The Beggar Maid (5 page)

‘I'll pay her four shillings a week, all found.'

‘That sounds fair enough.' Dr Marchant took Charity aside. ‘Use this opportunity to improve your education, my dear. There is a wealth of knowledge on these shelves and Dawkins is an honest and trustworthy fellow. You've obviously got his measure and you can see that he needs someone to look after him, as do you yourself.'

‘I'll be all right, sir.'

‘I believe you will.' He held her hand, squeezing her fingers. ‘But if you ever need help in the future you can always come to me. I'm a regular customer anyway, so I'll see you again quite soon.' He picked up his book, tucking it under his arm. ‘Goodbye, Jethro. I've no doubt that I'll be back to browse your shelves in the very near future.' He opened the door and a gust of cold air blew in from the street creating eddies in the dust, and then he was gone. Charity was left alone with the crippled bookseller.

She was tempted to rush after Dr Marchant, who was the last link with her old life, but she fought against the urge to run away. She turned slowly to find Jethro staring at her with a baffled look on his face, although his deformity was such that it was almost impossible to read his expression accurately. For all she knew he might be deliriously happy or incredibly sad. She peeled off her mittens and laid her shawl over her arm. ‘Where would you like me to start, Mr Dawkins?'

His mouth worked soundlessly and then he cleared his throat. ‘Can you make toast?'

She nodded.

‘The kitchen is out there.' He jerked his head towards the back of the shop, which was shrouded in darkness. ‘Come to think of it, that's all the accommodation there is. I don't know where I'm going to put you, girl. I'm beginning to think this is all a big mistake.'

Charity had a sudden vision of herself turned out into the cold, and the thought of regular meals, a warm bed and four shillings a week was too tempting to give up easily. ‘I can sleep under the counter, if there's nowhere else,' she said stoutly.

‘Under the counter,' he repeated. ‘Yes, that would be all right, I think.' He retreated behind it and picked up a book, opening it and holding it in front of his face. ‘I'd like some tea and toast. You can have some too, but not too much. I'm a poor man and you will have to be frugal.'

‘I'm used to that,' Charity said as she made her way towards the back of the shop, stepping over the books that were strewn about like autumn leaves. She opened the door and entered the kitchen, half expecting to find it was also filled with stock from the shop, but apart from the odd sock or two the floor was bare and there was no work of literature in sight. Cold grey light filtered through a grimy window at the rear of the building and a door opened into a tiny scullery with a stone sink and a wooden draining board. The half-glassed back door opened into a walled yard cluttered with crates, boxes and empty bottles. A narrow pathway had been cleared in the snow, and this led to a brick-built privy and a rusty pump. Two flights of rickety wooden steps clambered up the back of the building, and judging by the sound of raised voices and crying children it seemed that the upper floors were fully occupied. They would no doubt all share the facilities but Charity had noticed a cold tap in the scullery, which meant she would not have to go outside to pump water for cooking and washing. She closed the door and went in search of a kettle.

A desultory fire burned in the rusty iron range and she added a few lumps of coal, heeding Jethro's instructions on economy. She could see by the sparsely filled shelves on either side of the range that he lived a monk-like existence. There was a partly filled tea caddy and a crock in which she found the remains of a stale loaf. Mould had started to sprout from the crust, but she shaved the affected bits off and sliced the rest, ready to toast when the coals gave off enough heat. She put the kettle on to boil and went to the dresser to look for cups and plates, selecting the least cracked and chipped items and placed them on the pine table. She noted with a wry smile that there was only one chair – they would have to take turns to sit at the table or someone would have to perch on the single iron bedstead that stood against the far wall. It had been abandoned, unmade, and the ragged quilt lay in a tangled heap together with sheets that might once have been white, but were now stained and grey.

She found a toasting fork in one of the dresser drawers, mixed up in a jumble of sealing wax, scissors, brown paper and string. She sat patiently toasting the bread by the fire as she waited for the kettle to boil, but there did not seem to be any butter and there was a little milk in the bottom of a jug but it had set into a solid mass and was sour. She took a plate of dry toast and a cup of tea into the shop. ‘The milk was off and there is no butter or jam. Is this how you live all the time, Mr Dawkins?'

