Shanghai Sparrow (10 page)

“A probationer, Miss Smythe. Put her in the usual room.” Miss Cairngrim unhooked a key from the bunch at her belt and gave it to the girl.

“Yes, Miss Cairngrim.”

“Go with her,” the woman said, with a flick of her hand towards Eveline.

“Study hard,” Holmforth said. “I will see you soon, and I expect progress.”

Eveline, tired as she was, dropped a curtsey and gave him a smile; sweet and open as a daisy in the sun. “Yes, Mr Holmforth.”

He did not smile, but only nodded.

Miss Cairngrim said nothing.

Eveline followed the tall girl out of the room. They turned the corner into another corridor. The sound of the front door closing echoed after them. Eveline said, “I’m busting for a piss. We got to go far?”

“No. There’s a pot in the room.”

“What’s this place like, then?”

“You’ll find out, if you stay,” the girl said. She had a low, soft voice, and didn’t look Eveline in the eye.

“Oh, go on, give us a help, love. I’ve no more idea what’s going on than a new-born babe, and I don’t want to put me foot in it before I’ve even started.”

“Miss Cairngrim doesn’t encourage chatter.”

“At least tell us your name.”

“It’s Smythe. Didn’t you hear her?” She stopped by a small, white-painted door and unlocked it.

Inside was a room with a bed made up with coarse sheets and a grey blanket, a basin and ewer in plain white chipped enamel, a candle in a battered enamel candlestick, a small, dead fireplace, and nothing else. Not even a window. But it was a room to herself, something she’d never in her life had before. Eveline knelt down and there under the bed, praise be, was a large, ugly, enamelled chamber pot.

“Any chance of some food?” Eveline said, tugging out the pot. “I’m starved.”

“I’ll see. First, you have to take off your shawl and turn out your pockets.”

“My pockets? Why?”

“You just have to.” The girl looked weary. “I can make you. I’d rather not. Please just turn them out, put whatever there is on the bed.”

Eveline rolled her eyes. “What do they think I’ve got in there? All right, here.” She unwrapped the plain black shawl and shook it out, showed the girl both sides of it with a flourish, like a magician. Then she turned the pocket of her apron inside out, dislodging two handkerchiefs, one very grimy and one clean and unused, and a comb with two teeth missing.

“All right, you can put them back.” She was out of the door, locking it behind her, without another word.

Eveline used the pot with a groan of relief, then sat on the bed. The room felt chilly. She tucked her hands into her sleeves and waited.

Eventually there was a noise at the door. The girl opened it a bare few inches and thrust a thick, slightly burnt pasty through the gap. “Here. Please don’t leave any crumbs.”

“Don’t worry,” Eveline said, “I never left food uneaten in me life.” She grinned at the girl, who looked away, shut the door, and locked it.

“Seems like you’re my only friend,” Eveline said to the pasty. “Cheers.” She tucked in. It was dry, and there was more potato than meat, but it was food. She sucked the last blackened crumb from her fingers, and coughed. And coughed. And began to gag and wheeze as the crumb lodged in her windpipe. She was locked in this room, on her own, choking. She grabbed the ewer. An inch of cold, dusty water lay in the bottom. She tilted the jug and gulped at it, and finally, the crumb dislodged. She collapsed back on the bed, her mouth full of the taste of dust.

No-one had come, no-one was knocking on the door. She could have died and no-one would know.

The walls seemed to press in on her. She’d never had a room to herself in her life. This wasn’t a bedroom, this was a prison. No; even in prison there were other people. This was a coffin.

Without taking off anything except her boots, Eveline huddled into bed, blew out the candle, and tucked her cold hands under her arms. Bloody hell, it was quiet. She couldn’t hear so much as a mouse in the wall. Maybe they were scared of Miss Cairngrim.

In the rookeries of Limehouse there were always people coming and going, yelling and singing and fighting and having at each other in a thousand ways; the roar of the factories and the clamour of the docks; the great deep howling whoops of the big ships’ horns and the little piping cries of the smaller ships’ whistles; the rattle of wheels and clatter of hooves, the pulsing hum of the zeppelins passing overhead. Even as a child the country nights she’d known had been full of the sound of small life and wandering breezes and sometimes the songs of the Folk, faint and far.

The silence pressed on her ears, making her too aware of her own heartbeat. Well, that she could do something about. Grinning to herself in the dark, she extracted Mr Holmforth’s watch from one of her hidden pockets and tucked it under her ear. It ticked happily to itself, soothing her down into sleep.

London

H
OLMFORTH KEPT A
small, chilly set of lodgings near the Athenaeum. As he prepared for bed, his mind returned to the Duchen girl. He had rushed things, but if she had got on the train with the clergyman, he might have lost her, and tracking her down, confirming her identity, had taken so long. Fortunately the clergyman had not been inclined to make a nuisance of himself.

She might be worthless, of course. But she was oddly intriguing. He had found himself almost trying to
persuade
her, instead of simply telling her what was going to happen, as though she were a wild animal he was trying to coax to his hand.

He spent several minutes looking for his watch before he realised what must have happened to it, and shook his head, exasperated. Obviously she could not resist the temptation to steal, even from someone who was offering her so much more than a mere watch! But she did not seem stupid. It must, surely, be mere ingrained habit. Given discipline and training, she might be able to overcome her years on the streets. She came, after all, of respectable stock.

But he must not lose sight of the purpose of all this. Wu Jisheng’s mechanism, and its possibilities... that was all that really mattered.

He only hoped the girl could be brought up to scratch.

