The Forgotten Garden Part 9

Silence descended, punctured only by the ticking of a concealed clock. Nell waited anxiously while he turned the pages, one by one.

Still he said nothing.

Perhaps he required further explanation. "What I was hoping-"

"Silence." A pale hand was lifted; the cigarette wedged between two fingers threatened to relinquish its ash tip.

Nell's words stuck in her throat. He was without doubt the rudest man she had ever had the misfortune to deal with, and given the character of some of her secondhand-dealing a.s.sociates, that was saying something. Nonetheless, he was her best chance of finding the information she needed. She had little choice but to sit, chastised, watching and waiting as the cigarette's white body morphed into an improbably long cylinder of ash.

Finally, the ash detached itself and dropped, lightly, to the ground. Joined the other dusty corpses that had died similar silent deaths. Nell, by no means a keen housekeeper, shuddered.

Mr. Snelgrove took one last, hungry drag and squashed the spent cigarette filter into a heaving ashtray. After what seemed an eternity, he spoke through a cough. "Where did you come by this?"

Was she imagining the tremor of interest in his voice? "I was given it."

"By whom?"

How to answer that one. "By the author herself, I think. I don't really remember. I was given it as a child."

He was watching her keenly now. His lips tightened, trembled a little. "I've heard of it, of course, but in all my days I confess I've never seen a copy."

The book lay upon the table now and Mr. Snelgrove ran his hand lightly over its cover. He let his eyelids flutter closed and uttered a sigh of deep well-being, that of the desert walker finally delivered to water.

Surprised by this s.h.i.+ft in demeanor, Nell cleared her throat and clutched at words. "It's rare, then?"

"Oh yes," he said softly, opening his eyes once more, "yes. Exceptionally rare. Only one edition, you see. And the ill.u.s.trations, Nathaniel Walker. This would be one of the only books he ever did." He opened the cover and gazed at the frontispiece. "It's a rare specimen, indeed."

"And what about the author? Do you know anything about Eliza Makepeace?" Nell caught her breath as he wrinkled his gnarled old nose. Dared to hope. "She's proved rather elusive. I've only managed to turn up the most spare of details."

Mr. Snelgrove pushed himself to standing and glanced longingly at the book before turning to a wooden box on the shelf behind. Its drawers were small and, when he pulled one open, Nell saw it was filled to the brim with rectangular cards. He riffled through, muttering to himself, until finally he withdrew one.

"Here we are, then." His lips moved as he scanned the card and in time the volume raised. "Eliza Makepeace...stories appeared in various periodicals...Only one published collection," he tapped a finger on Nell's book, "which we have right here...very little scholarly work on her...except...Ah yes."

Nell sat straighter. "What is it? What have you found?"

"An article, a book that mentions your Eliza. It contains a little biography if I remember." He shuffled to a bookcase that ran floor to ceiling. "Relatively recent, only nine years old. According to my note, it should be filed somewhere..." He ran a finger along the fourth shelf, hesitated, continued, stopped. "Here." He grunted as he pulled down a book and blew dust from its top. Then he turned it over and squinted at the spine. "Fairy Tales and Fiction Weavers of the Late Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries "Fairy Tales and Fiction Weavers of the Late Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries by Dr. Roger McNab." He licked his fingertip and turned to the index, traced down the list. "Here we are, Eliza Makepeace, page forty-seven." by Dr. Roger McNab." He licked his fingertip and turned to the index, traced down the list. "Here we are, Eliza Makepeace, page forty-seven."

He pushed the open book across the table to Nell.

Her heart was racing, pulse flickering beneath her skin. She was warm, very warm. She fumbled the pages to forty-seven, read Eliza's name at the top.

Finally, finally, she was making progress, a biography that promised to flesh out the one person to whom she knew she was somehow linked. "Thank you," she said, the words catching in her throat. "Thank you."

Mr. Snelgrove nodded, embarra.s.sed by her grat.i.tude. He tilted his head in the direction of Eliza's book. "I don't suppose you're seeking a good home for this one?"

Nell smiled slightly and shook her head. "I'm afraid I couldn't part with it. It's a family heirloom."

The bell tinkled. A young man stood on the other side of the gla.s.s office door, staring uncertainly at the towers of sagging shelves.

