Never Look Back Page 6

  Giles knew only too well that he was being impulsive, and that he should consult his wife before speaking out. Yet if he did he knew she’d throw up a hundred different objections. Even if he could persuade her to consider it seriously, during the waiting period Matilda would be back selling flowers and probably lost to them for good.

  Throwing caution to the wind, Giles decided to act on his own initiative. Lily would doubtless punish him for it with one of her long, cold sulks afterwards, but he told himself that the end justified the means, Lily needed help with Tabitha, and quickly.

  ‘How would you like to work here, Matilda, as a nursemaid for Tabitha?’ he blurted out. ‘Mrs Milson has been under a great strain with her duties as parson’s wife and mother. I believe you would be ideal for us.’

  ‘Would I like to work here?’ Matilda forgot herself and bounded out of her chair. ‘I’d like it more than anything in the whole world.’

  Giles heard Lily’s sharp intake of breath, felt her anger at his not consulting her first, but faced with the girl’s exuberance, he knew he’d made a rational decision.

  ‘Have you ever been to church, or read the Scriptures?’ Lily said in a starchy tone. She liked the look of the girl herself, and was so grateful to her for saving Tabitha she felt she must be rewarded, but she was deeply shocked by her husband’s impetuosity. Yet a wife couldn’t speak out in public against her husband. She would have to wait until they were alone to upbraid him for it.

  ‘Never ’ad no time or the clothes for church,’ Matilda beamed. ‘Not since me mother died, anyways. But I learned to read from Miss Agnew’s Bible. I liked the story of David and Goliath.’

  Lily pursed her lips in disapproval. She didn’t like the Bible thought of in the same light as a ‘penny dreadful’. ‘Of course if you do come here as nursemaid we shall have to instruct you on the Scriptures,’ she said tartly.

  The sharpness of the woman’s tone cooled Matilda’s excitement. All at once she saw that the offer had come only from the parson, not his wife, and although she wanted to work here so badly she would sell her soul for it, she knew that without Lily’s approval of her she’d be out on her ear at the first mistake she made.

  ‘I’ll ’ave to talk about it to my father first,’ she said after a moment’s reflection. ‘I mean, if I ain’t there, who’ll mind the boys?’

  Giles guessed the real cause of her prevarication and such sensitivity endeared her to him even more.

  ‘Of course you must speak to your father,’ he said, casting a warning glance at his wife. ‘Just as my wife and I must be in complete agreement. Suppose you come to see us again on Sunday afternoon at three? Perhaps your father could accompany you too. Then if everything is agreeable on all sides, you could start then.’

  Matilda knew she had only a second or two to charm Lily into agreement. She turned towards the woman and gave her most winning smile. ‘I know I don’t look or sound like a nursemaid. But you’d never ’ave to be afeared wif me lookin’ after your baby. I’s got eyes in the back of me ’ead where little ’uns is concerned. And I could learn your ways, madam, real quick.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve no doubt you could, Matilda.’ Lily gave a tight little smile in return ‘We’ll see you on Sunday.’

  Chapter Two

  Lucas listened to Matilda’s description of the dramatic events of her day with a fixed half-smile. The story’s amusement value came only from her keen observations in both the draper’s shop and the parsonage. He was only too aware his daughter might have been maimed for life by the horses, but smiling was one way of hiding his real feelings.

  ‘But ’ow can I go and work for ’em, Father?’ she sighed as she got to the end of the tale. She leaned her elbows on the table, wearily supporting her head with her hands and looked at him beseechingly. ‘What about the boys?’

  Lucas took a deep breath before replying. It was bitterly ironic that Matilda should suddenly get some good fortune on a day when he had been dwelling on how he’d failed all his children. It wasn’t so much that he was unable to provide any more than basic necessities, there were families far worse off than they were. It was more shame at what he’d become in the past few years.

  Once he’d been as kindly and generous-spirited as she was, he had cared about people, friends, passengers and neighbours. But somewhere along the line he’d grown bitter and heartless – was it any wonder his two younger sons were fast turning into a couple of little villains? He couldn’t remember when he’d last taken them out on the river, or even checked how they were doing at school. He wasn’t much of a father.

