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‘I’m looking for broken flowers, sir. I hope to sell them to pay for my lodgings.’
‘Where are your parents, or have you run away from home?’
‘No, sir. I’m an orphan.’
‘Do you have a name, Miss Orphan?’ His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, and his grin was infectious.
Despite her fear that he might realise that she was a runaway and call a constable, Angel found herself returning his smile. ‘My name is Angel, sir.’
‘An Angel – aptly named, I’m sure.’ He plucked a few sprigs of lavender from a container and handed them to her. ‘Take these. You’ll find the sweet-smelling flowers go best. Pinks, carnations and stocks are popular.’ He leaned forward, his expression suddenly serious. ‘But take care. Some of those girls are bad ’uns. Don’t be led astray.’
Angel bobbed a curtsey. ‘I won’t, sir. Thank you.’
‘Be gone with you, and if you come and find me tomorrow I’ll see that you have something to sell.’ He proffered his hand. ‘Jack Wicks.’
She shook his hand. ‘Angel Winter. Much obliged to you, sir.’
The girls were chatting and giggling as their nimble fingers turned the discarded blooms into pretty nosegays and buttonholes. Dolly made room for Angel.
‘Well, I’m blowed,’ she said, whistling through her teeth. ‘How did you get hold of all that lavender?’
‘A kind man gave it to me.’
Angel’s words were received with hoots of laughter.
‘What did you do to earn that, nipper?’ One of the older girls chortled with laughter and nudged her neighbour. ‘Did he put his hand up your skirt, love?’
‘No, of course not,’ Angel said, horrified by the suggestion. ‘He’s a nice man.’
‘There’s no such thing. They’re all out for what they can get.’
‘That ain’t true, Nelly.’ One of the smaller girls spoke up. ‘My pa was ever so nice. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.’ She began to snivel. ‘He were drownded when his lighter got mowed down in the dark by a steamer.’
‘Pay no attention to her,’ Dolly said hastily. ‘Nelly’s had a bad time, haven’t you, Nell?’
That seemed to open the floodgates and before Nelly had a chance to tell her story they were all swapping experiences they had had at home and on the streets. Angel was shocked and alarmed by what she heard, but Dolly seemed to understand and she gave her a hug. ‘You just have to learn to be careful, my duck. Jack Wicks is all right, so you don’t have to be afraid of him, but be wary because they ain’t all like him.’ Dolly picked up a stem of pinks, discarding those blossoms that were crushed. ‘Now, watch what I do to make these into a buttonhole, and copy me. Then I’ll take you out on the streets and see how you do.’
‘Why are you helping me?’ Angel asked, bewildered by Dolly’s kindness.
‘I had a younger sister once.’ Dolly’s nimble fingers twisted the pinks into shape, adding a sprig of baby’s breath. ‘She was fair-haired like you and she had big blue eyes. Grace was always smiling, even though she was mortal sick. She were only ten when she went down with the fever that took Ma and me three brothers, all within days of each other. Dunno why I was spared, but here I am, and here you are, so let’s make the best of things and get on with our business.’
‘I know what you say is true,’ Angel said slowly, ‘but I must see my aunt again, and Lumpy Lil. I’m very grateful to you for helping me, Dolly, but I have to find them or die in the attempt.’
Chapter Four (#u556f5805-6c8e-5942-a7e3-da338249f2d7)
Angel kept close to Dolly all day and she soon realised that she was in the hands of an expert when it came to persuading a reluctant public to part with its money. Dolly combined bare-faced cheek with friendly banter, which worked better with men than with women. By the end of the afternoon Angel had earned threepence, but that was not enough to pay for a night in the dosshouse used by many of the flower girls.
‘Don’t worry, my duck,’ Dolly said cheerfully. ‘I’ll help you out this once, but tomorrow you’ve got to stand on your own two feet. We’ll get to the market early and see what we can scrape off the floor, but you must make your own buttonholes and nosegays and you’ll have to find your own pitch.’
‘You mean I’ll have to go out on my own?’
‘You can do it, Angel. I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t think you could use them big blue eyes to your advantage. Choose the older gents; they’ll be more likely to feel generous to a poor little orphan. The younger coves are a bit chancy. They might have other ideas, if you get my meaning.’
‘I think I do, but what about the girls? How do I know if I’m trespassing on someone’s pitch?’
‘You’ll have to use your loaf, and take my tip and talk a bit more like the rest of us. You talk like a toff and you dress like one too. We ought to get you some duds from a dolly shop, but that costs money. Anyway, we’ll worry about that tomorrow. The main thing now is to get something to eat and pay for a night’s snooze in Mother Jolly’s palace.’