Mr. Snelgrove nodded curtly. "Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me." Peering over his gla.s.ses at the new customer, he huffed shortly. "Why do they always hold the door open?" He began his shuffle back towards the shop. "Fairy Tales and Fiction Weavers is three pounds," he said as he pa.s.sed Nell's chair. "You may sit here and avail yourself of the facilities for a brief time, just be sure and leave the money on my counter when you leave." is three pounds," he said as he pa.s.sed Nell's chair. "You may sit here and avail yourself of the facilities for a brief time, just be sure and leave the money on my counter when you leave."

Nell nodded her agreement and, as the door closed behind him, heart pounding, she began to read.

A writer of the first decade of the twentieth century, Eliza Makepeace is best remembered for her fairy tales, which appeared regularly in various periodicals over the years spanning 1907 to 1913. She is generally credited with having auth.o.r.ed thirty-five stories, however this listing is incomplete and the true extent of her output may never be known. An ill.u.s.trated collection of Eliza Makepeace's fairy tales was published by the London press Hobbins and Co. in August 1913. The volume sold well and received favorable reviews. The Times The Times described the stories as "a strange delight that evoked in this reviewer the enchanting and sometimes frightening sensations of childhood." The ill.u.s.trations by Nathaniel Walker were praised especially and are thought by some to rank among his best work. described the stories as "a strange delight that evoked in this reviewer the enchanting and sometimes frightening sensations of childhood." The ill.u.s.trations by Nathaniel Walker were praised especially and are thought by some to rank among his best work. * * They were a departure from the oil portraits for which he is now better remembered. They were a departure from the oil portraits for which he is now better remembered.Eliza's own story began on 1 September 1888, when she was born in London. The birth records for that year indicate that she was born a twin, and the first twelve years of her life were spent in a tenement house at 35 Battersea Church Road. Eliza's pedigree is rather more complex than her humble origins might suggest. Her mother, Georgiana, was the daughter of an aristocratic family, inhabitants of Blackhurst Manor in Cornwall. Georgiana Mountrachet caused a society scandal when, at the age of seventeen, she ran away from the family estate with a young man far beneath her own social cla.s.s.Eliza's father, Jonathan Makepeace, was born in London in 1866 to a penniless Thames bargeman and his wife. He was the fifth of nine children and grew up in the slums behind the London docks. Although his death in 1888 occurred before Eliza was born, Eliza's published tales seem to reinterpret events that were likely experienced by a young Jonathan Makepeace during his childhood on the river. For instance, in "The River's Curse," the dead men hanging from the fairy gallows are almost certainly based on scenes Jonathan would have witnessed as a boy at Execution Dock. We must presume that these stories were pa.s.sed to Eliza through her mother, Georgiana, embellished perhaps, and stored in Eliza's memory until she began to write herself.How the son of a poor London bargeman came to meet and fall in love with the high-born Georgiana Mountrachet remains a mystery. In line with the secretive nature of her elopement, Georgiana left no information about events leading to her departure. Attempts to learn the truth are further thwarted by her family's diligent efforts to smother the story. There was very little coverage in the newspapers and one must search further afield, in contemporary letters and diaries, to find mention of what must surely have been a great scandal at the time. The occupation listed on Jonathan's death certificate is "Sailor," however the precise nature of his employment is unclear. It is speculation only that leads this writer to suggest that perhaps Jonathan's life on the seas brought him briefly to the rocky sh.o.r.es of Cornwall. That perhaps, on the cove of her family's estate, Lord Mountrachet's daughter, famed throughout the county for her flame-haired beauty, chanced to meet the young Jonathan Makepeace.Whatever the circ.u.mstances of their meeting, that they were in love cannot be doubted. Alas, the young couple were not to be granted years of happiness. Jonathan's sudden and somewhat inexplicable death less than ten months after their elopement must have dealt a devastating blow to Georgiana Mountrachet, who was left alone in London, unwed, pregnant, and with neither family nor financial security. Georgiana was not one to flounder, however: she had abandoned the strictures of her social cla.s.s and, after the birth of her babies, abandoned, too, the name Mountrachet. She performed copy work for the legal firm of H. J. Blackwater and a.s.sociates of Lincoln's Inn, Holborn.There is some evidence that Georgiana's fine penmans.h.i.+p was a gift for which she found ample expression in her youth. The Mountrachet family journals, donated in 1950 to the holdings at the British Museum, contain a number of playbills composed with careful lettering and accomplished ill.u.s.trations. In the corner of each playbill, the "artist" has written her name in tiny print. Amateur theatricals were, of course, popular in many of the great houses, however the playbills for those at Blackhurst in the 1880s occur with greater regularity and seriousness than was perhaps usual.Little is known of Eliza's childhood in London, other than the house in which she was born and spent her early years. One can posit, however, that her life was governed by the dictates of poverty and the difficult business of survival. In all probability, the tuberculosis that would be Georgiana's ultimate killer was already stalking her in the mid-1890s. If her condition followed the common path, by the latter years of the decade, breathlessness and general weakness would have precluded regular work. Certainly, the accounts for H. J. Blackwater support this timetable of decline.There is no evidence that Georgiana sought medical attention for her illness, but fear of medical intervention was common in the period. During the 1880s, TB was