the crackly sheet and blew out the candle. A little light came through the open parlour door, and Sally could just make out the glint of tears on Harriet's cheeks. A wave of such powerful tenderness overcame her that her own eyes filled with tears and she felt a lump in her throat.
After a moment she controlled it and stroked Harriet's head, and quietly sang a nursery rhyme.
"Lavender's blue, dilly dilly,
Lavender's green,
When I am King, dilly, dilly,
You shall be Queen. . ."
She remembered lying ill, with her father sitting patiently in the darkness beside her, his deep voice singing those old songs, telling her stories, making her well again, keeping her safe. She'd never known her mother. He'd been father and mother to her, as she would have to be mother and father to Harriet.
Presently the child was asleep. Sally tucked the blanket around her and tiptoed into the parlour.
The fire was nearly out. She knelt and attended to it, feeding it a screw of newspaper, a stick or two, a fresh coal. When it was safe, she stood up again and looked at her hands. There was no water to wash them in without going downstairs again; she brushed them on her skirt and sat down wearily at the table, pushing her hair out of her eyes with a wrist.
She took a deep breath and let it slowly out. Then she brought the candlestick a little closer and took a small exercise book and a pencil out of the carpet-bag, and began to write.
October 25th, 1881
I don't know what to do. I don't know enough about washing her and feeding her and I certainly don't know how we're going to manage, but many women do, after all. I'm so used to Sarah-Jane doing it all (Mem: send her money for a month - should be over by then?) and I just didn't realize how much there was to do and think about.
What am I going to do?
We've got PS10 or a little more in cash. I must go to the bank tomorrow and withdraw some more and open a new account in another name. And buy a wedding-ring. Don't widows wear it on the other hand or something? Who can I ask? Why don't I know? I think we can live easily enough - we'll find somewhere nicer than this - but I mustn't, must not, have any contact with Orchard House or the Molloys or the shop or the office or anyone. Except letters.
Am I going to have to stay like this for the rest of my life?
Especially no contact with the solicitor. Will he be appealing against the decision? Can you appeal? I suppose I could write to him. But I think I've burnt all my boats there.
What I must do, since I can't prove H is not his daughter, is find out why he's doing it and what's behind it. Behind him. Find out everything I can. If he's doing anything criminal, they wouldn't give him custody.
And that clergyman. Mr Beech. (Mem: let Rosa know new address as soon as we're safe.) That's his weakest point, that lie in the register. If I can find out why
She broke off, hearing Harriet stir, but she was only muttering in her sleep. She put another couple of coals on the fire and sat down again.
then I'll know how to beat him. It's the only chance.
A little earlier in the evening, Ellie had heard a ring at the door of Orchard House. She looked up from the game of Patience she was playing at the kitchen table and said, "Who can that be?"
"You'll never know if you don't go and see," said Mrs Perkins, who was dozing over her newspaper in the rocking-chair.
Ellie got up uneasily. She'd already had an awkward interview with the police, and so had Sarah-Jane Russell; she was beginning to wonder if she hadn't said too much to someone about where Sally had gone. Perhaps the sergeant had thought of some more questions, or perhaps they had a warrant to search the house.
But it wasn't a policeman. It was a dark-haired young man in a rough-looking overcoat. She took him at first for a tramp, especially as he had a funny accent of some kind, but he seemed polite enough.
"I am trying to find Miss Lockhart," he said. "Is she at home?"
"No, sir," said Ellie. "I don't know where she is."
"Who is in ch
arge in her absence?"
Ellie heard Sarah-Jane behind her and looked around.
"May I know your name?" said Sarah-Jane.
"Daniel Goldberg. I'm a journalist. I know what's happened to Miss Lockhart and I think I can help her, but I'll have to talk to her personally."
Ellie stood aside. Sarah-Jane didn't come any closer to the door; they were both a little afraid of strangers now.
"I can't tell you where Miss Lockhart is because I don't know," Sarah-Jane said. "She hasn't been home since this morning. I don't know when she's coming back. I don't think I ought to tell you, even if I did know, but I really don't."
"May I leave a message for her here?" said the stranger.