He looked up from the book he was reading, staring at her in astonishment as if he had forgotten her existence. ‘Toast is all I need. Butter and milk cost money.'

‘But you aren't so very poor,' she said reasonably. ‘Surely you can afford to eat properly, or are you a miser like Mr Scrooge?'

He was suddenly alert. ‘You've read
A Christmas Carol
?'

‘Not exactly. My grandmother read it to me when I was a child, but I would like to read it myself if I had the book.'

A crooked smile curved Jethro's lips. ‘It's there on the shelf, girl. What is your name – I've forgotten it already.'

‘It's Charity, Mr Dawkins, and I will read it when I have time, but there is a lot to do and I, for one, can't work on dry bread and tea without milk or sugar. I can sit and read and do nothing, like you, or I can have a decent meal and clean this place up. What's it to be?'

He seemed to shrink into his oversized black tailcoat. ‘What do you want?'

‘A few pennies to purchase necessities, Mr Dawkins. We need food, and some soap would be a help if I'm to clean properly.'

‘I knew this was a mistake,' he muttered, picking up a metal cash box. ‘You'll bankrupt me before the week is out.'

‘Nonsense,' Charity said firmly. ‘If the shop is better organised you'll get more customers and sell more books.'

He took a bunch of keys from his pocket and unlocked the box. ‘I'll give you sixpence, but I want change.'

She took the coin and tucked it into her bodice. ‘I won't be long.' She put on her mittens and wrapped her shawl around her head and shoulders. If Mr Dawkins paid her a wage as promised she would buy herself a proper winter coat and a velvet bonnet. She had noticed a dolly shop on the corner of the street, and she intended to make full use of it when she received her pay. With this thought in mind she stepped out into the icy cold and made her way to Gray's Inn Road. She called in at the grocer's shop and bought a bar of carbolic soap before going on to the dairy and then the bakery. She purchased milk, bread, butter and a meat pie, and was on her way back to the shop when she spotted a street vendor selling baked potatoes. She bought two potatoes and a bunch of watercress, which would go down well between two thick slices of bread and butter. Her mouth watered as she hurried on her way, arriving at the shop flushed and breathless but with change in her pocket which should satisfy her new employer.

Jethro Dawkins snatched the three farthings with a grunt of dismay. ‘I knew you'd ruin me, you stupid girl. Sixpence would feed me for three days at least.'

Charity stood her ground. She was used to outbursts of temper from her grandfather when he had had too much to drink and was unmoved. ‘No wonder you're pale and thin, guvner,' she said calmly. ‘You need some good vittles inside you.' She marched into the back room without giving him a chance to argue, and set her purchases down on the table. She took off her mittens, hung her shawl over the back of the chair, and set to work to find plates, knives and forks. Minutes later she carried the food into the shop and slapped it down on the counter. The soft fluffy inside of the potato glistened with melting butter that oozed onto the plate making a golden pool around the slice of pie. The savoury aroma wafted into the air and Jethro put his book down, staring at the plate and salivating. ‘It ain't Christmas Day,' he muttered, snatching up the cutlery and attacking the food like a hungry hound.

Charity watched him shovelling the pie into his mouth with a satisfied smile. ‘There's more if you want it,' she said, trying not to sound smug. ‘I'll bring you a cup of tea with milk and sugar.'

‘You'll be the ruin of me,' he said through a mouthful of hot potato.

‘I'll prove you wrong.' Charity left him to finish his plateful and went to fetch the tea before settling down to enjoy her meal.

It was easier to work with a full stomach and she started in the kitchen, sweeping the floor before going down on her hands and knees to scrub away the grime and grease that had built up over the years. She would have liked to wash the bedding but that would have to wait for a good drying day, and having dusted the dresser and washed the dishes she made a start on the shop.

‘What are you doing?' Jethro grumbled when she began pulling everything off the wide shelf in the window. ‘Leave things alone.'