made a notifiable disease in Britain and medical pract.i.tioners were bound by law to report instances of the illness to government authorities. Members of the urban poor, frightened of being sent to sanatoriums (which more usually resembled prisons), were loath to seek help. Her mother's illness must have had a great effect on Eliza, both practically and creatively. It is almost certain that she would have been required to contribute financially to the household. Girls in Victorian London were employed in all manner of menial positions-domestic servants, fruit sellers, flower girls-and Eliza's depiction of mangles and hot tubs in some of her fairy tales suggests that she was intimately acquainted with the task of laundering. The vampirelike beings in "The Fairy Hunt" may also reflect the early nineteenth-century belief that sufferers of consumption were vampire-afflicted: sensitivity to bright light, swollen red eyes, very pale skin and the characteristic b.l.o.o.d.y cough were all symptoms that fed this belief.Whether Georgiana made any attempt to contact her family after Jonathan's death, and as her own health deteriorated, is unknown. However, in this writer's opinion, it seems unlikely. Certainly, a letter from Linus Mountrachet to an a.s.sociate, dated December 1900, suggests that he had only recently learned of Eliza, his little London niece, and was shocked to think that she had pa.s.sed a decade in such terrible conditions. Perhaps Georgiana feared that the Mountrachet family might be unwilling to forgive her original desertion. If her brother's letter is anything to go by, such fear was unfounded."After so many long years spent searching abroad, trawling the seas and scouring the lands, to think my beloved sister was so near all along. And allowing herself to suffer such privations! You will see that I spoke truth when I told you of her nature. How little she seemed to care that we loved her so and longed only for her safe homecoming..."Though Georgiana never made such a homecoming, Eliza was destined to return to the bosom of her maternal family. Georgiana Mountrachet died in June 1900, when Eliza was eleven. The death certificate names her killer as consumption and her age as thirty. After her mother's death, Eliza was sent to live with her mother's family on the Cornish coast. It is unclear how this family reunion was effected, but one can safely a.s.sume that, despite the unfortunate circ.u.mstances precipitating it, for the young Eliza this change of location was a most fortunate occurrence. Relocation to Blackhurst Manor, with its grand estate and gardens, must have been a welcome relief, offering safety after the dangers of the London streets. Indeed, the sea became a motif of renewal and possible redemption in Eliza's fairy tales.Eliza is known to have lived with her maternal uncle's family until the age of twenty-five. However, her whereabouts thereafter remain a mystery. Various theories have been formulated as to her life after 1913, though all are yet to be proved. Some historians suggest that she most likely fell victim to the spread of scarlet fever that enveloped the Cornish coast in 1913. Others, perplexed by the late-1936 publication of her final fairy tale, "The Cuckoo's Flight," in the journal Literary Lives, Literary Lives, suggest that she spent her time traveling, seeking the life of adventure championed by her fairy tales. This tantalizing idea has yet to receive any serious academic attention and, despite such theories, the fate of Eliza Makepeace, along with the date of her death, remains one of literature's mysteries. suggest that she spent her time traveling, seeking the life of adventure championed by her fairy tales. This tantalizing idea has yet to receive any serious academic attention and, despite such theories, the fate of Eliza Makepeace, along with the date of her death, remains one of literature's mysteries.There exists a charcoal sketch of Eliza Makepeace, drawn by the well-known Edwardian portrait artist Nathaniel Walker. Found after his death among his unfinished works, the sketch, ent.i.tled The Auth.o.r.ess, The Auth.o.r.ess, currently hangs in the Tate Gallery in London. Although Eliza Makepeace published only one complete collection of fairy tales, her work is rich in metaphorical and sociological texture and would reward scholars.h.i.+p. Where earlier tales like "The Changeling" show a strong influence from the European fairy-tale tradition, later tales like "The Crone's Eyes" suggest a more original and, one would venture, autobiographical approach. However, like many female writers of the first decade of this century, Eliza Makepeace fell victim to the cultural s.h.i.+ft that occurred after the momentous world events of the early century (the First World War and women's suffrage to name but two) and slipped from readers' attention. Many of her stories were lost during the Second World War, when the British Museum was robbed of entire runs of its more obscure periodicals. As a consequence, Eliza and her fairy tales are relatively unknown today. Her work, along with the author herself, seems to have disappeared from the face of the earth, lost to us like so many other ghosts of the early decades of the century. currently hangs in the Tate Gallery in London. Although Eliza Makepeace published only one complete collection of fairy tales, her work is rich in metaphorical and sociological texture and would reward scholars.h.i.+p. Where earlier tales like "The Changeling" show a strong influence from the European fairy-tale tradition, later tales like "The Crone's Eyes" suggest a more original and, one would venture, autobiographical approach. However, like many female writers of the first decade of this century, Eliza Makepeace fell victim to the cultural s.h.i.+ft that occurred after the momentous world events of the early century (the First World War and women's suffrage to name but two) and slipped from readers' attention. Many of her stories were lost during the Second World War, when the British Museum was robbed of entire runs of its more obscure periodicals. As a consequence, Eliza and her fairy tales are relatively unknown today. Her work, along with the author herself, seems to have disappeared from the face of the earth, lost to us like so many other ghosts of the early decades of the century.