  Because of this he’d come home early today. His intention was to take all three of them out, buy Matilda a new bonnet, shirts and breeches for the boys and later in the evening take them in his boat along to Vauxhall Gardens for a treat.

  But Matilda was all rigged out like a lady’s maid, with an offer of a job. The boys were out and hadn’t been seen all day.

  ‘Don’t you fret about the boys,’ he said carefully. He guessed they were up to some mischief and would delay coming back until he’d gone out again this evening. ‘They’s my worry, not yourn. If this parson and his wife are decent sorts, you must go to them.’

  ‘But I’ll miss you, Father,’ she said, and her eyes filled with tears.

  Lucas’s heart melted. Matilda was the only good thing in his life, a living memory of her mother and the happiness he’d shared with her. Without Matilda to come home to every day he felt he had no purpose in life, no reason to keep striving. Yet he knew it was selfish to hold her here, he must think only of her future and happiness.

  ‘I’ll miss you an’ all,’ he said, but managed to smile as he said it. ‘But I’d sooner miss you than have you tramping the streets every day with flowers.’

  Matilda threw herself into his arms and sobbed.

  Lucas wished he was able to put his feelings into words. He loved all his children. As babies he’d fed and bathed them, walked the floor with them at nights when they were sick. Even though John and James were gone now and in all likelihood he’d never see them again, they were still in his heart. Yet what he felt for Matilda was different. He didn’t understand why he felt so afraid for her, but not the boys. Just the thought of her being handled roughly by some oaf made him feel sick to the stomach. London was so full of danger – the gin palaces, the penny gaffs, procuresses looking for sweet-faced girls to debauch, young gentlemen prowling the streets searching for innocents to seduce. But how could he warn her of these dangers without tainting her mind?

  ‘Your mother would want this for you,’ he murmured against her hair. Just the clean smell of her reminded him poignantly of Nell. ‘She’d be so proud of you.’

  Matilda stayed in the safety of his arms, sensing the conflict inside him and loving him still more because he was so strong. ‘Will you come with me on Sunday?’ she whispered.

  ‘’Course I will,’ he whispered back. ‘I’ll polish up me boots and put a clean shirt on for it. And if I don’t like the looks of ’em, I’ll bring you straight back.’

  On Sunday morning Matilda woke to the sound of church bells. She had gone to bed last night brimming over with joy that it was probably her last one in Finders Court. But now as she saw a dust-filled sunbeam slanting on to the foot of the bed, and knew she was seeing it for the last time, all at once she felt very scared and she wasn’t so sure she wanted the Milsons to take her on.

  She might only be a lowly flower-girl to people like them, but here in the court she was treated with respect. Being literate set her apart, people often called on her to read or write something for them, and that made her feel good about herself. Here too there was always someone to call on in times of trouble, there were neighbours who remembered her mother with fondness and looked up to her father. Who would she turn to in Primrose Hill?

  She lay in bed listening to the sound of her brothers’ and father’s breathing, and reminded herself that tonight she would be sleeping alone, in a room where ra
ts, mice, bugs and lice would never dare enter. After today she would never again have to use the stinking privy down in the yard, she had seen the Milsons’ one and it was as clean and sweet-smelling as their kitchen. She would never go hungry, wear boots with holes, or stand for hours on icy streets until her hands and feet were numb. So maybe Mrs Milson would be hard on her until she learned her ways, and she didn’t much fancy the idea of being forced to pray and study the Scriptures, but it couldn’t be worse than getting up at four in the morning to walk to Covent Garden.

  At half past twelve Matilda was ready to leave. She had so little to take with her, a spare shift and a petticoat bundled up in her pinafore, and two shillings in her pocket. She had made a pot of porridge for them all and fried some bacon, yet she was barely able to eat hers for a lump in her throat. The dishes and porridge pot were washed, the beds tidied and the floor swept. Her empty flower-basket sat in the corner silently reproaching her.