‘A real palace?’
Dolly sighed. ‘It’s a joke, Angel. You’ve got a lot to learn, my duck.’ She examined the contents of her pockets. ‘Sixpence – not a bad day. It costs fourpence a night at Mother Jolly’s, sixpence if we shares a bed. So if you add your threepence to my sixpence that comes to …’ Dolly started adding up on her fingers.
‘Ninepence,’ Angel said eagerly. ‘That leaves threepence for our supper.’
‘You’re a quick one, ain’t yer? You did that in your head.’ Dolly gazed at her with genuine admiration. ‘I wish I had more learning.’
‘You seem to do very well without it.’ Angel handed her three pennies. ‘What will we get for that?’
‘A pint of pea soup costs a ha’penny and a ha’penny for a mug of cocoa. That leaves us tuppence for breakfast. We can get by on that, but you’ll need to earn more tomorrow, nipper.’
‘I’ll try, Dolly. I’ll try really hard.’
Mother Jolly’s lodging house in Monmouth Street was a four-storey building divided into a male section, on the top two floors, and a women’s section on the ground and first floors. Mother Jolly lived in the basement and put in an appearance only to take money or to throw an unruly tenant out onto the street. The women who paid fourpence for the privilege of sleeping in a wooden cot with a lumpy straw-filled mattress and a single blanket, regardless of the temperature outside, were mostly workers from Covent Garden market, but the male occupants were poor Irish migrant workers, and Angel’s first night was disturbed by the clumping of boots on the bare stair treads and even louder altercations. She huddled up against Dolly’s back and tried not to think of her old room in Spital Square and her comfortable feather bed. Perhaps this was all a bad dream, and when she awakened in the morning she would find herself at home with Lil grumbling as she drew back the curtains, and the aroma of the hot chocolate tempting her to sit up and drink from a bone-china cup.
But next morning Angel was awakened by Dolly giving her a shake, and the smell of unwashed bodies filled her nostrils. She tumbled out of bed.
‘What time is it?’
‘Time to get to work before the others wake up,’ Dolly whispered.
Angel had slept in her shift and she retrieved her clothes from the end of the bed. ‘I think I’ve got measles or something, Dolly. I’m itching all over.’
Dolly gave her a cursory look. ‘You ain’t sick, my duck. The bed bugs have been having a feast on you.’ Dolly pulled her ragged dress over her head and slipped her bare feet into her boots.
‘Bed bugs – that’s disgusting.’ Horrified, Angel stared at the red marks on her pale skin. ‘I’m not sleeping here again.’
‘You’ll get used to it,’ Dolly said casually. ‘Come on. We’ve got enough money for a cup of coffee and a bread roll.’ Dolly tiptoed from the room and Angel hurried after her. She could not wait to get away from the bug-infested dosshouse, and the thought of another night in such a place made her even more determined to find her aunt.
Dolly tried to dissuade her, but Angel would not be deterred. She made as many buttonholes as she could before the flower girls descended on the market like a flock of noisy seagulls, and kindly Jack Wicks loaned her a wicker basket.
‘You can return it to me in the morning,’ he said, adding a few sprigs of lavender for good measure. ‘Just steer clear of the other flower sellers. They won’t tolerate anyone they think is trying to steal their pitch.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ Angel said, nodding. ‘Can you direct me to Maddox Street, sir? My aunt is staying there and I need to find her.’
‘A well brought-up girl like you shouldn’t have to hawk buttonholes to all and sundry. I’d like to have a few words with that lady.’
‘Oh, no, sir. It’s not Aunt Cordelia’s fault. She thinks I’m safe in the country with a respectable family.’
Jack Wicks stared at her, frowning. ‘I don’t know your story, girl, but if I had a daughter I wouldn’t want her to roam the streets and mix with the likes of those flower girls.’ He took a pencil from behind his ear and drew a sketch map on a scrap of paper. ‘You can read, I suppose.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr Wicks. I’m much obliged to you.’
He shook his head. ‘I’d take you there myself if I didn’t have to look after my stall. Good luck, Angel. I hope you find your aunt.’
It was mid-morning by the time Angel reached Maddox Street. She had sold a couple of buttonholes, but most people were too busy going about their daily routine to be interested in purchasing such fripperies. She told herself it did not matter – she was going to find Aunt Cordelia and Lumpy Lil, and they would be reunited. Aunt Cordelia would realise that Mr Galloway was not to be trusted, and they would live happily ever after, just like in the storybooks. The only trouble was that she had no idea which house belonged to Mrs Adams, and the passers-by seemed reluctant to stop and answer her questions. Eventually, after waylaying an errand boy, she discovered that Mrs Adams owned a house in the middle of an elegant terrace.