FOURTEEN.

LONDON, 1900.

HIGH above Mr. and Mrs. Swindell's rag and bottle shop, in their narrow house by the Thames, there was a tiny room. Little more than a closet, really. It was dark and damp, with a fusty smell (the natural consequence of poor drainage and nonexistent ventilation), discolored walls that cracked in summer and seeped through winter, and a fireplace whose chimney had been blocked so long it seemed churlish to suggest it should be otherwise. Yet despite its meanness, the room above the Swindells' shop was the only home Eliza Makepeace and her twin brother, Sammy, had ever known, a modic.u.m of safety and security in lives otherwise devoid of both. They had been born in the autumn of London's fear, and the older Eliza grew the more certain she became that this fact, above any other, made her what she was. The Ripper was the first adversary in a life that would be filled with them. above Mr. and Mrs. Swindell's rag and bottle shop, in their narrow house by the Thames, there was a tiny room. Little more than a closet, really. It was dark and damp, with a fusty smell (the natural consequence of poor drainage and nonexistent ventilation), discolored walls that cracked in summer and seeped through winter, and a fireplace whose chimney had been blocked so long it seemed churlish to suggest it should be otherwise. Yet despite its meanness, the room above the Swindells' shop was the only home Eliza Makepeace and her twin brother, Sammy, had ever known, a modic.u.m of safety and security in lives otherwise devoid of both. They had been born in the autumn of London's fear, and the older Eliza grew the more certain she became that this fact, above any other, made her what she was. The Ripper was the first adversary in a life that would be filled with them.

The thing Eliza liked best about the room upstairs, indeed, the only thing she liked beyond its bare status as shelter, was the crack between two bricks, high above the old pine shelf. She was eternally grateful that the slapdashery of a long-ago builder, combined with the tenacity of the local rats, had begot a nice fat gap in the mortar. If Eliza lay flat on her stomach, stretched herself right along the shelf with her eye pressed close against the bricks and her head c.o.c.ked just so, she could glimpse the nearby bend of the river. From such a secret vantage point she was able to watch un.o.bserved as the tide of busy daily life ebbed and flowed. Thus were Eliza's twin ideals achieved: she was able to see, yet not be seen. For though her own curiosity knew no bounds, Eliza didn't like to be watched. She understood that to be noticed was dangerous, that certain scrutiny was akin to thieving. Eliza knew this because it was what she most liked to do, store images in her mind to be replayed, revoiced, recolored as she pleased. To weave them into wicked stories, flights of fancy that would have horrified the people who'd provided unwitting inspiration.