"I suppose that can't hurt," said Sarah-Jane. "You're not going to write about this, are you? Is it going to be in the newspapers?"
"Not yet." He was scribbling something in a pocketbook. He tore the sheet out, folded it and wrote Sally's name on the back. "Please see she gets this. It's important. Goodnight."
He raised the wide-brimmed dark hat and turned away. Ellie shut the door after him.
Sarah-Jane was looking at the note dubiously.
"D'you think he's telling the truth?" said Ellie.
"I don't know. I just don't know anything. I suppose I could send this on to Mrs Molloy's. . . But if she's not there either, like that policeman said, she won't get it anyway."
"Better leave it, perhaps," said Ellie. "Till we hear from her."
Sarah-Jane nodded. She put the note on the hall-stand, and Ellie went back to the kitchen.
Chapter Twelve
THE BANK MANAGER
Sally woke up several times in the night, for Harriet was restless and the bed was narrow. Once she cried out, but Sally's warmth soon lulled her into quiet again.
When she judged it was time to get up, she got out of bed, stiff and tired, putting on her dressing-gown and leaving Harriet to sleep on while she lit the fire and put a kettle on to boil. Was it going to be possible to continue like this for long, she wondered? It was all so temporary. They must find a better place as soon as they could; then she could send for Sarah-Jane, and start looking seriously for whatever lay behind this business.
She made some tea and then went back to wake Harriet. In that little time, she'd wet the bed. Sally stood indecisively. What did Sarah-Jane do? She couldn't remember. Well, what should she do?
She pulled back the covers to keep them dry and then lifted the child out. Harriet protested and struggled to go back, but Sally took her into the parlour and stood her by the fire before taking the sheet off the bed. Now what? She'd have to wash her, but could she leave her by an open fire while she fetched some water? Next time she'd know: have the water ready before she got her up. And make the tea afterwards; it would be cold now before she drank it, and she could have used that water to wash her with.
"Stay there, darling," she said. "Mama's going to get some water. Don't go near the fire. . ."
Taking the jug, she hurried down to the bathroom. It was occupied. More indecision; and then a door opened next to the bathroom and a man came out, dressed in overcoat and bowler hat. He looked at her, in her dressing-gown, in open-mouthed amazement before looking away and going downstairs. She stood there blushing. Then the bathroom door opened and another man came out, also fully dressed. He paused like the first man, and looked as if he'd say something, but frowned and went downstairs without a word.
She gritted her teeth and went in quickly, filled the jug from the gas heater, and hurried back up to Harriet, shutting the door firmly behind her.
"Come on, Hattie-face, let's get you clean," she said, pouring the water into the basin.
"No," said Harriet, still half asleep, and stamped, nuzzling into Sally's thighs.
Sally removed the wet, clinging nightdress and sponged Harriet clean, and then wrapped a towel round her while she searched for clean clothes. But they'd left in such a hurry that she hadn't packed any stockings for Harriet.
"You'll have to wear yesterday's," she said. "Today we'll buy some more. And I think Mama will have to wear yesterday's as well. Come on - stand up now. . ."
She coaxed the child into her clothes, and then saw that the fire had gone out. There was no more paper to relight it with.
"Oh, Hattie-face, this is going to be difficult, isn't it?" she said, sitting Harriet in the armchair.
The child looked at her with eyes that were still half asleep, and then closed them as if in disdain, shrugging herself round to get comfortable on the cold slippery leather.
"Yes, you stay there for a while," Sally said. "Mama will get dressed and then we'll . . . I don't know. We'll have breakfast."
She mopped the oilcloth on the bed dry with the sheet she'd taken off, and then got dressed. She'd go down and get some more water and then wash, but she didn't want any more encounters on the stairs in her nightclothes. She must have more privacy.
And cleanliness. Until they found somewhere that was more their own, where they could settle for a while and send their washing out, she'd have to buy several pairs of stockings for them both, and underclothing. Make a list after breakfast. Find another place.
She dressed, fetched water, undressed, washed, dressed again, and then felt a little better. Her watch told her it was eight o'clock, and the morning outside was damp and misty. She could hear the traffic from the Strand, and she lifted Harriet up to the windowsill, holding her close, to point things out.
