Fingersmith (66 page)

'London,' I said. 'Oh, London!'

S
till, it took all that day to reach it. We might have found out the rail-way station and taken a train: but I thought we ought to keep the little money we had left, for food. We walked for a while with a boy who had a great big basket on his back, that he had filled with onions: he showed us to a place where waggons came, to pick up vegetables for the city markets. We had missed the best of the traffic, but we got a ride, in the end, with a man with a slow horse, taking scarlet beans to Hammersmith. He said Charles made him think of his son—Charles had that sort of face—so I let them ride up front together, and sat in the back of the cart, with the beans. I sat with my cheek against a crate, my eyes on the road ahead, and now and then the road would rise and show us London again, grown a little nearer. I might have slept; but I couldn't keep from watching. I watched as the roads began to be busier and the country hedges began to give way to palings and walls; I watched the leaf become brick, the grass become cinders and dust, the ditches kerb-stones. When once the cart drew close to the side of a house that was pasted, two inches thick, with fluttering bills, I reached and tore free a strip of poster—held it for a second, then let it fly. It had a picture of a hand upon it, holding a pistol. It left soot on my fingers. Then I knew I was home.

From Hammersmith, we walked. That part of London was strange to me, but I found I knew my way all right—just as I had known, in the country, which road to take at a fork. Charles walked beside me, blinking, and sometimes catching hold of the cuff of my sleeve; in the end I took his hand to lead him across a street, and he let his fingers stay there. I saw us reflected in the glass of a great shop window—me in my bonnet, him in his plain pea-jacket—we looked like the Babes in the bloody Wood.

Then we reached Westminster, and got our first proper view of the river; and I had to stop.

'Wait, Charles,' I said, putting my hand to my heart and turning away from him. I did not want him to see me so stirred up. But then, the sharpest part of my feelings being over, I began to think.

'We ought not to cross the water just yet,' I said, as we walked on. I was thinking of who we might bump into. Suppose we chanced upon Gentleman? Or, suppose he chanced upon us? I did not think he would put a hand upon me, himself; but fifteen thousand pounds is a deal of money, and I knew he was up to hiring bullies to do his bad work for him. I had not thought of this, until now. I had thought only of reaching London. I began to look about me, in a new way. Charles saw me do it.

'What is it, miss?' he said.

'Nothing,' I answered. 'Only, I'm afraid there may still be men, sent out by Dr Christie. Let's cut down, here.'

I took him down a dark and narrow street. But then I thought, a dark and narrow street would be the worst kind of street to be caught in. I turned instead—we were somewhere near Charing Cross now—into the Strand; and after a time we came to the end of a road that had one or two little stalls, selling second-hand clothes. I went to the first we came to, and bought Charles a woollen scarf. For myself, I got a veil. The man who sold it to me teased me.

'Don't care for a hat, instead?' he said. 'Your face is too pretty to hide.'

I held out my hand for my half-penny change. 'All right,' I said, impatient. 'So's my arse.'

Charles flinched. I did not care. I put on the veil and felt better. It looked badly above my bonnet and pale print gown, but I thought I might pass for a girl with scars, or with some kind of ailment of the face. I made Charles draw the woollen scarf about his mouth and pull down his cap. When.he complained that the day was hot I said,

'If I get taken by Dr Christie's spies before I bring you to Mr Rivers, how hot do you think you'll find it, then?'

He looked ahead, to the crush of coaches and horses at Ludgate Hill. It was six o'clock, and the traffic was at its worst.

'Then when
will
you bring me to him?' he said. 'And how much further does he live?'

'Not much at all. But, we must be careful. I have to think. Let us find somewhere quiet…'

We ended up at St Paul's. We went in, and I sat in one of the pews while Charles walked about and looked at the statues. I thought, 'I must only get to Lant Street, and then I shall be saved'; but what was worrying me was the thought of the story that Gentleman might have put about the Borough. Say all of Mr Ibbs's nephews had had their hearts turned against me? Say I met John Vroom before I reached Mrs Sucksby? His heart did not need turning; and he would know me, even behind my veil. I must be careful. I should have to study the house—make my move only when I knew how the land lay. It was hard, to be cautious and slow; but I thought of my mother, who had not been cautious enough. Look what happened to her.