And there were so many people to choose from. Life on Eliza's bend of the Thames never stopped. The river was London's lifeblood, swelling and thinning with the ceaseless tides, transmitting the beneficent and the brutal alike, in and out of the city. Although Eliza liked it when the coal boats came in at high water, the watermen rowing people back and forth, the lighters bringing in cargo from the colliers, it was low tide when the river really came to life. When the levels dropped sufficiently for Mr. Hackman and his son to start dragging for bodies whose pockets needed clearing; when the mudlarks took up position, scouring the stinking mud for rope and bones and copper nails, anything they could find that might be swapped for coin. Mr. Swindell had his own team of mudlarks and his own patch of mud, a putrid square he kept guarded as if it contained the Queen's own gold. Those who dared cross his boundary line were likely as not to find their waterlogged pockets being fleeced by Mr. Hackman next time the tide dropped.

Mr. Swindell was always hounding Sammy to join the mudlarks. He said it was the boy's duty to repay his landlord's charity wherever he could. For though Sammy and Eliza managed to sc.r.a.pe together enough to cover the rent, Mr. Swindell never let them forget that their freedom rested on his willingness not to advise the authorities of their recent change in circ.u.mstances. "Them do-gooders what come sniffing round would be very interested to learn that two young orphans, likes of yourselves, has been left to fend alone in the big old world. Very interested, indeed," was his common refrain. "By rights I should of given you up soon as your ma breathed her last."

"Yes, Mr. Swindell," Eliza would say. "Thank you, Mr. Swindell. Very kind of you it is, too."

"Harrumph. Don't you go forgetting it, neither. By the goodness of me and my missus's hearts you're still here." Then he would look down his quivering nose and, by sole virtue of his mean-spiritedness, set his pupils to narrowing. "Now, if that lad, with his knack for finding things, would find his way into my mud patch, I might be convinced you was worth keeping. Never did meet a lad with a better nose."

It was true. Sammy had a talent for turning up treasures. Ever since he was a tiny boy, pretty things had seemingly gone out of their way to lie at his feet. Mrs. Swindell said it was the idiot's charm, that the Lord looked after fools and madmen, but Eliza knew that wasn't true. Sammy wasn't an idiot, he just saw better than most because he didn't waste his time in talking. Not a word, ever. Not once in all his twelve years. He didn't need to, not with Eliza. She always knew what he was thinking and feeling, always had. He was her twin after all, two halves of the one whole.

That was how she knew he was frightened of the river mud, and although she didn't share his fear, Eliza understood it. The air was different when you got near the water's edge. Something in the mud fumes, the swooping of the birds, the strange sounds that bounced between the ancient banks of the river...

Eliza knew also that it was her responsibility to look after Sammy, and not just because Mother had always told her so. (It was Mother's inexplicable theory that a bad man-she never said who-was lurking, intent upon finding them.) Even when they were very small Eliza had known that Sammy needed her more than she needed him, even before he caught the fever and was nearly lost to them. Something in his manner left him vulnerable. Other children had known it when they were small, grown-ups knew it now. They sensed somehow that he was not really one of them.

And he wasn't, he was a changeling. Eliza knew all about changelings. She'd read about them in the book of fairy tales that had sat for a time in the rag and bottle shop. There'd been pictures, too. Fairies and sprites who looked just like Sammy, with his fine strawberry hair, long ribbony limbs and round blue eyes. The way Mother told it, something had set Sammy apart from other children ever since he was a babe: an innocence, a stillness. She used to say that while Eliza had screwed up her little red face and howled for a feeding, Sammy had never cried. He used to lie in his drawer, listening, as if to beautiful music floating on the breeze that no one but he could hear.

Eliza had managed to convince her landlords that Sammy shouldn't join the mudlarks, that he was better off cleaning chimneys for Mr. Suttborn. There weren't many boys Sammy's age still engaged in sweeping, she reminded them, not since the laws against child sweeps were pa.s.sed, and there was no one who could clean the narrower chimneys over Kensington Way quite like a skinny lad with pointy elbows made just for climbing dark and dusty chutes. Thanks to Sammy, Mr. Suttborn was always fully booked, and there was much to be said, surely, for regular coins? Even when weighed against the hope that Sammy might pluck something valuable from the mud.