She turned on him with a derisive snort. ‘For one thing the glass is filthy and no one can see in, and a higgledy-piggledy pile of books isn't going to tempt the passers-by to come in and look round.'

‘I don't want people barging in who aren't interested in buying. My customers come from the university and the medical school. Professors and students buy my books, not the hoi polloi.'

Charity picked up a copy of
Treasure Island
, waving it in front of his nose. ‘My granny used to read this to me when I was only seven or eight years old. I wasn't a professor or a student, but I loved to hear about Jim Hawkins and his adventures on the
Hispaniola.
You're missing an opportunity to sell to all sorts of people, Mr Dawkins.'

He snatched it from her and clutched it to his chest. ‘Don't tell me how to run my business, girl. You've only been here five minutes.'

She reached out and prised it from his fingers, dusted the cover and set it on its end in the middle of the window. ‘And I'll prove you wrong before I've been here much longer. Please don't stop me now. The light is beginning to fade and I'd like to get the window finished before it's too dark to see.'

He backed away, muttering beneath his breath, but made no further attempt to hinder her. She worked with a will, dusting the covers and arranging the books in some semblance of order so that the titles were clearly visible to anyone looking in from the street. She stepped outside several times to check her work and managed to complete her task just as the last glimmer of daylight faded into an inky dusk.

‘You might as well lock up,' Jethro said sulkily. ‘We won't get any customers after dark.'

‘You would if you installed gaslight,' Charity said eagerly.

‘I can't afford to do that. It costs money.'

Charity locked the door, taking a last look out into the street. The lamplighter was doing his rounds and as each lamp flared into light the world outside began to come alive again. ‘It would be worth it,' she said softly. ‘You'd get people who were on their way home from work and students who had attended lectures and wanted to study the things they'd been taught that day.'

‘You're talking rubbish.' Jethro picked up the cash box and tucked it under his arm. ‘I suppose you want supper tonight as well as that big meal midday.'

Charity followed him into the kitchen, matching her pace to his shambling gait. ‘You promised the doctor that I'd get all my meals as part of my wage. It's not too much to ask, and I've worked hard all afternoon.'

He stopped in the doorway, turning his large head slowly from side to side. ‘What have you done? There's a strange smell and everything's been moved.'

She pushed past him. ‘The strange smell is cleanliness, Mr Dawkins. I've scrubbed and cleaned and tidied until my hands are red raw, so don't you dare grumble.' She stared pointedly at his bed. ‘I'll wash your sheets when the weather improves.'

Jethro sank down on the wooden chair, staring round the room with his lips trembling. ‘I don't like change.'

Charity hurried over to the range and moved the kettle to the hob. ‘You'll feel better for a nice hot cup of tea and some cold pie with watercress and a slice of bread and butter.'

He eyed her warily. ‘I don't want you in here when I go to bed. You'll sleep under the counter in the shop, and not come in here until I rise in the morning.'

‘We've already agreed to that,' Charity said mildly. She took the loaf from the crock and cut two thick slices. ‘I don't want to sit in here with you, but I'll need a candle so that I can see what I'm doing out there.'

‘If you must,' he said grudgingly. ‘I'm not sure this is going to work, but I'll give you until the end of the week. If I'm not satisfied you can go back to the doctor and tell him you don't suit.'

‘Fair enough,' Charity said, pouring the tea into two clean cups. ‘And it works both ways. If I don't like it here I'll be off anyway, so you'd better watch your tongue, Mr Dawkins.' She put his meal in front of him. ‘I'll wash the dishes in the morning.' She lit another candle and took it into the shop, returning moments later to collect her food. ‘Goodnight, Mr Dawkins.' She did not wait for his response but she had the satisfaction of seeing him tucking into his supper as she closed the door.

She was alone in the shop. The candle flickered in the draught that whistled under the outer door and through the ill-fitting windows, and it was bitterly cold. The bookshelves and stands, which looked ordinary enough by daylight, loomed above her taking on sinister shapes, and she had the feeling that she was being watched. She retreated behind the counter and sat down, placing the candlestick on the floor at her side. Suddenly the dank, overcrowded cellar seemed a much friendlier place than the lonely bookshop.