I shivered. St Paul's was cold, even in July. The glass at the windows was losing its colours, as the afternoon turned to night. At Dr Christie's, now, they would be waking us up to take us down to our suppers. We would have bread-and-butter, and a pint of tea… Charles came and sat beside me. I heard him sigh. He had his cap in his hands, and his fair hair shone. His lip was perfectly pink. Three boys in white gowns went about with flames on sticks of brass, lighting more lamps and candles; and I looked at him and thought how well he would fit in among them, in a gown of his own.

Then I looked at his coat. It was a good one, though rather marked by dust.

'How much money have we now, Charles?' I said.

We had a penny and a half. I took him to a pawn-shop on Watling Street, and we pledged his coat for two shillings.

He cried as he handed it over.

'Oh how,' he said, 'shall I ever see Mr Rivers now? He'll never want a boy in shirt-sleeves!'

I said we would get the coat back in a day or two. I bought him some shrimps and a piece of bread-and-butter, and a cup of tea.

'London shrimps,' I said. 'Yum, ain't they lovely?'

He did not answer. When we walked on, he walked a step behind me with his arms about himself, his eyes on the ground. His eyes were red—from tears, and also from grit.

We crossed the river at Blackfriars, and from there, though I had been going so carefully, I went more carefully still. We kept away from the back lanes and alleys, and stuck to the open roads; and the twilight—which is a false light, and always a good light for doing any kind of shady business in, better even than darkness—helped to hide us. Every step we took, however, was taking me closer to home: I began to see certain familiar things—even, certain familiar people—and felt, again, a stir in my head and heart, that I thought would quite undo me. Then we reached Gravel Lane and the South-wark Bridge Road, turned up to the west end of Lant Street and stood looking along it; and my blood rushed so fast and my heart rose so high, I thought I should swoon. I gripped the brick wall we rested against and let my head drop, until the blood went slower. When I spoke, my voice was thick. I said,

'See that black door, Charles, with the window in it? That's the door to my own house. The lady lives there, that's been like my mother. I should like more than anything now, to run to that door; but I shan't. It ain't safe.'

'Not safe?' he said. He gazed about him, fearfully. I suppose those streets— that looked so dear to my eyes I could have lain down and kissed them— might have looked rather low to his.

'Not safe,' I said again, 'while Dr Christie's men are still behind us.'

But I looked along the street, at Mr Ibbs's door, and then at the window above it. It was the window to the room I shared with Mrs Sucksby, and the temptation to go closer to it was too great. I caught hold of Charles and pushed him before me, and we walked, then stood at a wall where there was a bit of shadow between two bulging bow-windows. Some kids went by, and laughed at my veil. I knew their mothers, they were neighbours of ours; and I began to be afraid again, of being seen, and recognised. I thought I was a fool, after all, to have come so far down the street; then I thought, 'Why don't I just make a run at the door, calling out for Mrs Sucksby?' Maybe I'd have done it. I can't say. For I had turned, as if to rearrange my bonnet; and while I was still making up my mind Charles put his hand to his mouth, and cried out, 'Oh!'

The kids that had laughed at my veil had run far down the street, and then had parted, to let someone walk between them. It was Gentleman. He was wearing that old slouch hat, and had a scarlet cloth at his throat. His hair and whiskers were longer than ever. We watched him saunter. I think he was whistling. Then, at Mr Ibbs's shop-door, he came to a stop. He put his hand to the pocket of his coat and drew out a key. He kicked his feet against the step—first the right, then the left—to knock the dust from them; then he fitted the key in the lock, glanced idly about, and went inside. He did it all, in the easiest and most familiar way you can imagine.

I saw him, and quivered right through. But my feelings were queer. 'The devil!' I said. I should like to have killed him, to have shot him, to have run at him and struck his face. But the sight of him had also made me afraid more afraid than I ought to have been—as afraid as if I were still at Dr Christie's and might at any moment be taken, shaken, bound and plunged in water. My breath came strangely, in little catches. I don't think Charles no-ticed. He was thinking of his shirt-sleeves.—'Oh!' he still said. 'Oh! Oh!' He was looking at his finger-nails, and at the smudges of dirt on his cuffs.