Thus far the Swindells had been made to see reason-they liked Sammy's coins, just as they'd happily taken Mother's when she was alive and doing the copy work for Mr. Blackwater-but Eliza wasn't sure how long she could keep them at bay. Mrs. Swindell in particular had difficulty seeing beyond her greed, and was fond of making veiled threats, muttering about the do-gooders who'd been sniffing about, looking for muck to sweep from the streets to the workhouse.

Mrs. Swindell had always been afraid of Sammy. She was the sort of person for whom fear was the natural response to anything beyond explanation. Eliza had once heard her whispering to Mrs. Barker, the coal-whipper's wife, saying she'd heard it from Mrs. Tether, the midwife who delivered the two of them, that Sammy had been born with the cord around his neck. Should never've made it through the first night, would've breathed his last when he took his first but for the work of mischief. 'Twas the Devil's work, she said; the boy's mother made a deal with Him downstairs. You only had to look at him to know it-the way his eyes gazed deep within a person, the stillness in his body, so unlike the other lads his age-oh yes, indeed, there was something very wrong with Sammy Makepeace.

Such tall tales made Eliza even more fiercely protective of her twin. At night sometimes, when she lay in bed listening to the Swindells arguing, their little daughter, Hatty, bawling over the top, she liked to imagine dreadful things happening to Mrs. Swindell. That she might fall, by accident, into the fire when she was was.h.i.+ng, or slip beneath the mangle and be squeezed to death, or drown in a vat of boiling lard, headfirst, skinny legs the only part of her that remained to evidence her gruesome end...

Speak of the Devil and she shall appear. Round the corner into Battersea Church Road, shoulder bag fat with spoils, came Mrs. Swindell. Home after another profitable day spent hunting little girls with pretty dresses. Eliza pulled herself away from the crack and s.h.i.+mmied along the shelf, used the edge of the chimney to ease herself down.

It was Eliza's job to launder the dresses Mrs. Swindell brought home. Sometimes when she was boiling the dresses over the fire, minding not to tear the spider-web lace, Eliza wondered what those little girls thought when they saw Mrs. Swindell waving her confectionery bag at them, the confectionery bag full of s.h.i.+ny bits of colored gla.s.s. Not that the little girls ever got near the bag to know the trick that had been played. No fear. Once she had them alone in the alley, Mrs. Swindell got their pretty dresses off them so fast they didn't have time to scream. They probably had nightmares afterwards, Eliza thought, like the nightmares she had about Sammy stuck up the chimney. She felt sorry for them-Mrs. Swindell on the hunt was a fearful thing indeed-but it was their own fault. They shouldn't be so greedy, always wanting more than they already had. It never ceased to amaze Eliza that little girls born to grand houses and fancy perambulators and lacy frocks should fall victim to Mrs. Swindell for such a small price as a bag of boiled sweets. They were lucky all they lost was a dress and some peace of mind. There were worse losses to be had in the dark alleyways of London.

Downstairs, the front door slammed.

"Where are you, then, girl?" The voice came rolling up the stairs, a hot ball of venom. Eliza's heart sank as it hit her: the hunt had not gone well, a fact which boded ill for the inhabitants of 35 Battersea Church Road. "Get downstairs and ready the supper or you'll book yourself a hiding."

Eliza hurried down the stairs and into the rag and bottle shop. Her gaze pa.s.sed quickly over the dim shapes, a collection of bottles and boxes reduced by darkness to geometric oddities. By the counter, one such shape was moving. Mrs. Swindell was bent over like a mud crab rummaging in her bag, sifting through various lace-trimmed dresses. "Well, don't just stand there gawking like that idjit brother of yours. Get the lantern lit, stupid girl."

"The stew's on the stove, Mrs. Swindell," said Eliza, hurrying to light the gas. "And the dresses are almost dry."

"Should think so, too. Day after day I go out, trying to earn the coin, and all's you have to do is get the dresses laundered. Sometimes I think I'd be better off doing it myself. Shove you and your brother out on your ears." She puffed a nasty sigh and sat in her chair. "Well, come over here, then, and get my shoes off."

While Eliza was knelt on the ground, ma.s.saging the narrow boots loose, the door opened again. It was Sammy, black and dusty. Wordlessly, Mrs. Swindell held out her bony hand and beckoned slightly with her fingers.