  Luke and George were sitting on the bench intently watching their father shave. They were both wearing the new shirts and breeches he had bought them in Rosemary Lane the previous afternoon. The clothes might only be second-hand, but they were clean and unpatched, and for once the boys looked decent, even if they wouldn’t stay clean for long.

  ‘I wish you’s could come and see where I’m going to work,’ she said to them, ruffling their hair with affection. ‘The parsonage is so lovely, all clean and bright. Maybe if you saw it you’d understand why I keep on to you both to go to school, you see, the Milsons wouldn’t want me there if I couldn’t read and write.’

  Both boys had been unusually quiet and helpful this morning. Luke had fetched water and even emptied the slop pail, the first time she remembered him doing so without being asked. George had polished his father’s boots.

  ‘Will you come back to see us?’ Luke asked in a surprisingly quavery voice.

  ‘’Course I will,’ she promised. ‘Every chance I get.’

  ‘I’ll miss you telling us stories,’ George said, and his eyes were swimming with tears.

  Matilda was too choked up to reply to this, she hadn’t expected the boys to show any sorrow she was going. She turned away to look in the piece of broken looking-glass on the mantelpiece and tied the strings of the new straw bonnet Father had bought her yesterday, and struggled to control herself.

  Lucas put on his coat and brushed it down. The atmosphere in the room was as bad as if someone had died. ‘We’d better be off now. It’s a long walk,’ he said. Then, turning to the boys, he wiggled a warning finger at them. ‘Mind you keep out of mischief. I want you back in here by five o’clock and the fire lit, or you’ll get no supper.’

  ‘Promise me you’ll go to school and keep out of trouble,’ Matilda begged the boys as she bent to hug and kiss them.

  ‘We will,’ Luke replied, clinging to her like a limpet.

  As Matilda walked down the stairs with the sound of George crying behind her, she felt her heart was breaking. She knew that within half an hour they’d be off out with the other urchins in the court, and they’d never keep their promise about school, or keeping out of mischief. Sadly she suspected that within a week or two Father would be coming home to an empty, dirty room, and he’d lose the will to drag his sons in. How long would it be before he began stopping off in an ale-house on the way home, rough company and drink preferable to facing an empty, lonely room?

  Father and daughter hardly spoke as they cautiously picked their way through the maze of narrow, foul-smelling alleys towards King’s Cross. In this area Sunday was little different to any other day. Shops and businesses might be closed, but there wasn’t the respectful hush which fell on the rest of London, or any display of best clothes to set the day apart. Costermongers advertised their wares with strident voices, the hurdy-gurdy man and street musicians competed, ragged children played in the dirt and women yelled at each other from upper windows. Knowing that she was leaving all this behind her, Matilda’s thoughts see-sawed between elation and sorrow. It was ugly. So vile, cruel and noisy that she couldn’t understand why she felt even the slightest regret at leaving it. But these streets and alleys, however mean and ugly, were home, she had a clear identity here and knew what was expected of her. In Primrose Hill she’d be an ignorant foreigner. She almost hoped the Milsons had had second thoughts about her.

  Lucas was trying very hard not to liken this walk to the last steps to the gallows. But that was what it felt like. True, he would be free to retrace his steps later this afternoon, he would still have his sons and his livelihood, but his daughter would be chopped out of his life from the moment he said goodbye to her. It had to be that way, all or nothing, if Matilda was to make a better life for herself. He hoped he was man enough to let her go, that his courage wouldn’t fail him at the last kiss. He had pulled Nell down, he wasn’t going to repeat it with his Matty.

  But as they walked through Camden Town towards Regent’s Park and the air grew gradually sweeter, both their spirits rose at the sight of pretty cottages, fine houses and blossom-laden trees. Whole families were out in the sunshine, mothers in ribbon-trimmed bonnets on their husbands’ arms, their children dressed in Sunday best walking sedately in front of their parents for an afternoon in the park. Carriages and broughams rolled past at a leisurely pace, ladies in silks and satins sat under parasols, their escorts in top hats and winged collars.