The Britannia School

E
VELINE WOKE EARLY
and sat on the bed, waiting for the door to be unlocked. She had neatened up as best she could. She bounced one of her hairpins thoughtfully in her hand, looking at the door. But though she might manage this lock, the one on the outer door had looked a deal heavier, and besides, she’d rather find out more about this place before she took such a risk. Last night, when she’d been choking, she’d been far too panicked even to think of picking the lock. She put the hairpin back in one of her secret pockets. Then she sat, and she waited. There was still no sound to be heard until footsteps approached her door.

It was Smythe, with her arms full of clothes. “You’re to put these on and come to breakfast,” she said. “Have you washed?”

“No water,” Eveline said. “Not enough to wash in, anyroad.”

“Oh!” For the first time, the girl looked at her. “I’m sorry,” she said.

Eveline shrugged. “I’ve gone without washing before. More’n once.”

“It’s important here. Miss Cairngrim... she likes things a certain way.” There was a carefulness around the way she said
Miss Cairngrim,
as though the woman might be listening. “Get dressed.”

Eveline pulled on the school clothes over her shift and put on the pair of sturdy boots. Proper boots! And they fitted! She wiggled her toes gleefully. “How’d you get the size right?”

“Practice. Come with me now.”

Silently they hurried down chilly, echoing corridors until Smythe pushed open a pair of double doors.

They were met with the smell of food, the low murmur of conversation and the subdued
clink
of forks, faltering to a stop.

Two long tables ran down the room. They were lined with young women in identical, dark brown dresses with paler brown aprons on top. At the head of one was a thin, elderly man; at the other a small woman with tight black curls.

Some of the girls were looking at Eveline. The old man rapped on the table with the handle of his knife, twice, sharply, and they looked back at their plates.

Staring’s foolish, staring stinks, staring gets you thrown in clink...
Eveline thought, halfway between amusement and apprehension. She wondered what staring got you here.

The room was tall and long and chilly. The walls were painted a pallid streaky green, their tops bordered with once-fancy mouldings of winged Folk holding up strings of flowers, now chipped and blurring. From one of the two elaborate plaster roses on the ceiling hung a chandelier with half its crystals missing, and from the other a cheap, ugly iron lamp.

A vast black marble fireplace occupied much of one wall. Eveline could have stood in it, with room to spare. Huge curling pillars held up a mantelpiece on which she and several friends could have sat. It was the sort of fireplace that should have roaring flames, a boar turning on a spit, and its mantel covered with photographs in heavy silver frames and mementoes of the Grand Tour.

A mean basket-grate holding two small, dusty logs stood in the echoing space, and on the mantel were three dented brass candlesticks, none of which matched.

“Over here,” Smythe said, pointing to a table by itself, in the corner.

“They afraid I’ve got lice?” Evvie said. “Because I been doused with Persian Flower powder, regular.” Ma Pether had a horror of lice.

“You’re to sit here. Don’t speak to anyone except the staff, and only if they speak to you.”

She scurried off.

Eveline looked over the other girls. The oldest was maybe twenty, the youngest about her own age.

The uniform clothes made them look like workhouse girls. An older girl with soft brown hair tied back in a net and a warm, pleasant face gave her an encouraging smile, then quickly looked back down at her plate. Another, fair as a primrose with blonde ringlets, pursed her pink mouth and rolled her eyes as though Eveline were something unfortunate that had just landed on the floor.

No-one else looked at her, not even the staff.

A harassed looking girl appeared with a tray. Without speaking, she slapped a bowl of porridge, a spoon, a slice of bread, and a mug in front of Eveline. When Eveline opened her mouth to say thank you, the girl caught her eye and gave a tiny headshake.

Eveline had been in enough situations where silence was essential that she didn’t have to be told twice. She mouthed
thank you
instead.

The girl gave her a nod and rushed off. Eveline watched her go.

She was dressed like the others, except her apron was white instead of brown. She was slight, and her skin had the tan of a country girl. Her movements were neat and quick. She had attempted to confine her curly, light brown hair in a bun, but it escaped in clock spring coils about her temples and against her neck.

Eveline couldn’t quite work out if she was a maid or one of the pupils. Dismissing the question for the moment, she examined the mug.

Tea! Proper, hot tea. There was even a little milk in it, the way she liked it (Liu would have wrinkled his nose). Eveline wrapped her chilled hands around the thick, chipped china mug and inhaled fragrant steam. This place wasn’t so bad, if they got tea with breakfast.

She sipped it gratefully, then applied herself to her porridge.

It was hot, and filling. Had she been used to a more elaborate diet, Eveline might have been bothered by the fact that the thinnest of skimmed milk had been used in its making and neither sugar nor salt had been anywhere near it, but to her it was as good as breakfast got unless there was sausage to be had. The bread was coarse and stale, but it was bread and she’d had worse.

She ate fast, but neatly. Street child she might be, but her mama had taught her manners and she could use ’em when she had to. As soon as she had finished, she looked about to see if any more food were forthcoming, but it seemed not. The clock struck eight, the elderly man rapped his knife on the table again, and everyone stood up. Eveline, thinking it wise, did the same. The girl who had served her darted out of the door that presumably led to the kitchens, surreptitiously wiping her mouth and trying to tuck a wayward curl behind her ear.

Smythe beckoned her over. “Assembly,” she said.

“What’s...”

“Shhh. Just follow me and do what everyone else does.”

The two staff left the room, and the girls followed, still silent.

They walked along yet another corridor, this one with windows on the left. Eveline glanced out as they passed. A square of lawn, sparkling with dew in the sunlight; a couple of stone benches. Outbuildings, stables, someone leading a horse. In the distance, trees.

Then they were turning away from the bright morning into another cold room.

Light fell through a leaded window, showing a constipated-looking saint in a white robe, with a yellow halo propped behind his head, holding up his hand over a square lamb standing in a field of pallid green. Sunlight falling through the scene patched rows of pews with pale colour. At one end was a pulpit.