Sammy dug into the pocket at the front of his overalls, pulled out two copper coins and laid them where they were due. Mrs. Swindell eyed them suspiciously before kicking Eliza aside with her sweaty stockinged foot and hobbling to the moneybox. With a slant-eyed glance over her shoulder, she pulled the key from the front of her blouse and turned it in the lock. Stacked the new coins atop the others, smacking her lips wetly as she calculated their total.

Sammy came to the stove and Eliza fetched a pair of bowls. They never ate with the Swindells. It wasn't right, Mrs. Swindell said, for the two of them to be getting ideas about their being part of the family. They was hired help, after all, more like servants than tenants. Eliza began ladling out their stew, pouring it through the sieve as Mrs. Swindell insisted: it didn't do to waste the meat on a pair of ungrateful wretches.

"You're tired," Eliza whispered. "You started so early this morning."

Sammy shook his head, he didn't like her to worry.

Eliza glanced towards Mrs. Swindell, checked her back was still turned before slipping a small piece of hock into Sammy's bowl.

He smiled slightly, warily, his round eyes meeting Eliza's. Seeing him like this, shoulders deflated with the day's heavy labors, face plastered with the soot from rich men's chimneys, grateful for the morsel of leathery meat, made her want to wrap her arms around his small frame and never let him go.

"Well, well. What a pretty picture," Mrs. Swindell said, clapping the moneybox lid shut. "Poor Mr. Swindell, out in the mud digging for the treasures what put food in your ungrateful mouths"-she waggled a k.n.o.bbly finger in Sammy's direction-"while a young lad the likes of you is making free in his house. It ain't right, I tells you, it ain't right at all. When those do-gooders come back, I've a good mind to tell them so."

"Does Mr. Suttborn have more work for you tomorrow, Sammy?" Eliza spoke quickly.

Sammy nodded.

"And the day after that?"

Another nod.

"That's two more coins this week, Mrs. Swindell."

Oh, how meek she managed to make her voice!

And how little it mattered.

"Insolence! How dare you backchat. If it weren't for Mr. Swindell and me, you two sniveling worms'd be out on your ears, scrubbing floors in the workhouse."

Eliza drew breath. One of the last things Mother had done was to obtain an undertaking from Mrs. Swindell that Sammy and Eliza should be allowed to stay on as tenants for as long as they continued to meet the rent and contribute to the household.

"But, Mrs. Swindell," Eliza said cautiously, "Mother said you undertook-"

"Undertook? Undertook?" Angry bubbles of saliva burst in the corners of her mouth. "I'll give you undertook. I undertook to tan your hide till you can't sit down no longer." She rose suddenly and reached for a leather strap hanging by the door.

Eliza stood firm, though her heart was thumping.

Mrs. Swindell stepped forward, then stopped, a cruel tic trembling her lips. Without a word she turned towards Sammy. "You," she said. "Come over here."

"No," Eliza said quickly, gaze darting to Sammy's face. "No, I'm sorry, Mrs. Swindell. It was insolent of me, you're right. I...I'll make it up to you. Tomorrow I'll dust the shop, I'll scrub the front step, I'll...I'll..."

"Muck out the water closet shed and rid the attic of rats."

"Yes." Eliza was nodding. "All of it."

Mrs. Swindell stretched the strap out straight before her, a horizon of leather. She glanced beneath her eyelashes, from Eliza to Sammy and back. Finally, she released one side of the strap and hooked it again into place by the door.

A shower of dizzy relief. "Thank you, Mrs. Swindell."

Hand shaking a little, Eliza pa.s.sed the bowl of stew to Sammy and picked up the ladle to serve her own.

"Stop right there," said Mrs. Swindell.

Eliza looked up.

"You," said Mrs. Swindell, pointing at Sammy. "Clean the new bottles and get them set up on the shelf. There'll be no stew till it's done." She turned to Eliza. "And you, girl, get upstairs and out of my sight." Her thin lips quivered. "You'll go without tonight. I've no intention of feeding a rebellion."

