Sally had a hundred qualms about leaving Harriet. While Parrish was still hunting for her, she didn't want to let the child out of her sight: on the other hand, having seen Dr Turner at work, she'd trust her with her life. If anywhere was safe, she decided, the Spitalfields Social Mission was; and it was time she began to pay them back for their hospitality.
An hour later, having settled Harriet with Susan the maid, Sally was walking with Miss Robbins down towards Wapping. She seized the chance to ask about Mr Katz.
"Mr Katz is a friend of the Mission. He's helped many refugees - Jewish mostly, of course. He's a clockmaker by trade. His own house is full just now, or I dare say he would have taken you there."
"But how did he know about me?"
"I don't know. He has many acquaintances among the socialist groups in London."
"He said there was a friend we had in common. But I can't think who it might be."
"Nor can I," said Miss Robbins. "You will have to ask him. Now, about this problem. There's a woman down in Rowley Court. We helped her last year when her husband was ill-treating her. He was out of work. It's got better now; he's got a job and he doesn't drink so much. We keep records, you see. Need sorting. Job for you. But she remembered us and came to ask for help. Here we are - on the left. Keep your skirt clear of the ground, I should."
She folded the street map she was consulting and turned into a dark alley. It was a clear, cold day, but as Sally followed her between the high brick walls, she felt as if she'd left the sky behind for ever, and would never smell fresh air again.
She gasped at the stench, and held her sleeve across her face. It was more than a stench - it was an invisible being that leapt at her and almost tangibly forced her backwards. As they rounded the corner into the court, she saw what was causing it. The privy in the court, the only one between all eight dwellings, was blocked and overflowing; the stones on the floor of the court were covered with a lake of ordure. A child squatted on one of the house steps, naked from the waist down. She was hardly bigger than Harriet, though her pinched face was like an elderly monkey's.
"Ma!" she shrieked when she saw the visitors, and vanished on dung-spattered feet.
"Hitch your skirt up under your belt. Never mind your boots - they can be cleaned. Don't waste time feeling sick. Take notes. That's what you're here for," said Miss Robbins.
Sally fumbled at the skirts of her coat, doing as Miss Robbins had advised, and then took out her notebook and pencil.
"Miss Robbins - you see how it is?" said the woman who came to the door. "It's been like it three weeks now, miss. We asked the landlord, and he says it's nothing to do with him, it's the Water Board. Only I dunno where to go, miss, nor what to say or nothing. . ."
She was hollow-cheeked and thin, and under one eye was a livid bruise. Her clothes were hardly clean, but they showed evidence of careful mending, and there was a spark of liveliness in her eyes still.
Sally was finding it difficult to avoid being sick. That anyone could stay for more than a few minutes in this mephitic atmosphere, far less live in it, was incredible, yet here people were. She concentrated hard, taking down the woman's words, trying not to breathe.
Then Miss Robbins insisted on an inspection of the privy itself.
"No good complaining if I don't know what I'm complaining about," she said. "We want facts, the more of 'em the better. Can you remember the date it became blocked? And what you did, and when you spoke to the landlord?"
She quizzed the woman thoroughly. When she'd found out all she wanted to know about that topic, she touched the woman's bruised cheek and said, "How did you come by that, Martha?"
"Oh - I fell in the dark and hit it on the stair-rail, miss. Honest. The candle blew out and I couldn't be bothered to go back for the matches."
"Is your husband still working?"
"Yes, miss."
"How much does he bring home?"
"Nineteen shillings last week, miss. Twenty the week before."
"And you manage on that?"
"Just about, miss. We're better off than some. I'm up to date with the rent, and that's a great thing, miss."
"Indeed. One might think that the landlord would agree. And your children, how are they?"
"Fit as fleas, miss. You'd think this'd make 'em ill, but they're all right so far. But there's typhoid just along the street. Just two courts down. It won't take long to get here, and once it's in the court. . ."
"Very well. Leave it to me. I'll see that something gets done. By the bye, if your husband hits you again, you will let me know, I hope?"
"Course I will, miss," she said, in a subdued voice.
They said goodbye and left. Sally felt pale, and found herself damp with the effort of controlling her urge to vomit. Miss Robbins uncapped a bottle of smelling-salts and passed it to her without a word; the stinging shock helped Sally recover a little.
"I hope you took notes of everything," she said. "You can write it up for me later, but we'll need it before then. Come along."
She led Sally briskly under the arches of the London and Blackwall Railway and up Leman Street towards Whitechapel. It was shabby here, but at least the air was clear of that stench, though it bore traces of others: a sickly heaviness from the sugar refinery on the left, a choking whiff of smoke from the animal charcoal works a street or two away on the other side.
In Colchester Street Miss Robbins scanned the brass plates by the doors until she found the one she wanted, and then walked straight in without knocking. Sally followed, notebook ready.
A fat man in an office was making entries in a ledger, while a thin man was counting out coins on to a table.
"Cooper?" said Miss Robbins. "Are you responsible for the rents in Rowley Court?"
"I beg your pardon?" said the fat man. The other man stopped counting, hand in mid-air.
