and girl child, seated at a wooden table with a tiny, delicate tea set. It was at this time of the afternoon that they always took tea, served by Dorothy.
That was before.
She forced herself to study every detail, not to look away even when the sadness threatened to overwhelm her, all the while surrounded by the excited gabbling of the other children. The golden light spilling from the window gave their upturned faces a glow, smoothing away pallor, dirt, and bruises. Several were street children like her and Jake, but some still had families, judging from the scarves tightly wound around little necks, and carefully mended jackets.
More than anything, Clara wanted to be part of a family again.
Jake pushed his way through the crowd to her side to pull roughly at her sleeve. ‘Come on, Clara! There’ll be none left if we don’t hurry!’
Every Friday afternoon, the butcher threw scraps from his back door to the hungry street children, but all the best morsels went to bigger boys and vicious stray dogs.
Clara reminded herself again, as the snow sloshed into her thin shoes, of the before time. There had been spiced punch and sugared chestnuts, roast turkey and gravy, berry-studded garlands sparkling with baubles, and Mother and Father beaming as they opened their presents. Every window blazed with light and warmth. She muttered the words under her breath like a rosary.
It wasn’t always like this.
In the butcher’s yard, a bigger boy, a map of scars across his face, pushed her to the ground, but Jake was there. With one punch, the other boy went down and Jake howled in triumph, prize clutched in his fist: a pig’s trotter, only partially gnawed by a dog. She recognised the other boy from the workhouse but didn’t know his name. The workhouse, so dreaded before they passed through its huge iron gates, seemed like a dream now.
‘Let’s go.’ Jake steered her away from the growling dogs. ‘There’s nothing left worth fighting for here.’
She blew on her frozen fingers.
Indeed, between the children and the dogs, the butcher’s yard was spotless. The man himself stood in a rectangle of golden light at the back door in his bloodied apron on this dark winter’s afternoon, sharpening a cleaver, watching the drama unfold but never interfering. His wife had more of a kind spirit. Sometimes she ladled out some leftover broth, when her husband wasn’t there to see, the steam sticking her coarse grey curls to her face.
Around the corner of the next alley, in their special spot behind the draper’s, they stopped to survey their haul. In addition to the pig’s foot, they had some turnip tops, a half-rotten potato, and some cabbage leaves with only a little mould. Jake dumped it all into their pot – just a metal tin with no handle – and went in search of water. Among the ordure of the alley, Clara shuffled for paper and sticks to make a fire, already imagining its warmth in her bony fingers. She pulled the shreds of her shawl tighter around her shoulders and stamped her numb feet.
Jake returned just as the twigs caught the flame. He held the pot above the fire until it started to bubble, scratching his lice bites with the other hand, his eyes alight with hunger that she knew was mirrored in her own. Hunger was their constant companion, sharing every moment of every day, like one of the mange-ridden dogs which shadowed their steps. It was there to greet them at sunrise, there all during the long day as they searched for food, until they curled up together against the cold, damp wall in their corner, stomachs growling with emptiness. In the fire’s glow, Jake’s face, once so smooth and boyish, was all sharp angles and harsh lines. And this at only twelve years old.
The smell of pork and vegetables tickled her nose and she became fearful, lest someone be attracted to the odour and steal their hard-won meal. There were other street children to be wary of, sometimes more dangerous than adults. They would snatch even the smallest morsel from between one’s teeth, or yank the bread from your fingers. So she and Jake huddled together over the pot, shoving the food into their mouths as fast as the heat allowed. A shuffling sound alerted her to the presence of Martha, one of the Crawlers. They were no threat. Too weak even to beg, too weak to do anything more than crawl along the ground, they were the lowest of the low. Martha acknowledged Clara with a nod, and crawled off into the shadows.
Food safely in their bellies, she leaned against Jake, where he rested against the crusty wall. His arm went around her shoulders and he kissed the top of her head.
‘A plum pudding now, I reckon,’ he said, already drifting off to sleep. The fire’s glow warmed her feet. It would soon go out, and they would have only each other for warmth through the long night. Fire attracted attention, which was never welcome.
‘Mother’s plum pudding,’ she said, mouth watering again at the memory of crystallised fruits, steamed puddings and custard – a huge jug of which only the beefy arms of the cook, Dorothy, could handle. And then she was back there again, in the tall white house on Hampstead Street. It seemed to be as far away as India, not just across the Thames from them, but it might as well have been on the moon; the heartless moon whose cold, silver light trickled down between the rooftops. A clear night, with no cloud, would be a cold night. She snuggled in closer to Jake, his bony ribs against hers.
‘And Father will make a toast and light the brandy,’ he said, ‘and we will sing, God Rest Ye—’
Clara took up the tune in her high, breathy voice, ‘Let nothing you dismay.’ But then a coughing fit took her, which ended with tears.
‘Clara Belle,’ Jake pulled her closer. ‘Don’t cry, my Clara Belle. Tomorrow will be better.’ It was what he said every night. ‘We’ll find a way to get you some medicine.’
‘But how? With no money?’ The coughing wracked her until she was limp.
‘I will find a way,’ he said.
‘Make me the promise,’ she sniffed.
And so he said the words he had said every night for the past nine months, since they were forced to leave Hampstead Street for the workhouse. ‘I promise that we will have a good life again. And I will always keep you safe. And those who have wronged us will live to regret it.’ This last was an addition to the promise, and she turned her face up to his.
‘Uncle Robert?’
Jake nodded. ‘And others.’
She shivered as she recalled the day, the wretched day, when Uncle Robert visited them in Hampstead Street, the house all decked in black crepe. He had always seemed so amiable, but now he eyed up the furnishings, and Mother and Father’s treasured possessions, with the critical look of a professional auctioneer.
‘Of course, you understand,’ he had said, in a much more businesslike tone than she remembered, ‘you cannot remain here. Tragic as it is to lose both parents, you are still too young and, unfortunately, my brother’s only legacy to you is his debts.’
Dorothy hovered in the doorway, red-nosed from crying, twisting a dishcloth. ‘I could look after ’em here, Master Marley. They’re like my own—’
‘Impossible,’ pronounced Uncle Robert. ‘As I said, my brother has not left the means to sustain this,’ and here his eyes roved over Mother’s pale blue silk curtains with the silver tassels, ‘lifestyle. This house must be sold to recoup some of the shortfall.’
‘Well, where shall the mites go to live, beggin’ your pardon, sir? And who shall look after them?’
Here Uncle Robert narrowed his eyes. ‘Dorothy, I was expecting some tea.’
‘Right away, Master Marley.’ Dorothy scuttled back to the kitchen, wiping her eyes with the dishcloth.
Uncle Robert stroked the damask upholstery which matched the curtains. Clara had been with Mama when she chose it, just after they moved in. The same colour as her eyes, the clear, liquid blue of a winter sky. She recalled Mother’s delight at the way the material danced in the sunlight which poured through the large bay window.
That was only six months before the pox took her. Six months