The Tea Rose Part 2

"I 'ope 'e's all right. 'Ope nothing 'appened to 'im."

"I t'ink we'd have heard by now if somet'ing had," Paddy said. "Maybe somebody on the next s.h.i.+ft was sick and he had to take his place. You know Roddy, he'll turn up."

Roddy O'Meara, the Finnegans' lodger, was not related to the family, but the children still called him Uncle. He'd grown up with Paddy and Paddy's younger brother, Michael, in Dublin, and had emigrated first to Liverpool and then to London with them, staying in Whitechapel with Paddy while Michael continued on to New York. He had known the Finnegan children all their lives-had dandled each one on his knee, rescued them from bullies and mean dogs, and told them ghost stories by the fire at night. He was more of an uncle to them than their real uncle, whom they'd never seen, and they adored him.

Kate mashed the tea and sat down. Paddy said the blessing and the family began to eat. She regarded her brood and smiled. When they were eating, they were quiet. There might actually be two minutes of peace now, Charlie was tearing through his dinner. There was no filling him up. He wasn't a tall lad, but he was big for his sixteen years. Broad-shouldered and just as tough and sc.r.a.ppy as the bull terriers some of the neighborhood men kept.

"Any more spuds, Mam?" he asked.

"On the stove."

He got up and shoveled more potatoes onto his plate. Just then the front door opened.

"Roddy, that you?" Kate shouted. "Charlie, get your uncle 'is plate ... " Her words trailed off as Roddy appeared in the doorway. Fiona, Paddy, even Seamie stopped eating and looked at him.

"Jaysus!" Paddy exclaimed. "What the divil happened to you?"

Roddy O'Meara didn't answer. His face was ashen. He held his policeman's helmet in one hand. His jacket hung open and there was a crimson smear across the front of it.

"Roddy, lad ... speak, would you?" Paddy said.

"Another murder," Roddy finally said. "Bucks Row. A woman named Polly Nichols."

"Jaysus, " Paddy said. Kate gasped. Fiona and Charlie were wide-eyed. "She was still warm.

You can't imagine what he'd done. The blood-it was everywhere. Everywhere. A man found the body on his way to work just before dawn. I spotted him running down the street, yelling. Woke the whole place up. I went back with him and there she was. T'roat cut. Rest of her opened up like somet'ing in a slaughterhouse. Lost me dinner right there. Meantime, it's getting lighter and people are gathering.

I sent the man down the station to get more help and by the time it arrived, I nearly had a riot on me hands." Roddy paused, pa.s.sing a hand over his weary face. "Couldn't move the body till the detectives in charge of the case came. And the coroner. By the time they were done, we had a whole squad out front just to keep the people back. Furious, they were. Another woman dead. This boyo's dancing circles round us."

"Papers t'ink so," Paddy said. "All righteous, they are. Going on about the squalor and depravity of the poor giving rise to a fiend. Them d.a.m.n rags never paid any attention to East London before. Takes a lunatic on the loose to get the upper cla.s.ses to take any notice of White chapel. And they're only talking about it now because they'd like to put a fence around it, keep your man inside so he can't take a walk west and trouble the quality."

"No chance of that," Roddy said. "This lad sticks to his pattern. Always goes after the same kind of woman-drunk and broken-down. He sticks to Whitechapel, knows it like the back of his hand. Moves like a ghost, he does. A brutal murder happens and n.o.body's seen not'ing, heard not'ing." He was silent for a few seconds, then he said: "I'll never forget the sight of her."

"Roddy, luv," Kate said gently, "eat something. You need some food inside you."

"I don't t'ink I could. I've no appet.i.te at all."

"Cor, it's 'orrible," Fiona said, shuddering. "Bucks Row isn't so far away.

Makes a body jumpy to think about it."

Charlie snorted. "What are you worried about? 'E only goes after wh.o.r.es."

"Give over, Charlie," Kate said testily. Blood and guts at the table. Now wh.o.r.es.

"Christ, but I'm tired," Roddy said. "Feel like I could sleep for a week, but I have to appear at the inquest this evening."

"Go up and rest," Paddy said.

"Aye, I t'ink I will. Save me dinner, will you, Kate?"

Kate said she would. Roddy stripped off his suspenders and unders.h.i.+rt, gave himself a quick wash, then went upstairs.

"Poor Uncle Roddy," Fiona said. "What a shock that must've given 'im. Probably take 'im ages to get over it."

"It would me. Can't stand blood. I'd have pa.s.sed right out beside her," Paddy said.

I hope they catch him, whoever he is, before he does someone else, Kate thought. She glanced down the hallway toward the door. He's out there right now. Maybe sleeping or eating or out at a pub like everyone else. Maybe he works at the docks. Maybe he lives two streets over. Maybe he walks past our house at night. Though she was warm from cooking, she suddenly s.h.i.+vered.