I caught hold of his arm. I wanted to run—back, the way we had come. I wanted to run, more than anything. I almost did. 'Come on,' I said. 'Come, quick.' Then I looked again at Mr Ibbs's door—thought of Mrs Sucksby behind it—thought of Gentleman, cool and easy at her side. Damn him, for making me afraid of my own home! 'I
won't
be chased away!' I said. 'We'll stay, but we'll hide. Come, here.' And I gripped Charles tighter and began to push him, not away from Lant Street, but further along it. There were rooming-houses, all along that side. We reached one, now. 'Got beds?' I said, to the girl at the door.—'Got half a one,' she said. Half was not enough. We went to the next house, and then the next. They were both full. At last we reached the house right across from Mr Ibbs's. There was a woman on the step with a baby. I did not know her. That was good.

'Got a room?' I said quickly.

'Might have,' she answered, trying to see beyond my veil.

'At the front?' I looked up and pointed. 'That one?'

'That one costs more.'

'We'll have it for the week. I'll give you a shilling now, and pay you the rest tomorrow.'

She made a face; but she wanted gin, I knew it. 'All right,' she said. She got to her feet, put the baby on the step, and took us up a slippery staircase. There was a man dead drunk on the landing. The door to the room she led us into had no lock to it, only a stone for propping it shut. The room was small and dark, with two low beds and a chair. The window had shutters closed before it, on the street-side, and there was a stick with a hook hung next to the glass, meant for opening them.

'You do it like this,' said the woman, beginning to show us. I stopped her. I said I had a weakness of the eye and didn't care for sunlight.

For I had seen straight away that the shutters had little holes cut in them, that were more or less perfect for what I wanted; and when the woman had got our shilling off us and gone, I shut the door behind her, took off my veil and bonnet, then put myself at the glass and looked out.

There was nothing to see, however. Mr Ibbs's shop door was still shut, and Mrs Sucksby's window dark. I watched for quite a minute before I remembered Charles. He was standing, gazing at me, squeezing his cap between his hands. In some other room a man gave a shout, and he jumped.

'Sit down,' I said. I put my face back to the window.

'I want my jacket,' he said.

'You can't have it. The shop is closed. We shall get it tomorrow.'

'I don't believe you. You told a lie to that lady, about having a poor eye. You took that gown and those shoes, and that pie. That pie made me sick. You have brought me to a horrible house.'

'I have brought you to London. Ain't that what you wanted?'

'I thought London would be different.'

'You haven't seen the best parts yet. Go to sleep. We'll get your jacket back in the morning. You shall feel like a new man then.'

'How shall we get it? You just gave our shilling to that lady.'

'I shall get us another shilling tomorrow.'

'How?'

'You mustn't ask. Go to sleep. Ain't you tired?'

'This bed've got black hairs in it.'

'Then take the other.'

'That one has red hairs.'

'Red hairs won't hurt you.'

I heard him sit and rub his face. I thought he might be about to cry again. But then, after a minute he spoke, and his voice had changed.

'Weren't Mr Rivers's whiskers long, though?' he said.

'Weren't they,' I answered, my eye at the shutter still. 'I'd say he needs a boy to trim them.'

'Don't he just!'

He sighed then, and lay back upon the bed, putting his cap over his eyes; and I kept watch at the glass. I kept watch, like cats keep watch at mouse-holes— not minding the hours as they passed, not thinking of anything but what I gazed at. The night grew dark, and the street—that was a busy street, in summer grew empty and still, the kids all gone to their beds, the men and women come back from the public houses, the dogs asleep. In the other rooms in the house, people walked, pulled chairs across the floor; a baby cried. A girl—she was drunk, I suppose—laughed, on and on. Still I watched. Some clock struck off the hours. I could not hear bells without wincing, now, and felt every one of them: at last came the twelve, and then the half, and I was listening out for the three-quarters—still watching, still waiting; but beginning to wonder, perhaps, what it was I thought I would see—when this happened: