Essie picked her way along the footpath, trying to remember when Ma had last made up a pot of mashed potato mixed with scallions, milk, pepper and bacon.
Not since they came to live in London.
Certainly not since Da shipped out to fight the Boers, never to return.
As the girls skipped and chanted in front, Essie stepped off the footpath to avoid a hunched man pushing a barrow of winkles.
The fishmonger, Mr Foster, tipped his hat to the girls as he finished rolling up his sleeves to add silver flounders to a mountain he’d already piled onto a wooden board—a shilling for the lot—while plates of haddock, whiting and herrings sat on his counter. Behind him, a shelf was crowded with mustard pickles that could be added to the fish order for just a penny.
Da used to love his fish on a Friday …
‘Don’t forget to fix your account by Frid’y. There’ll be none till you do.’ Mr Foster waggled a warning finger at Essie as she hurried the girls past.
Essie tugged at Gertie’s sleeve to cross the road to avoid the crumpet man standing on the corner in his dirty black coat with a wooden tray perched on his head. Even though the tray was covered with a length of green baize, the unmistakable smell of freshly baked dough, butter and cinnamon filled the dusty air.
One of Gertie’s classmates approached the man and he hoisted the tray from his head and rested it at his hip as the child pulled back the cloth and took her time before clutching a crumpet with both hands. As she held it up to take a bite, Essie looked the other way.
They reached the school gate. In the playground, boys whooped as they chased metal hoops with sticks. Girls laughed and squealed as they skipped and gathered in groups, long skirts hiding skinny legs.
Essie watched the twins struggle to stand tall and straight. Flora’s left eye twitched, the only hint that her bandy legs were paining her. Maggie’s face was equally still. Their faces were so pale they could be carved from marble.
Essie resolved to take on more work—whatever she could find—to buy the girls fresh food and the leg braces they badly needed.
The headmaster, Mr Morton, stood with his bucket and list. Each child had to drop thruppence into the bucket each week as they went through the school gate.
Essie stepped in front of her sisters.
‘I don’t have the money. But I’m off to work now and I’ll have it for you tomorrow.’
The headmaster snapped, ‘I believe you said the same thing last week. Consider this your last warning, Miss Murphy. Unless you start to pay on time I shall have no choice but to expel these three. In any case, they’ll need to be punished in the usual manner. They’ll continue to be punished until you pay what’s due, Miss Murphy.’
Essie’s cheeks started to burn and she could feel Gertie stamping her feet like a frustrated horse.
‘Please—’
Gertie stepped out from behind Essie and gave her sister a nudge as she pulled Flora and Maggie with her. ‘You get to work, Es,’ she whispered behind Flora’s back. ‘We’ll be alright with Mr Godly Gen-er-osity here …’
‘No,’ said Essie, trying to wipe away the tears that had sprung into her eyes.
‘Essie, you need to go,’ said Gertie, louder now, with as much authority as her headmaster.
‘Very well.’
Essie lifted the cloth on her basket and handed over three tin bottles of tea as she whispered, ‘I’m sorry.’
Flora winked at her big sister, and flicked her plait over her shoulder as she stepped over to Mr Morton and bent down to put her lunch at her feet. Straightening, she held both hands out, palms up and ready for a whipping.
Maggie tentatively did the same, standing shoulder to shoulder with her twin. Last to join the line-up was Gertie, who was now standing with her chin slightly lifted and cheeks flushed. Defiant.
Essie tried to turn and walk away, but her feet were lead. It was all she could do to stop herself from rushing over and scooping up each of the girls to take them home for the day.
But she needed to go to work. And besides, the girls were safer here at school than at home.
The newsstands were full of headlines trumpeting free education and housing for all, but that hadn’t happened in their parts, south of the river. Miss Barnes, Gertie’s kind teacher, had told Essie it might not be happening for some time yet if the rumours were to be believed. Still, Miss Barnes wanted Gertie to finish her schooling and matriculate.
Ma wouldn’t hear a word of it. ‘It’ll be the factory for Gertie, or the workhouse,’ she said. ‘Don’t be putting fancy ideas in her head, Esther. No good’ll come of it.’
But fancy ideas filled Essie’s head when it sank into her pillow of an evening. As her bones ached and her sisters coughed, spluttered and scratched beside her, she wished more than anything for the girls to have their own beds. New shoes and a coat for winter. Most of all, she wished for them to stay in school so their days would not end up like hers.
Essie now eyed her sisters standing in a line, bravely awaiting a punishment from their headmaster they did not deserve.
Mr Morton pulled out his short horsewhip and Maggie flinched. Flora dipped a little to one side, as if her knees were buckling under her skirts.
A whoosh and then a sharp slap as the whip hit Maggie’s hand.
The child, so frail compared to Flora, started to sob and cough just as the second slap landed with a hiss. She coughed more, and the headmaster, whose face had gone red, retaliated with two more lashes, each harder than the last.
Flora trembled as it was her turn and, over their heads, Gertie looked at Essie and raised her chin a little higher, eyes glinting with anger. Her message was clear: Leave.
Helpless, shamed and left with no choice, Essie forced herself to do as she was bid. She turned and hurried off to work.
Chapter 4
Essie had been sitting at her machine hemming men’s evening shirtfronts for three hours when old Mrs Ruben came and rapped her scarred knuckles on the side table.
‘Enough, Miss Murphy!’
Essie stopped pedalling, but the thrumming in her ears continued. There were fifty other machinists on this first floor of the factory.
‘I want you to do a delivery. It’s urgent.’ Mrs Ruben waved her hand at the table beside Essie’s as she continued. ‘And take Miss Davis with you.’
‘It’s Miss Avery, ma’am. Miss Davis left last week.’ The skinny girl with riotous ringlets bursting from her hairnet blundered on, oblivious to Mrs Ruben turning a deeper shade of purple. ‘Tub-er-culosis, ma’am. Remem—’ The girl’s sentence tripped, then stopped.
‘I am well aware of the situation. I’ll thank you not to bring it up again.’ Mrs Ruben squared her hefty frame and eyed Essie. ‘I need you both to take these to The Goldsmiths’ Company in Fosters Lane off Cheapside.’
She wheeled over a rack with a black tailcoat, white bow-ties with matching waistcoats and half-a-dozen stiffly starched white shirtfronts and collars.
‘Mr Ruben’s automobile and driver is waiting for you downstairs. You’ll make your own way home. Now be gone with you. Don’t be getting any ideas, mind. This is a friend of Mr Ruben’s who is over from Antwerp and needs a dinner suit for tonight. And Miss Murphy …’