Angel struggled to control her excitement as she knocked on the door. Aunt Cordelia was so close she could almost smell the gardenia-scented perfume she always wore. But it was a prim housemaid who opened the door.
‘No hawkers or traders.’
Angel put her foot over the threshold just in time to prevent the girl slamming the door in her face. ‘I’m not selling anything. I’ve come to see Mrs Wilding. I’m her niece, Angel Winter.’
The girl did not look convinced. ‘You might be the Angel Gabriel for all I know, but your aunt isn’t here.’
‘She must be,’ Angel insisted. ‘Mr Galloway brought her here the day before yesterday. He said she was to stay with Mrs Adams.’
‘Mrs Adams has gone to the country for the rest of the summer. She don’t like the heat of London.’
‘That can’t be true. Mr Galloway said—’
‘Get off the doorstep, girl, or I’ll call a constable. I told you, Mrs Adams and her guest have gone to the country.’
‘Did Miss Heavitree go too?’
‘If you mean that frightful creature who came with her – she was sent separate with the baggage and that stupid halfwit girl. They’ll be sacked for certain and left to find their own way back to London.’
Angel fought back tears of disappointment and frustration. ‘Where have they gone? Please tell me. I must find my aunt.’
‘I wouldn’t be allowed to say, even if I knew. Now go away and leave us in peace.’
‘Is there anyone in your household who might know my aunt’s whereabouts?’
‘There’s only me and the cleaning women here. The house is being shut up until the autumn, so come back then.’
‘Just a minute.’ Angel took the scrap of paper from her basket. Mr Wicks had written directions on the back of a receipt with his name printed in bold black letters and the number of his stall in Covent Garden. ‘Will you take this and give it to my aunt or Miss Heavitree when they return to London? It’s very important.’
The girl snatched it from Angel’s hand. ‘Anything, if you’ll just go away and leave me in peace. Now will you leave or do I call a copper?’
Angel sank down on the front step as the door closed. Her last hope had gone and she was alone in the great city, except for Dolly. How long she sat there she did not know, but eventually she rose to her feet and started retracing her steps, and after taking one apparently wrong turning after another, she found herself in Regent’s Circus, and was about to ask a gentleman the way to Covent Garden when the lady with him spotted the sprigs of lavender. With a cry of delight she plucked one from the basket.
‘Lavender, my favourite flower. It smells so sweet.’
The gentleman smiled down at her. ‘Just like you, my darling.’ He took a handful of small change from his pocket and dropped it into Angel’s basket. ‘I’ll take all the lavender.’
Angel gathered the sprigs into a bunch and handed them to him, hardly able to believe her luck. He presented them to his lady and she blushed and thanked him so prettily that Angel thought he was going to kiss her there and then, but he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and they walked away, arm in arm. Angel gathered up the coins – sevenpence ha’penny in all – slipped the money into her reticule and picked up a nosegay.
‘Flowers, lovely flowers. Buy a buttonhole for your lady, sir?’
By late afternoon Angel had sold every single flower in her basket and was the richer by elevenpence ha’penny. Compared to a meagre threepence the day before, it seemed like a small fortune. She made her way back to Covent Garden with a smile on her face for the first time since she had been wrested from her home. She found Dolly chatting to one of the other flower girls. They stopped talking when Angel approached them.
‘Did you find your aunt?’ Dolly asked.
Angel’s smile faded. ‘No, they’d gone away and the maid didn’t know where.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Dolly gave her a hug. ‘I suppose that means I’m stuck with you for a bit longer.’ She eyed the empty basket. ‘How much did you make today?’
‘Elevenpence ha’penny,’ Angel said proudly.
‘Crikey, you done well.’ Dolly turned to her friend. ‘How much did you take, Ivy?’
‘Sixpence, and I thought that was good. Maybe the nipper has something we ain’t got.’
‘Big blue eyes and a la-di-dah manner of speaking,’ Dolly said, chuckling. ‘Never mind, Angel. You can pay me back by buying me a ham roll and a cup of tea for supper.’
Angel smiled and nodded, but inwardly she was crying for her aunt and her old life, which was fading into nothing but a happy memory. The realisation that this was how she was going to scratch a living from now on hit her like a thunderbolt, and there seemed to be no escape.
