which contained a shiny brass bedstead heaped with feather pillows, a large chest of drawers, an array of china figurines, a fireplace, a chair, a washstand, a dressing table, a looking-glass and a paraffin lamp. The walls were papered in a floral design that matched the curtains. An Axminster carpet lay on the floor.
‘Is this your room?’ Jem was astounded. ‘I thought you slept in the attic!’
‘I did, at first,’ said Birdie, heading straight for the fireplace. ‘But then they moved me here.’
‘No wonder the maid hates you.’ Jem gazed around, shaking his head in wonder. ‘You’re addled,’ he announced. ‘Why kick up a fuss when you got all this? I’d rather live here than at Alfred’s.’
‘That’s because you don’t understand what it’s like.’ Squatting in front of the grate, Birdie took a brass-handled poker and thrust it straight up the chimney. ‘You think it’s all jam tarts and silk shifts, but it ain’t. They won’t let you do nothing without permission. They tell you how to talk and walk and sit and stand—’
‘What’s that you’re doing now?’ Jem interrupted. She seemed to be dislodging a loose brick. ‘If you’re trying to bring down the chimney, I’ll not be a party to it.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’ Birdie’s tone was scornful. ‘This is how I eavesdrop. The flue leads straight up from the dining room, so if the folding doors are open, I can hear everything they say in the parlour.’
‘Oh.’ Jem munched on his jam tart as Birdie wriggled into the fireplace. She then put her ear to the hole she’d made, ignoring Jem, who began to inspect the contents of her room. The cane-seated chair was worth about three shillings, he guessed. The washstand had a marble top. Birdie’s brushes were backed with horn, and she had a workbox inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
‘They’re talking about Ned,’ Birdie suddenly revealed, from her listening post. ‘ She wants to know why Ned can’t help. Mr Bunce is saying Ned would lose his job if he missed a day.’
‘Which is the truth,’ said Jem. He picked up a little silver casket, checked inside, and saw that it was full of sugar pastilles. For some reason, the discovery made him furious. ‘You’re off yer head, wanting to leave this place and live in a dirty garret!’ he spluttered.
‘ You chose to live in an East End cellar,’ Birdie rejoined.
‘Only because I’m looking for Sarah Pickles!’
‘Shh!’ Birdie flapped her hand at him. ‘They’re talking about me, now . . .’
But Jem had already fallen silent. Something was stirring in the back of his mind. Sarah Pickles . . . garrets . . .
Birdie gave a sudden squeal. ‘Miss Eames says I can do it!’ she crowed. ‘As long as she comes too!’ When Jem didn’t respond, Birdie turned around to see why. ‘Did you hear? We’ll be going down the viaduct together!’
‘Shh!’ Jem was holding his temples with both hands. The name was on the tip of his tongue. It was so close, he could almost smell it . . .
‘What ails you?’ Birdie demanded. ‘Is it a headache?’
‘Eunice Pickles!’ Jem blurted out.
‘What?’
‘Sarah’s daughter! Eunice Pickles!’ Jem gazed at her wildly, amazed that he could have forgotten about Eunice. ‘I seen her in the streets around Newgate! She’s living there, I’d swear to it! And if she’s there . . . why, then so is her ma !’
13
THE PROPOSITION
That night Jem dreamed of Sarah Pickles. He dreamed that he was hiding under the bed in her garret lodgings, which he’d only ever visited twice in all his years of faithful service. The first time, he’d gone there with her son Charlie to collect some tools for a break-and-enter job in Islington. The second time, he’d been sent there all alone with a delivery of silver plate.
On both occasions Eunice Pickles had been hovering in the background, fat and frumpy and silent. She’d had the look of someone who spent all day sweeping floors and boiling bacon. But
‘Is this your room?’ Jem was astounded. ‘I thought you slept in the attic!’
‘I did, at first,’ said Birdie, heading straight for the fireplace. ‘But then they moved me here.’
‘No wonder the maid hates you.’ Jem gazed around, shaking his head in wonder. ‘You’re addled,’ he announced. ‘Why kick up a fuss when you got all this? I’d rather live here than at Alfred’s.’
‘That’s because you don’t understand what it’s like.’ Squatting in front of the grate, Birdie took a brass-handled poker and thrust it straight up the chimney. ‘You think it’s all jam tarts and silk shifts, but it ain’t. They won’t let you do nothing without permission. They tell you how to talk and walk and sit and stand—’
‘What’s that you’re doing now?’ Jem interrupted. She seemed to be dislodging a loose brick. ‘If you’re trying to bring down the chimney, I’ll not be a party to it.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’ Birdie’s tone was scornful. ‘This is how I eavesdrop. The flue leads straight up from the dining room, so if the folding doors are open, I can hear everything they say in the parlour.’
‘Oh.’ Jem munched on his jam tart as Birdie wriggled into the fireplace. She then put her ear to the hole she’d made, ignoring Jem, who began to inspect the contents of her room. The cane-seated chair was worth about three shillings, he guessed. The washstand had a marble top. Birdie’s brushes were backed with horn, and she had a workbox inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
‘They’re talking about Ned,’ Birdie suddenly revealed, from her listening post. ‘ She wants to know why Ned can’t help. Mr Bunce is saying Ned would lose his job if he missed a day.’
‘Which is the truth,’ said Jem. He picked up a little silver casket, checked inside, and saw that it was full of sugar pastilles. For some reason, the discovery made him furious. ‘You’re off yer head, wanting to leave this place and live in a dirty garret!’ he spluttered.
‘ You chose to live in an East End cellar,’ Birdie rejoined.
‘Only because I’m looking for Sarah Pickles!’
‘Shh!’ Birdie flapped her hand at him. ‘They’re talking about me, now . . .’
But Jem had already fallen silent. Something was stirring in the back of his mind. Sarah Pickles . . . garrets . . .
Birdie gave a sudden squeal. ‘Miss Eames says I can do it!’ she crowed. ‘As long as she comes too!’ When Jem didn’t respond, Birdie turned around to see why. ‘Did you hear? We’ll be going down the viaduct together!’
‘Shh!’ Jem was holding his temples with both hands. The name was on the tip of his tongue. It was so close, he could almost smell it . . .
‘What ails you?’ Birdie demanded. ‘Is it a headache?’
‘Eunice Pickles!’ Jem blurted out.
‘What?’
‘Sarah’s daughter! Eunice Pickles!’ Jem gazed at her wildly, amazed that he could have forgotten about Eunice. ‘I seen her in the streets around Newgate! She’s living there, I’d swear to it! And if she’s there . . . why, then so is her ma !’
13
THE PROPOSITION
That night Jem dreamed of Sarah Pickles. He dreamed that he was hiding under the bed in her garret lodgings, which he’d only ever visited twice in all his years of faithful service. The first time, he’d gone there with her son Charlie to collect some tools for a break-and-enter job in Islington. The second time, he’d been sent there all alone with a delivery of silver plate.
On both occasions Eunice Pickles had been hovering in the background, fat and frumpy and silent. She’d had the look of someone who spent all day sweeping floors and boiling bacon. But
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