WHEN SHE was younger, Eliza had liked to imagine that her father would one day appear and rescue them. After Mother and the Ripper, Father the Brave was Eliza's best story. Sometimes, when her eye was sore from being pressed against the bricks, she would lie back on the top shelf and imagine her gallant father. She would tell herself that Mother's account was wrong, that he hadn't really drowned at sea but had been sent away on an important journey and would someday return to save them from the Swindells. was younger, Eliza had liked to imagine that her father would one day appear and rescue them. After Mother and the Ripper, Father the Brave was Eliza's best story. Sometimes, when her eye was sore from being pressed against the bricks, she would lie back on the top shelf and imagine her gallant father. She would tell herself that Mother's account was wrong, that he hadn't really drowned at sea but had been sent away on an important journey and would someday return to save them from the Swindells.

Though she knew it to be fantasy, no more likely to happen than for fairies and goblins to appear from between the fireplace bricks, it didn't dim the pleasure she took from imagining his return. He would arrive outside the Swindells' house-on a horse, she always thought. Riding the horse, not in a carriage pulled behind, a black horse with a glistening mane and long, muscular legs. And everyone in the street would stop what they were doing and stare at this man, her father, handsome in his black riding costume. Mrs. Swindell, with her miserable pinched face, would peer over the top of her was.h.i.+ng line, over the top of the pretty dresses s.n.a.t.c.hed that morning, and she'd call to Mrs. Barker to come and see all that was happening. And they would know who this was, that it was Eliza and Sammy's father come to rescue them. And he would ride them to the river, where his s.h.i.+p would be waiting, and they'd sail off across the ocean to faraway places with names she'd never heard of.

Sometimes, on the rare occasions when Eliza had been able to convince her to join in telling tales, Mother had spoken of the ocean. For she had seen it with her own eyes, and was thus able to furnish her stories with sounds and smells that were magical to Eliza-cras.h.i.+ng waves and salty air, and fine grains of sand, white rather than the slimy black sediment of the river mud. It wasn't often, though, that Mother joined in at story time. For the most part she disapproved of stories, especially of Father the Brave. "You must learn to know the difference between tales and truth, my Liza," she would say. "Fairy tales have a habit of ending too soon. They never show what happens afterwards, when the prince and princess ride off the page."

"But what do you mean, Mother?" Eliza would ask.

"What happens to them when they need to find their way in the world, to make money and escape the world's ills."

Eliza had never understood. It seemed irrelevant, though she wouldn't say as much to Mother. They were princes and princesses, they didn't need to make their way in the world, only as far as their magical castle.

"You mustn't wait for someone to rescue you," Mother would continue, a faraway look in her eyes. "A girl expecting rescue never learns to save herself. Even with the means, she'll find her courage wanting. Don't be like that, Eliza. You must find your courage, learn to rescue yourself, never rely on anyone else."

Alone in the upstairs room, simmering with loathing for Mrs. Swindell and anger at her own impotence, Eliza crawled inside the disused fireplace. Carefully, slowly, she reached up as high as she could, felt about with an open hand for the loose brick, pulled it clear. In the small cavity beyond, her fingers grazed the familiar top of the small clay mustard pot, its cool surface and rounded edges. Mindful not to send notice of her actions echoing down the chimney and into Mrs. Swindell's waiting ears, Eliza eased it out.

The pot had been Mother's and she'd kept it secret for years. Days before her death, in a rare moment of consciousness, Mother had told Eliza of the hidey-hole. She bade her retrieve its contents and Eliza had done so: brought the clay pot to Mother's bedside, wide-eyed with wonder at the mysterious hidden object.

Suspense tingled in Eliza's fingertips as she waited for Mother to fumble the pot open. Her movements were clumsy in the last days and the pot's lid was held tight by a wax stopper. Finally, it cracked apart from the base.

Eliza gasped in amazement. Inside the pot was a brooch, the likes of which would have had Mrs. Swindell weeping warm tears down her horrid face. It was the size of a penny, gems lining the decorative outer rim, red and green and s.h.i.+ny, s.h.i.+ny white.

Eliza's first thought was that the brooch had been stolen. She couldn't imagine Mother doing such a thing, but how else had she come to possess such glorious treasure? Where could it have come from?

So many questions and yet she couldn't find her tongue to speak. It wouldn't have mattered if she had; Mother wasn't listening. She was gazing at the brooch with an expression Eliza had never seen before.

"This brooch is precious to me," came the tumble of words. "Very precious." Mother thrust the pot into Eliza's hands, almost as if she could no longer bear to touch it.