"The drain is blocked in Rowley Court. A tenant complained to you on. . ."
"The twenty-fifth of last month," said Sally.
". . .and you have done nothing. The place is now in an atrocious condition. Have you referred the matter to the Metropolitan Water Board?"
"I may have done, yes. But I fail to see--"
"By letter? May I see a copy?"
"No you may not. How dare you come in here and demand--"
"How dare you expose your tenants to disease and filth? How dare you allow children to remain in conditions like that? How dare you take rent from people, while doing nothing to remedy that appalling state of affairs? How long d'you think it'll be before typhoid arrives? Or cholera? I'm glad to have met you, Cooper. I shall know you again."
"Please, please, just a minute, madam - let me explain - they're not my properties, I'm only the agent. I did pass on the tenants' observations to the owner, madam, that would be directly after I became aware of the problem, but more than that is not within our competence. It's the Water Board's responsibility entirely, and what Mr - I mean, what the landlord has done with regard to the, to informing the, er, theWater Board, I couldn't say. . ."
"Who is the owner?"
"Ah, well, that's a company, madam, not so much an individual."
"The name?"
He made a pretence of checking it inside a ledger, though he must have known it as well as his own face in a mirror.
"The East London Property Company, madam."
"Is that incorporated?" said Sally.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Is that a private company, with limited liability? Is it registered as a company? Does it exist as a legal entity, or doesn't it?" Sally went on.
"I beg your pardon, miss, but I don't understand."
"Very well, what is the company's address?"
He looked troubled. "Angel Court, just off Throgmorton Street. Look here--"
"Good day to you," said Miss Robbins, and swept out. Sally followed.
"What's this about incorporation? What did that mean?" Miss Robbins asked.
"If a company is incorporated, then it's a
legal entity, just as a person is, and it can be sued. If it isn't, you'd have to sue the individuals, if you could find out who they were. Do you want to find out?"
"We'll see. We'll tackle the Water Board first. I haven't got money to sue people with."
Nor have I, now, thought Sally as they walked on in silence. It was a more companionable silence than before, though; she felt as if she'd passed a test.
The offices of the Metropolitan Water Board were in Bishopsgate, half a mile away. There they found themselves confronted with a smooth official called Mr Hanbury.
"Rowley Court - Rowley Court - East London Property Company. . . Ah, I have a note here from a Mr Cooper concerning a report of. . . Yes, we sent an acknowledgement of that information, look, I've got a record here."
He smiled gently and showed them a letter.
"And is that all you're going to do? Send a letter? Mr Hanbury, I think you ought to put your hat and coat on and come with us."
He looked gently puzzled. "I beg your pardon?"
"Have you seen the state that place is in?"
He spread his hands. "Madam," he said, "I don't know who you are or what your business is, but matters like that are, after all, the landlord's responsibility entirely. Besides, I'll be perfectly frank with you: decisions as to which improvements are to be effected are not mine to make. The Water Board has a programme of improvements planned--"
"I'm not talking about improvements, I'm talking about repairs. This one is urgent. The people in Rowley Court are having to walk ankle-deep in filth. When are you going to repair it?"
He raised his eyebrows and gave a little helpless shrug. Then he looked around and lowered his voice.
"You see, the trouble is that very often these places are full of Jews - aliens - people of the lowest class. Their ideas of cleanliness are very different from ours. I can well understand your being offended by the sights and smells but believe me, what they're used to is a great deal worse. I could take you to--"
"That will be enough," said Miss Robbins. "We shall note your remarks and include them in our letter to your superior, with a copy to the Member of Parliament for the Tower Hamlets. Good day to you."
And once again she swept out. Before she left, Sally had time to notice the man's elaborate show of unconcern.
"What will they do?" she asked, as they set off back to the Mission. "Will they mend it?"
"Yes, they will now," said Miss Robbins. "But you shall write those letters, if you please, and post them directly."
"Do they always use that excuse about the Jews?"
"Oh, very often. Immigration has increased vastly in the past year or so; it's easy to blame incomers for bad conditions. And some of them are filthy. They've had little chance to be anything else."
That afternoon, as there was no one else to help, Sally occupied herself with supervising the five children who were sheltering temporarily at the Mission. Their mothers - each in her twenties, each looking twice her real age - had fled home because of their husbands' violence. One of them was a drunkard, and had found that morning enough liquor to become stupefied by noon. The other was a quiet, thin Irish woman called Bridget, who'd been given a pile of mending to do by Miss Robbins.
She sat with Sally in a big empty room at the front of the house, watching the children occupying themselves with a few building blocks and a battered doll or two. Sally was doubtful about Harriet's playing with the others: fears of disease, of dirt, of she knew not what - of bad manners, she found herself thinking, and blushed for it - rose up like spectres, to be pushed away again by the thoughts that firstly, it wouldn't be for long, and secondly, that she was no longer in any position to be snobbish.
One of Bridget's children, a stunted little boy of three or so, was moving awkwardly, and Sally asked her what the matter was.
"His father beat him with a poker, ma'am," she said. "Look at his back."