"Someone just walked across your grave," her mother used to say when that happened.

"I wonder if the murderer-" Charlie started to say.

"For G.o.d's sake, no more!" she snapped. "Now finish the dinner I cooked for you."

"Kate, what's the matter?" Paddy asked. "You look as white as a ghost." "Nothing. I just wish this ... this monster would go away. I wish they'd catch'im."

"Don't worry, luv. No murderer's going to come after you or anyone else in this family,"

Paddy soothed, taking his wife's hand. "Not as long as I'm around, he isn't."

Kate forced a smile. We're safe, she told herself, all of us. In a st.u.r.dy house with strong locks.

She knew they were strong, for she'd had Paddy test them. Her children slept soundly at night with their father upstairs, and Roddy, too. No fiend would be reaching in to harm any of them. But still, Fiona was right. It made a body jumpy to dwell on him. It chilled one to the bone.

"PIPPINS! Lovely pips 'ere! Four a penny, none finer in London!"

"c.o.c.kles, fresh c.o.c.kles, all alive-o!"

"Who'll buy me fine 'errings? Still jumping! Still breathing!"

It was the same every Sat.u.r.day evening; Fiona could always hear the market before she saw it. From two streets away, the cries of the costermonngers had already begun to reach her ears.

Spilling from stalls and barrows, they echoed and bounced over rooftops, down alleyways, around corners, beckoning.

"The best parsley right' ere, ladies! Buy my fine parsley-o!" "Orrrrrranges, two a penny]

Who'll buy me fat oranges?"

And over the music of the market a new, discordant note rose, one that quickened the steps of the evening shoppers and made them eager to be home by their fires, their doors bolted behind them.

"Another 'orrible murrder!" cried a ragam.u.f.fin newsboy. "Only in the Clarion! Get'cher news 'ere!

Drawings of the murder scene, blood everywhere! Buy the Clarion!"

As they turned onto Brick Lane, Fiona's excitement grew. Here was the market, all lit up and stretched out before her. A laughing, bawling, wheedling creature. A big, roistering, ever-changing being that she could step into and become a part of. She tugged at her mother's arm.

"Give over, Fiona. I'm walking as fast as I can," Kate said, eyeing her shopping list.

c.o.c.kney voices, brash and bluff, continued their l.u.s.ty bellowing. Strutting and crowing like prizefighting c.o.c.ks, the costers dared market-goers to find fault and challenged other costers to better their prices-practicing the East London trick of fending off trouble by inviting it. "Old trout?" Fiona heard one coster shout at a customer who'd questioned his wares. "Them trouts is fresh as a daisy.

You want to see an old trout? Look in a mirror!"

Fiona saw the fishmonger with his trays of crinkled whelks, tiny bluetipped c.o.c.kles, fat herrings, and buckets of oysters-a sample few shucked and glistening on the half sh.e.l.l. Next to it was a butcher's stall-its edges festooned with crimson and white crepe paper, its boards stacked with neat rows of plump chops, stubby sausages, and grisly dripping pigs' heads.

A mult.i.tude of greengrocers-the more ambitious with barrows boasting carefully constructed pyramids of fruit: s.h.i.+ny pippin apples, fragrant pears, bright oranges and lemons, damsons and grapes. And, in front, baskets of nubby cauliflowers, broccoli heads, purple pickling cabbages, turnips, onions, and potatoes to boil or bake.

Flickering light from gas lamps, naphtha flares, and even bits of candle stuck into turnips illuminated the scene. And the smells! Fiona stood still, closed her eyes and inhaled. A salty ocean smell-c.o.c.kles soused with vinegar. A whiff of spice-apple fritters sprinkled with cinnamon sugar.

Fried sausages, jacket potatoes, warm ginger nuts. Her stomach growled.

She opened her eyes. Her mother was making her way toward a butcher's stall. As she watched her move through the ma.s.s of people, it seemed to her that the entire East End was there-familiar faces and foreign ones. Solemn, pious Jews hurried from their wors.h.i.+p; sailors bought jellied eels or hot pea soup; workingmen of all sorts, clean-s.h.i.+rted and clean-shaven, idled in pub doorways, some with squirming terriers tucked under their arms.

And everywhere countless numbers of women of every age and description squeezed, prodded, bartered, and bought. Some were attended by their husbands, who held baskets and puffed on pipes. Others were beleaguered by children, yowling in their arms, pulling at their skirts, pestering for cakes, candies, or hot m.u.f.fins. c.o.c.kney kids crying Mum and Irish kids crying Mam.