Gradually, day by day, Angel became accustomed to life in Covent Garden market. She learned the tricks of the trade from the other girls and soon became as adept at turning broken blooms into buttonholes and nosegays as the very best of them. But it was far from an easy way to earn a living and she was out on the streets in all weathers. Summer turned into autumn, when the chill turned the leaves on the London plane trees to shades of copper, bronze and gold, and icy winds rattled the windows of Mother Jolly’s dosshouse. Angel’s fingers and toes were numbed with cold as she stood on street corners. She managed to save a few pennies to purchase a rather moth-eaten woollen shawl from a dolly shop in Shorts Gardens, but the soles of her boots were worn into holes and leaked when it rained. It would take months to earn enough to buy a second-hand pair, and winter was on its way. Angel knew that she was not suffering alone – it was the same for all the flower girls – but that was little comfort. As the nights grew frosty and the evenings drew in, Dolly developed a cough that dampened even her normally buoyant spirits.
Summer flowers had long since vanished from the stalls, and hothouse blooms were hard to come by and costly. The girls were forced to find alternatives to hawk round the streets. Some of them chose watercress, oranges or even matches, and, in desperation, others took to the streets at night selling themselves.
Angel visited Maddox Street several times in the months following that first visit, but the house was always shuttered and empty. On the last occasion she slid a note under the door, giving her address as Mother Jolly’s, in the hope that one day her aunt would return to London. She had heard nothing since and times were hard. Gardenias and carnations made wonderful buttonholes, but they cost more than she could afford and she had taken to selling watercress. Even then, there were plenty of much younger children engaged in the trade, and their pinched faces, stick-thin limbs and bare feet, blue with cold, touched the kind hearts of many a housewife, whereas Angel found herself largely ignored.
She no longer had Jack Wicks to help her out with bunches of lavender as he had closed his stall until the spring, but on his last day he had given Angel his address in Hackney. With Dolly too sick to work, Angel scraped the money together to pay Mother Jolly, but selling watercress at four bunches for a penny brought in barely enough to keep them from starvation. Dolly insisted that she was getting stronger every day, but she was weak and simply walking to the washroom exhausted her. Angel knew that she must do something drastic or neither of them would survive the winter. She had an open invitation to visit the Wicks family, and she was in dire need of help. Perhaps Jack could find her work in his market garden. Winter was closing in and Angel was growing more desperate with each passing day.
It was a long walk to Pratts Lane and it took Angel all morning to reach the red-brick cottage surrounded by market gardens. Her breath curled around her head and her cheeks tingled from the cold, but the air on the edge of the city was remarkably fresh and free from the worst of the smoke and stench from overflowing drains. She stopped to gaze out at the vast expanse of marshes that stretched as far as she could see, with the canal at Hackney Cut threaded through them like a silver ribbon. She knocked on the door and waited, hardly daring to breathe. Mr Wicks might have forgotten her or, even worse, he might regret having asked her to visit his home. The temptation to retrace her steps and hurry back to Seven Dials was almost irresistible, and she was about to turn on her heel when the door opened.
‘Good Lord. If it isn’t Angel Winter. You’d better come in out of the cold.’ Jack Wicks ushered her into the narrow hallway, and the warmth of the cottage and the smell of baking bread was almost too much for Angel. She leaned against the wall, struggling with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach and Jack’s voice seemed to fade into the distance.
The next thing she knew she was seated in a chair by the range and someone was chafing her cold hands.
‘Are you feeling better, dear?’
Angel’s vision cleared as she met the woman’s concerned gaze. ‘I’m sorry. I felt a bit faint.’
‘Jack says you must have walked all the way from Seven Dials. Is that right, Angel?’
‘Yes, ma’am. I shouldn’t have come.’
Jack’s face loomed into view. ‘I invited you here on many an occasion back in the summer, so let’s not hear any more of that talk.’ He handed Angel a steaming mug of tea. ‘Here, love, take a sip of this. I dare say you haven’t had a bite to eat since breakfast. Is that right?’
Angel did not want to admit that she had eaten nothing at all and very little had passed her lips the previous day, but she managed a nod as she sipped the hot, sweet tea.
‘I thought so.’ Jack exchanged meaningful glances with his wife. ‘Well, we can soon remedy that. Sally bakes the best bread you’ll ever have the luck to taste.’
Sally Wicks straightened up, wiping her floury hands on her apron. ‘We were about to eat, my dear, so I hope you’ll join us. But sit awhile first. You look done in.’ She turned away to stir the contents of a large black saucepan.
‘Thank you, but I don’t want to impose,’ Angel said anxiously. ‘I came to ask your advice, Mr Wicks. Things have been a bit tight lately.’
Jack pulled up a chair and sat down beside her. ‘I can understand that very well. Winter is always hard for those who depend on the market for their living. That’s where we’re fortunate in having our own market garden. I dunno how we’d survive the cold months if we didn’t have a store of vegetables and the sale of the dried lavender to rely on.’