"Listen!" she said. "Can you hear the train?"
An engine was whistling somewhere behind the black wall of Charing Cross Station across the way. Harriet pointed down the street.
"Tommy!" she said.
A man with a milk-cart was pouring milk into two large jugs held by a maidservant. His horse stood placidly by and shook its head.
"No, it's not Tommy, but it looks like him," Sally agreed. "It's a different milkman. It's the Charing Cross milkman."
There was plenty to see out of the window: a crossing-sweeper, a newsvendor, lots of cabs. Harriet liked the hansom cabs best, because of the stylish way they swung along. Then there was a policeman, big and fat as they should be, and two sparrows, and a pigeon, and a lady with a little black bouncy dog that made Harriet laugh. And then by pressing their faces to the glass, they could just see the Strand and read the advertisements on the sides of the omnibuses going past. At least, Harriet thought she was reading them; she looked at them and said something while Sally spoke them clearly.
At half-past eight there came a knock on the door, and the landlady came in with a tray of tea and toast and butter and marmalade. Harriet, not sure again where they were or who this was and not liking frowns, sat very still and suspicious while Sally explained about the sheet and asked for some paper and wood to make the fire.
Then they went into the bedroom. Harriet looked at the tray. It was very thin toast. She wondered if it tasted like thick toast, or different. Then Mama and the lady came out of the bedroom, and Mama's face was angry, and the lady was carrying the wet sheet and her face was cross. They were cross with her, thought Harriet, and felt frightened.
But then the lady went out and Mama came and kissed her and they had some toast. It didn't taste different, but the marmalade did, and so did the milk.
What had happened was that the landlady had told Sally of various complaints she had received, to the effect that Sally had appeared improperly dressed in front of several gentleman lodgers. This was an intolerable state of affairs and she would have to leave that very day.
Sally's protests had done no good at all. The landlady's mind was made up, fixed, resolute, even to the extent of refunding Sally's rent for the rest of the week. Sally would have to leave as soon as the two of them had had breakfast.
Once the row (very decorous, no raised voices, grim politeness on both sides) was over, and she was sitting down buttering Harriet's toast, Sally felt almost lighthearted. Kismet, she thought. Fate. We didn't like this place anyway.
"
We're going to find another house today," she said to Harriet. "And then we'll send for Sarah-Jane to come and live with us, shall we?"
"And Lamb."
"Oh, and Lamb, yes. Of course. We'll write to Mrs Molloy and she can give Lamb to the postman, remember? Eat up now. We'll pack all our things and then we'll go and do that. We've got all day this time."
Three quarters of an hour and a frosty exchange with the landlady later, Sally and Harriet found themselves in the Strand. It wasn't quite drizzling, but it was cold and damp, the air so saturated with moisture that Sally saw it condense and settle on the fur of her purse-muff even before they'd left Villiers Street.
She wanted first to go to her bank, the London and Counties, which was only a few hundred yards away. Clutching the bags tightly in one hand and holding Harriet with the other, she made her way through the jostling crowd - newsboys, bootblacks, clerks hastening to work, ladies shopping, commissionaires on duty, messenger boys racing through the throng like fish through grey weeds - conscious all the time that Arthur Parrish's office was not far from here, and that she must not be seen.
She told herself that that was ridiculous, that in a busy street like the Strand she was as safe as anywhere in the world, but still she felt nervous; and conspicuous, too, with her heavy bags.
She reached the bank and turned inside, and sat Harriet on a chair beside the luggage.
"You look after that," she said. "Mama's going to get some money."
There was two hundred pounds in her account. If she withdrew it and opened another account somewhere else in another name, she'd be able to take out a year's lease on a small house or a flat and live quite comfortably. She wasn't altogether happy about the idea of carrying that much cash around, but there was no need to go far - there were plenty of banks near by; and if she asked for a cheque to be drawn, they might be able to trace her. Cash was untraceable.
She went to the cashier and explained what she wanted. She was about to write a cheque when she saw his expression.
"Excuse me a moment, Miss Lockhart," he said, and stood up. "I must just check something with the manager."