For Italian and Polish and Russian kids it was Mama, but their pleas were all the same-a pretty sweet, a colored lolly, a s.h.i.+ny brandy snap. And the harried mothers without enough money for the week's meals buying an iced bun to be split among three, just so their children could have a taste of something nice.

Fiona looked around for her mother and spotted her at the butcher's.

"Roast beef tomorrow, is it, Mrs. Finnegan?" she heard the man ask as she joined her.

"Not this week, Mr. Morrison. Me rich uncle 'asn't died yet. But I do need a cut of brisket.

About three pounds or so. Five pence a pound's my limit."

"Mmmmm ... " The man pressed his lips together and frowned. "All me cuts is on the large side tonight ... but I'll tell you what I could do, luv " He paused dramatically, leaning forward on spread-fingered hands. " I could do you a five-pounder for a very nice price."

''I'm sure that's too dear for me."

"Nonsense, duck," he said, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "Y'see, the bigger the piece, the less I 'as to charge per pound. It's 'olesale economicals. You pay more for the 'ole thing because it's bigger, but you pay less, really ... "

With her mother and the butcher busy d.i.c.kering, Fiona searched the street for Joe. She spotted him five barrows down, hawking his goods. Although the night was no longer warm, his collar was open, his sleeves rolled up, the color high in his cheeks. For the last year or so, at Joe's insistence, Mr. Bristow had let him do more of the patter instead of keeping him behind the stall.

And wisely so, for he was a natural. Every week he single handedly moved hundreds of pounds of produce - more than any clerk at a fancy West End shop moved in a month. And he did it without the benefit of a high-end shop name behind him, or pretty window displays, or billboards, ads, anything.

He did it with nothing but his own raw talent.

Fiona felt a thrill of excitement as she watched him work, coaxing customer after customer out of the crowd. Catching a lady's eye. Reeling her in. All the time joking and laughing-keeping the patter going, the interest high. n.o.body played the game like Joe. He knew how to entertain and flirt with the bra.s.sy ones, and how to make his voice serious and sincere for the suspicious ones, feigning hurt and disbelief if a woman wrinkled her nose at his offerings, daring her to find a better bunch of carrots, a finer onion, anywhere in London. He had a showman's way of slicing open an orange and squeezing its juice in an arc across the cobblestones. Fiona saw that it caught the eyes of pa.s.sing shoppers ten feet away. Then he'd snap open a sheet of newspaper, shovel "not two, not three, but four large and lovely oranges, all yours for tuppence!" into it, twist it closed, and hand it over with a flourish.

Of course, his beautiful sky-blue eyes and his smile don't hurt business, either, Fiona thought.

Nor did the ma.s.s of dark blond curls caught up in a ponytail and spilling out from under his cap. A warm flush came over her, coloring her cheeks. She knew she should keep her thoughts pure, as the nuns had warned, but that was getting harder to do. There was a triangle of skin showing in his open collar, underneath the red neckerchief he wore. She imagined touching him there, pressing her lips against him. His skin would be so warm and smell so good. She loved the way he smelled-of the fresh green things he handled all day. Of his horse. Of the East London air, tinged with coal smoke and the river.

He had touched her inside her blouse once. In the dark, behind the Black Eagle Brewery.

He'd kissed her lips, her throat, the hollow of her neck, before undoing her blouse, then her camisole and slipping his hand inside. She'd felt as if she would melt from the heat of his touch, from the heat of her own desire. She'd pulled away, not from any sense of shame or modesty, but from a fear of wanting more and not knowing where that desire would lead. She knew that there were things men and women did together, things that were not allowed before marriage.

No one had ever told her about these things-what little knowledge she had, she'd picked up from the street. She'd heard neighborhood men talking about mating their dogs, heard the lads' rude jokes, and, together with her friends, had eavesdropped on the conversations of their sisters and mothers. Some of them spoke of being in bed with a man with the long-suffering air of a martyr, others giggled and laughed and said they couldn't get enough.

Joe suddenly caught sight of her and flashed a smile. She blushed, certain he knew what she'd been thinking.

"Come on, Fee," her mother called. ''I've still got the veg to get ... " Kate headed across the street to Bristows and Fiona followed.

"'Ello, luv!" Fiona heard Joe's mother call to her mother. Rose Bristow and Kate Finnegan had grown up together on the same dreary close oft Tilley Street in Whitechapel, and now lived only doors down from each other on Montague Street. From stories her mam had told her, Fiona knew they'd been inseparable as girls, always giggling and whispering together. and even now, as married women, easily fell back into their old ways.

"Thought the murderer might've got you," Rose said to Kate. She was a small, plump hen of a woman, with the same easy smile and merry blue eyes as her son. "Seems like 'e's decided to work overtime this week. 'Ello, Fiona!"

