Jem reached for another jam tart.
Then Mrs Heppinstall gently inquired, ‘Would you care for something else, Jem? A tongue sandwich, perhaps? Jam tarts don’t build sturdy bones.’
Jem’s mouth was already full, so he nodded. Mrs Heppinstall immediately rang the little silver bell at her side, as Alfred continued in a glum, slightly anxious tone, ‘What’s worrying me is where this might lead. If there’s so many bogles about, what’s to stop ’em living in the same lair? Suppose I do another job and find there’s more’n one to deal with? What then?’
Birdie hissed. Jem shuddered.
Miss Eames frowned again. ‘But Mr Bunce,’ she said, ‘I thought you had abandoned bogling? Except in this one instance, of course . . .’
‘I swore I’d clear out Holborn Viaduct,’ Alfred retorted stubbornly. ‘And that’s what I’m a-going to do. But if I take Jem down the sewers, and find two bogles instead o’ one, what then?’
‘Let me go!’ Birdie cried. She began to bounce up and down, making springs creak and petticoats rustle. ‘I’ll distract one bogle while Jem lures the other! We can work as a pair!’
‘You’ll do no such thing,’ Miss Eames said in a crisp, reproving voice.
‘You can’t stop me!’ Birdie shot back. And before Mrs Heppinstall – or even Alfred – could protest, she added, ‘If you don’t let me go, I’ll walk out! I shall! And you won’t never see me again!’
‘Birdie, dear . . .’ Mrs Heppinstall bleated, as Miss Eames matched Birdie’s scowl with her own.
‘Nonsense!’ snapped Miss Eames. ‘Don’t be foolish, Birdie. Where on earth would you go?’
‘Mr Bunce’ll take me back. Won’t you, Mr Bunce?’ Birdie fixed a pair of big, blue, beseeching eyes on Alfred, who dragged a hand over the pouches and hollows of his face, muttering something inaudible.
Jem said nothing, though he was anxious about his own little hard-won corner of Alfred’s room, and knew that if Birdie laid claim to it he wouldn’t stand a chance. All he could do was glare at her, hoping that she would come to her senses. Why would anyone wearing silk hair ribbons and lace-trimmed petticoats want to live in a tiny attic room full of red dust?
She was mad, he thought.
Then the maid entered. And before Mrs Heppinstall could ask for a tongue sandwich, her niece suddenly remarked, ‘Take the children upstairs, Mary. Jem wants to see Birdie’s room, I’m sure.’
Jem blinked at her. Birdie exclaimed, ‘No, he don’t!’
‘I wish to talk to Mr Bunce,’ Miss Eames declared. ‘In private.’
‘But—’
‘Do as you’re told, lass.’ At last Alfred decided to intercede, raising his voice from its usual low rumble and fixing Birdie with one of his hard, dark looks. ‘This ain’t yer house,’ he said. ‘Seems to me you’ve lost respect since you come here. I thought I raised you better.’
To Jem’s surprise, Birdie didn’t answer back. Instead she coloured, rose, and began to walk out of the room, straight-backed and fuming. Jem leaped up to follow her – though not without grabbing another jam tart.
‘And Birdie?’ Miss Eames called after her. ‘Remember what I told you about double negatives.’
‘Double negatives,’ Birdie muttered under her breath, as she stomped into the hallway. ‘I’ll give you double negatives!’ Though Jem couldn’t see her expression, he knew from her tone that she was furious.
Mary watched them both trudge upstairs with a smug look on her face.
‘D’you think I’ll get that sandwich?’ Jem asked Birdie, once they had left the first landing behind. He was amazed to see that the stair-carpet ran all the way up to the first floor – and that there were just as many pictures and fans and mirrors covering the walls in this private region of the house as there were in the more public spaces downstairs.
‘If it’s food you want, you’d be better off in the kitchen,’ Birdie growled. She led him into one of the best bedrooms,
Then Mrs Heppinstall gently inquired, ‘Would you care for something else, Jem? A tongue sandwich, perhaps? Jam tarts don’t build sturdy bones.’
Jem’s mouth was already full, so he nodded. Mrs Heppinstall immediately rang the little silver bell at her side, as Alfred continued in a glum, slightly anxious tone, ‘What’s worrying me is where this might lead. If there’s so many bogles about, what’s to stop ’em living in the same lair? Suppose I do another job and find there’s more’n one to deal with? What then?’
Birdie hissed. Jem shuddered.
Miss Eames frowned again. ‘But Mr Bunce,’ she said, ‘I thought you had abandoned bogling? Except in this one instance, of course . . .’
‘I swore I’d clear out Holborn Viaduct,’ Alfred retorted stubbornly. ‘And that’s what I’m a-going to do. But if I take Jem down the sewers, and find two bogles instead o’ one, what then?’
‘Let me go!’ Birdie cried. She began to bounce up and down, making springs creak and petticoats rustle. ‘I’ll distract one bogle while Jem lures the other! We can work as a pair!’
‘You’ll do no such thing,’ Miss Eames said in a crisp, reproving voice.
‘You can’t stop me!’ Birdie shot back. And before Mrs Heppinstall – or even Alfred – could protest, she added, ‘If you don’t let me go, I’ll walk out! I shall! And you won’t never see me again!’
‘Birdie, dear . . .’ Mrs Heppinstall bleated, as Miss Eames matched Birdie’s scowl with her own.
‘Nonsense!’ snapped Miss Eames. ‘Don’t be foolish, Birdie. Where on earth would you go?’
‘Mr Bunce’ll take me back. Won’t you, Mr Bunce?’ Birdie fixed a pair of big, blue, beseeching eyes on Alfred, who dragged a hand over the pouches and hollows of his face, muttering something inaudible.
Jem said nothing, though he was anxious about his own little hard-won corner of Alfred’s room, and knew that if Birdie laid claim to it he wouldn’t stand a chance. All he could do was glare at her, hoping that she would come to her senses. Why would anyone wearing silk hair ribbons and lace-trimmed petticoats want to live in a tiny attic room full of red dust?
She was mad, he thought.
Then the maid entered. And before Mrs Heppinstall could ask for a tongue sandwich, her niece suddenly remarked, ‘Take the children upstairs, Mary. Jem wants to see Birdie’s room, I’m sure.’
Jem blinked at her. Birdie exclaimed, ‘No, he don’t!’
‘I wish to talk to Mr Bunce,’ Miss Eames declared. ‘In private.’
‘But—’
‘Do as you’re told, lass.’ At last Alfred decided to intercede, raising his voice from its usual low rumble and fixing Birdie with one of his hard, dark looks. ‘This ain’t yer house,’ he said. ‘Seems to me you’ve lost respect since you come here. I thought I raised you better.’
To Jem’s surprise, Birdie didn’t answer back. Instead she coloured, rose, and began to walk out of the room, straight-backed and fuming. Jem leaped up to follow her – though not without grabbing another jam tart.
‘And Birdie?’ Miss Eames called after her. ‘Remember what I told you about double negatives.’
‘Double negatives,’ Birdie muttered under her breath, as she stomped into the hallway. ‘I’ll give you double negatives!’ Though Jem couldn’t see her expression, he knew from her tone that she was furious.
Mary watched them both trudge upstairs with a smug look on her face.
‘D’you think I’ll get that sandwich?’ Jem asked Birdie, once they had left the first landing behind. He was amazed to see that the stair-carpet ran all the way up to the first floor – and that there were just as many pictures and fans and mirrors covering the walls in this private region of the house as there were in the more public spaces downstairs.
‘If it’s food you want, you’d be better off in the kitchen,’ Birdie growled. She led him into one of the best bedrooms,
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