  ‘It’s a great many years since I’ve been up this way,’ Lucas said reflectively, taking Matilda’s hand and tucking it into his arm just like a gentleman. ‘Your ma and I used to come out ’ere sometimes when we was first married. She liked to look at the grand houses and the ladies’ fashions. We used to make out we ’ad a little cottage by the park.’

  Matilda stole a sideways look at her father. He had looked so grim earlier, his weather-beaten face furrowed by frowns. He still wasn’t smiling, his tone was gruff, but there was a gentler expression on his face and he was looking around as eagerly as she was.

  ‘Did you know you loved her right off?’ she asked. She was puzzled by the mechanics of courtship, love and romance. Right from a very young girl in Finders Court she’d seen far more brutality between men and women than love and tenderness. She had heard from other flower-girls that men were only nice till they ‘got it’. Yet the few books she’d read all spoke of love being beautiful, and she had always sensed that was the way her parents had felt about one another.

  ‘I suppose I must ’ave,’ he said and gave a little bashful laugh. ‘I knows I couldn’t wait to see ’er again anyways. I wore me arms out rowing over to Greenwich where she worked. She were the only girl fer me.’

  ‘Did you love Peggie too?’ she asked cautiously, fully expecting him either to evade the question or tell her to mind her own business. He didn’t ever speak of Peggie.

  ‘No, I never,’ he said, much to her surprise. ‘And seeing as you’ve brought the subject up, I’ll warn you, don’t you ever dally with a grievin’ man. They ain’t right in the ’ead for a bit. They wants to replace the one they’ve lost, and it don’t work.’

  Matilda digested this bit of wisdom silently. She had never been short of male admirers, hardly a week passed without some lad asking her to go to one of the penny gaffs with him to see the shows. She had seen through the doors of such places, and the raucous drunkenness, the noise and stink of them repelled her. Yet even if a lad was to offer some less crude entertainment, she doubted she’d agree to go. Perhaps she was peculiar, most girls of her age were already living with a man, yet she hadn’t met one she even liked enough to kiss.

  ‘Doing it’, as the other flower-girls referred to sex, sounded so ugly, yet she had always held on to the notion that it must be different if you loved the man and he loved you back. But how would she know that for sure?

  ‘How does a girl know when a man loves her truly?’ she asked tentatively.

  Lucas glanced at his daughter, wondering what prompted such a question. Nell would have known how to answer it, but he
guessed in her absence he would have to try to think what she’d have said.

  ‘When ’e wants what’s right for’ er, I suppose,’ he said. ‘When ’e’d row right across the river just to look at ’er face and never think ’ow far it were. When ’e’d give ’is life willingly for ’er.’

  Matilda’s eyes prickled with tears. She knew somehow that her father’s words were the truth about love, and until a man could offer her that, she wouldn’t settle for anything less.

  As Matilda and Lucas were making their way to Primrose Hill, Giles and Lily were sitting in the parlour digesting their Sunday luncheon, and speaking tentatively about the imminent arrival of Matilda.

  ‘I do agree she has a certain charm,’ Lily said cautiously. ‘But you were so hasty, Giles. We really know nothing about her.’

  ‘I think we know everything which is important,’ he said evenly. ‘She is brave, selfless, honest, and very anxious to improve her station in life. She has a sense of humour, and she is forthright. Tell me, Lily, what was it you didn’t like about her?’

  ‘The way she spoke,’ Lily said quickly and made a little shudder. ‘I know she can’t help that, but it reminds me of where she comes from.’

  Giles half smiled. He knew Lily was imagining a filthy hovel infested with rats. ‘Aggie doesn’t speak very much better than Matilda,’ he said. ‘She goes home at night to a place I doubt you’d wish to live in. You don’t distrust her because of it. So tell me what you did like about the girl.’

  Lily had spent the last couple of days thinking of nothing else but this girl. She was deeply indebted to her for saving Tabitha, and like Giles she had been taken by the girl’s forthright manner and her enthusiam too. She knew that most of her trepidation was due to fear Tabitha might be tainted in some way by being cared for by a stranger. No man, not even one as sensitive as Giles, could understand such deep-rooted maternal fears.