She called the boy over and lifted the ragged shirt and undervest he wore. His back was raw. There were three great wounds with pus oozing from under thick scabs, a mass of red weals, and near the base of his spine, a great flaring wound with bare red flesh and puckered skin.
"That one," she said, pointing to it, "he held a red-hot poker to the lad. 'Twas the drink, it wasn't him in himself, he's a good man, but when the drink gets in him he's not a man at all."
Sally could hardly find her voice.
"Have you seen Dr Turner? Has she seen his back?"
"Oh, yes, indeed. She put some ointment on but it's best to leave them open, she says. Let them heal in the air."
The little boy toddled stiffly away. His face had been expressionless, as if he were an old man who didn't understand a word of English.
"Have you been to the police?" said Sally.
"About my man? They won't interfere."
"But the child - surely, can't he be punished for that?"
"D'you know what happened before, ma'am? When he put the poker to him? They took him to the police court and the magistrate fined him, if you please - fined a poor man with no money! So we all had to go hungry for weeks to pay his fine. At least he couldn't drink during that time. That was a mercy."
Sally watched the boy, Johnny, as he sat on the floor a little away from the other children. Harriet was holding a tea-party with two bemused little girls; a boy was off on his own with a couple of toy soldiers. In the grey afternoon the air was cold and still. There was a small fire in the grate. There were four chairs in the room, and a table, and the battered toy-box, and that was all. The children were playing on the bare boards; Bridget was sewing next to her, and everything was quiet.
And Sally felt as if the world had been poisoned. Who could let these things happen? No wonder Dr Turner felt that God, if there was a God, had turned his back. But she, Sally Lockhart, was here now. What was she doing? Was she any better?
Awkwardly she unclasped her hands and smoothed her skirt, and then got up and clumsily knelt down beside Johnny.
"Would you like to play?" she said.
He looked at her. She tried to smile, but it faltered before his hard, dead eyes. She turned aside and pulled some of the building blocks towards them. There were big wooden cubes and smaller brick-shapes made of some heavy composition material. They were all chipped and battered.
"Shall we build a house?" she said.
He watched as she set out some blocks and began to build them up.
"Wouldn't you like to put some there?" she said. "Look, that big one could go at the corner. . ."
She showed him. Slowly he joined in, but always by doing what she suggested; either he was unwilling to take the initiative, or he genuinely had no idea what to do.
Very soon, because there weren't many blocks, the house was made. There was a door but no roof, and only one window.
They knelt and looked at it.
Now what should we do? thought Sally. What can we play?
Because he didn't know what playing was. He had never played in his life before. And as Sally looked into that bleak little eternity three years long, she felt stricken with tears that she could do so little for him: because she didn't know how to play either.
She had no more idea than he did what you could do with a pretend house.
At home it was always Sarah-Jane who played with Harriet, and Sally who looked in, smiling at the pretty sight, and went away again. Or it was Jim who took the child hunting toffees in the garden, having carefully hidden them beforehand; and it was Webster who built the swing and who gave her rides on the little camera-railway. All Sally did was to watch briefly and then go back to something more important, such as reading a financial journal or advising someone how to make money.
And now she couldn't show this little boy how to play.
The empty house stood primly between them. She put out a hand and pushed gently, and it all fell over.
That evening, Mr Katz came for her.
She had written those letters for Miss Robbins, put Harriet to bed, e
aten a supper of bread and cheese, and helped Dr Turner in the dispensary - cutting up old muslin for bandages, washing medicine bottles. She hadn't had a moment to herself, though she knew that sometime soon she'd have to think through the problem of her money, and write to Margaret, and let Sarah-Jane know where she was; and then get back to the mystery of why Parrish was persecuting her. For the time being, it was enough to feel safe.
At eight o'clock the maid, Susan, came to the dispensary to say that a visitor was waiting downstairs for her. Sally's heart pounded until Susan added that it was the same gentleman who'd brought her there yesterday. Sally dried her hands and felt the colour come back to her cheeks as she saw Dr Turner watching her.
Mr Katz was waiting in Miss Robbins's office. He stood up when Sally entered. In the light, she saw him more clearly than she'd done the previous night, and noticed his threadbare cuffs and scratched boots. But the deep rumbling voice was reassuring, and the look in his eyes was courteous and friendly. They shook hands.
"Mr Katz, I owe you many thanks," she said. "But I hope you can tell me who you are, and how you know about me."
"I am going to take you to a man who needs your help," he said. "He will tell you what you need to know."
"My help? I'm hardly in a position to help anyone!"
"You'll give him your help when you hear what he has to say. You have a cloak and a hat? As I remember yours from last night, they are distinctive - can you borrow some others? We won't be spotted, but it does no harm to take precautions."
"Borrow mine," said Dr Turner, coming in breezily. "Dull old things. No one'll spot you in my togs. Don't worry about Harriet; we'll keep her safe."
She tugged a rusty brown cloak off a peg by the door and tossed it over to Sally, who put it on. The hat followed - a little big for Sally, but it shadowed her face - and then she fetched her basket from the bedroom, and she was ready.