As they moved up the street, the twins took turns counting down the house numbers.
‘Eleven.’
‘Nine.’
‘Seven,’ squealed Maggie as she hopped up and down pointing at the blue door, almost tripping over her boots.
Essie studied the name stencilled in neat letters above the front door:
G.F. Lawrence
Antiquarian
Underneath, swinging in the wind, was the strangest sight: a small Egyptian statue.
Gertie stared, transfixed.
Essie pulled her shawl tight about her shoulders and put her hand on Freddie’s arm to stop him from entering.
‘I thought you said his name was Stony Jack and that he was a pawnbroker?’
‘He is!’ said Freddie. ‘The lads at the Golden Fleece say he’s always good for a pint—’
‘—even if what we find in the muck is worth nothin’,’ said Danny.
‘We’ll see, won’t we?’ said Freddie, patting his coat pocket. ‘I reckon he’ll pay a pretty penny for what I have ’ere.’
Essie thought of the foreman whose green eyes matched the green gemstones in the hard clay ball. Edward Hepplestone. He’d called to the men to halt their work and keep the discovery in the air where he could see it, but by the time he’d climbed into the cellar, most of the navvies would have thrust their hands into the clay and debris and pulled a handful into their pockets, quickly secreting it in their drawers or boots as soon as they were able—just as Freddie had.
Danny and Freddie had somehow managed to hide a lump of dry clay the size of a football onsite, and they’d brought it home after work. Not straight home, of course. There’d been several rounds at the Golden Fleece on Thursday night. Freddie was careful with the drink … but who could blame him for having a beef and Guinness pie washed down with a couple of pints with his friends every now and again? It beat coming home to stale bread and a draughty bedroom.
She paused. Freddie and Danny would most likely lose their jobs—or go to gaol even—if anyone found out that they had pilfered some of the jewels. Essie had seen the notices in the papers about stealing from worksites around London. She’d unpeeled one from their kippers just days ago:
In the event of any goods or precious materials being retained by the finder, or sold or handed over to any other person or company, instead of being given to the police or London authorities, the person finding the same will render himself liable to prosecution.
Then again, Freddie said there were so many, who would miss just a few …
She thought of the necklaces so fine they looked like flowers threaded with gold. Coloured gemstones in green, blue and red pressed into the dirt when the treasure was discovered at Cheapside. Essie felt like she was squeezed into a too-tight coat she couldn’t undo. She didn’t like the idea of Freddie and Danny taking something that clearly didn’t belong to them. But she thought of Flora and Maggie coughing away. Flora’s hollow chest rubbed with camphor oil and wrapped in brown paper. Their pokey kitchen lined with dirt, broken crockery and rats that pounced from the fireplace. She thought of the unopened letters from Miss Barnes that Ma refused to read.
Then she thought of what she could do if only she had more money. Three meals a day. They might be able to move somewhere with a little more room—perhaps even with an indoor flushing lav. Ma could stop her spinning and her hands would heal. (And if Ma felt better, surely she’d give away the drink?) The girls could finish school. She glanced at Gertie, walking along with her notebook tucked under her arm. She didn’t go anywhere without it. She could buy Gertie a new notebook of her own.
Freddie would be able to offer a home to a sweetheart. He’d been walking out twice with young Rosie Jones from the greengrocer, but Essie couldn’t help noticing the furrow of Mr Jones’s brow when she’d gone to the store with the twins to buy salt and flour last week, his eyes running over their thin dresses as he handed over their purchases. His pursed lips said it all.
‘I promise you, Essie,’ Freddie was saying now, ‘Stony Jack’ll take care of us.’
Essie very much doubted that was true. No-one who was even supposed to care for her family had managed to. Not Ma or Pa, not Mr Morton at the school, nor Father McGuire and his parish. Freddie was doing his very best, she thought with a sigh. But her older brother was an optimist, a dreamer. Unfortunately dreaming didn’t fill empty bellies at night. It was up to her. But she looked at her brother’s wide eyes and hopeful expression and thought of how the future might look. Then she pushed open the door and entered the pawnshop.
Sitting at a large oak desk was a stocky man with neatly combed white hair and a thick grey moustache. He wore a smart blue wool suit, stiff collar and a black silk tie, much like Essie made every week in the Rubens’ factory. This was Mr Lawrence, she presumed.
His desk was messy, overlaid with scraps of paper and lit with a brass lamp. Random objects dotted the surface: terracotta vases, a carved wooden hand, cigar boxes and some mottled iron arrowheads. His walls were covered with mirrors and tapestries. Bookshelves were lined with leather-bound volumes leaning against marble busts, stone axes and yet more terracotta vessels.
He looked up from his paperwork and studied Essie and her companions through round wire-framed glasses as they all piled into the shop. ‘Come in, come in.’ He put down his pen as they entered and crowded around the desk. ‘Be a good girl and lean on the door to close it, won’t you?’ he said to Gertie. ‘Otherwise that blasted bell will jangle all afternoon.’ He smiled an apology.
Gertie closed the door and wandered across to the bookshelf, running her fingers down gold-embossed spines as if to imprint each title in her brain. Flora gazed open-mouthed at a small marble statue of a topless woman, while Maggie giggled at the fig leaf a man wore on the shelf right at the level of her nose.
‘Good morning, gentlemen.’ Mr Lawrence beamed at Freddie and Danny then nodded at Essie in the corner. ‘Miss.’ The antiquarian gave them a bemused look. ‘So, to what do I owe the pleasure?’
Danny stepped forwards and put a parcel on the table as tenderly as if it were a newborn, then Freddie unwrapped it and held up a ball of clay under Mr Lawrence’s lamp, revealing glittering gold necklaces, some coloured stones and some buttons stuck in the clump.
Mr Lawrence peered at it. ‘What do we have here then?’
‘I think we found something special, sir,’ said Danny.
‘Is that so?’ replied Mr Lawrence.
‘Some of the lads said you might have a bit of coin—’ Freddie began.
‘Or a pint,’ interrupted Danny.
Essie shot him a furious look. She’d come along to ensure her impressionable brother wasn’t persuaded by Danny to spend some of the money on a few rounds of pints at the pub with the lads. She wanted at least enough money for a few weeks of school and to give Ma’s raw hands a break from the spinning. Freddie had agreed, but who could blame him for wanting to spend time with lads his own age having a laugh, or taking Rosie Jones to the moving pictures and perhaps a bit of afternoon tea?
‘What do you think?’ asked Freddie anxiously.
The antiquarian pushed his glasses up his nose and sat up straighter. Without saying a word, he picked up the ball and turned it over, revealing traces of gleaming gold and blue stones.