" 'Ello, Mrs. Bristow," Fiona replied, her eyes on Joe.

"Oh, Rose!" Kate said. "Don't even joke! It's 'orrible! I wish to G.o.d they'd catch 'im. I'm jumpy just coming to the market. Ah, well, we still 'ave to eat, don't we? I'll 'ave three pounds of spuds and two of peas. 'Ow dear are your apples, luv?"

Joe handed the broccoli he'd been holding to his father. He came over to Fiona, took off his cap and wiped his brow on his sleeve. "Cor, but we're busy tonight, Fee. Can't move the stuff fast enough! We'll run out of apples before closing time. I told Dad we should buy more ... "

" ... but 'e didn't listen," Fiona finished, giving his hand a sympathetic squeeze. This was a familiar complaint. Joe was always pus.h.i.+ng his father to expand the business and Mr. Bristow was always resisting. She knew how much it upset Joe that his father never listened to him. "Twelve and two .. ." she said, using their secret code-the current amount of money in their cocoa tin-to cheer him up, " ... just think of that."

"I will," he said, smiling at her. "It'll be more after tonight, too. Bound to 'ave a little extra bra.s.s with this crowd. They 'ardly let you catch your breath." He glanced over at his father and younger brother Jimmy, swarmed by customers, ''I'd better get back. I'll see you tomorrow after dinner. Will you be around?"

"Oh, I don't know," Fiona said airily. "Depends on if my other suitors come calling."

Joe rolled his eyes. "Oh, aye. Like the cat's meat man," he said, referring to the gnarled old man two stalls down who sold offal for pet food. "Or was it the rag-and-bone man?"

''I'll take the rag-and-bone man any day over a good-for-nothing coster,' Fiona said, nudging the toe of Joe's boot with her own.

"Oh, I'd take the coster!" a girlish voice chirped.

Fiona turned her head and stifled a groan. It was Millie Peterson. Spoiled, arrogant, full-of-herself Millie. So blond, so buxom, so bright and pretty. Such a b.l.o.o.d.y little b.i.t.c.h. Millie's father Tommy was one of the biggest produce men in London, with wholesale concerns in both the East End and Covent Garden. A self-made man, he'd started out with only a barrow and his own ability, and with hard work and a bit of luck he'd made it to the top. As businessmen went, there was none shrewder. As busy as he was, he spent as much time as possible on the streets, getting his knowledge firsthand by watching his customers and their customers.

Tommy had grown up in Whitechapel. As a newly married man, he lived on Chicksand Street, only a street away from Montague. As a child, Millie had played with Fiona and Joe and all the other children in the neighborhood. But as soon as he started to make some money, Peterson moved his family to a better locale-up-and-coming Pimlico. Shortly after moving, Tommy's wife became pregnant with her second child. She died in childbirth and the infant with her. Tommy was shattered. Millie was all he had left and she became the focus of his existence. He showered her with affection and gifts, trying to make up for the mother she'd lost. Whatever Millie wanted, Millie got.

And ever since she'd been a little girl, Millie had wanted Joe. And although Joe did not return her feelings, Millie persisted, determined she would get what she wanted. She usually did.

There was no love lost between Fiona Finnegan and Millie Peterson, and if she could've, Fiona would've told her where to go right then and there. But she was at the Bristows' pitch, and the Bristows bought much of their stock from Millie's father and getting good prices depended to a large degree on good relations. She knew she would have to behave herself and hold her tongue. At least she'd have to try.

"h.e.l.lo, Joe," Millie said, smiling sweetly at him. "h.e.l.lo, Fiona," she said, nodding curtly.

"Still on Montague Street, are you?"

"No, Millie," Fiona answered, poker-faced. "We've taken up residence in the West End. A lovely little place. Buckingham Palace it's called. It's a long walk for me da to the docks every morning, but the neighbor'ood's ever so much nicer."

Millie's smile soured. "Are you making fun of me?" "Whatever gave you -"

"So then, Millie," Joe cut in, shooting a look at Fiona, "what brings you here?"

"Just out for a stroll with my father. He wants to have a look around, see who's doing well, who isn't. You know him, always an eye on the main chance."

Out for a stroll, my a.r.s.e, Fiona thought acidly. Turned out like that?

All Eyes were upon Millie, Joe's included. She was dazzling in a moss-green skirt and matching jacket, cut tight to show off her small waist and full bosom. No woman in Whitechapel owned an outfit like that, much less wore it to the market. Her golden curls were swept up under a matching cap. Pearl earrings complemented the ruff of lace at her throat and the ivory kid gloves encasing her dainty hands.