liberty to disclose the particulars. You’ll have to take that up with with Mr Hobney and Mrs Gudge. Be assured, however, that my colleagues and I are on the premises in a professional capacity, with a view to improving conditions for the younger inmates.’
To Birdie, it sounded as if Miss Eames was claiming to be some kind of church visitor. The man at the window must have thought so too, because he said, ‘Hum. I see. But why all the screeching?’
There was a moment’s pause, as Birdie, Alfred and Miss Eames all glanced at the woodpile. It soon became clear, however, that Fanny wasn’t about to step up and take the blame. So Miss Eames said smoothly, ‘I’m afraid that was my fault. A rat ran over my shoe.’
‘Well, kindly have more consideration,’ the man snapped. ‘These sick people in here need their rest!’ Before Miss Eames could respond, he pulled his head back inside and slammed the window shut.
There was a moment’s silence.
‘Prating old article,’ Fanny muttered, as her own head popped into view again. ‘We never told him nothing, for he don’t believe in bogles. Doctors never do.’ Gazing reproachfully at Miss Eames, she added, ‘Mr Hobney’ll catch it, now. And Mrs Gudge. Why’d you give ’im their names, miss?’
‘What choice did she have, when you wouldn’t speak up?’ Birdie snapped, before it occurred to her that she shouldn’t be trying to defend Miss Eames, even if Fanny was a coward.
Fanny shrugged. ‘It ain’t Miss Eames as would be punished for neglect o’ work,’ she said. ‘Besides, she didn’t need me. She done all right by herself.’
‘That she did,’ Alfred agreed. ‘It were a stroke o’ luck you came along, Miss Eames. Thank’ee for yer help.’
‘Help with the doctor, not help with the bogle.’ Birdie thought this point worth emphasising, just in case anyone had forgotten about it in all the excitement. ‘I knew that pie wouldn’t work. If bogles wanted pastry, we’d be finding ’em in bread ovens.’
She flicked a triumphant look at Miss Eames, who sighed but wouldn’t admit defeat. ‘Perhaps I misidentified the creature. Perhaps it was a fuath. Fuaths don’t like sunshine. Though of course, being Scottish, they normally wouldn’t be living this far south . . .’
Alfred, however, wasn’t interested in fuaths. ‘Come along,’ he said to Fanny. ‘George Hobney owes me six shillings, and you’re a witness to it. I want you there when I claim me dues, just in case he tries to bilk me.’
‘Oh, he’ll not do that, Mr Bunce,’ Fanny promised. ‘But he might faint dead away when I tell him what happened!’ She had come out from behind the woodpile, so that Birdie could give her the fallen oil lamp. Alfred, meanwhile, was wrapping up his spear, while Miss Eames watched him, crestfallen.
‘I hope you haven’t lost faith in the scientific approach, Mr Bunce,’ she said bravely. ‘I still believe there might be some merit in it.’
‘I don’t,’ Alfred retorted. And to Birdie’s delight, he went on to declare, ‘This ain’t no game, miss. It’s dangerous work, and shouldn’t be fumbled – not for all the gold in England. You’re allus welcome to join us, but there’ll be no more pies, nor nothing else as would put us in peril. I’m sorry.’
Then he shouldered his sack and began to walk away.
14
WHATEVER HAPPENED TO
BILLY CRISP?
Birdie was dreaming about bogles when an urgent rat-a-tat-tat jerked her awake. For a moment she lay helpless, confused by the noise and the glare. Then she realised that it was broad daylight, and that she was still in bed because she had arrived home from Hackney workhouse very early that morning.
I must have overslept , she thought vaguely, turning to look at Alfred’s huddled shape on the other side of the room. He was snoring softly in a rat’s nest of soiled blankets and unravelling shawls.
Rat-a-tat-tat! ‘Fred Bunce! Are you there?’ a voice demanded. It belonged to Sarah
To Birdie, it sounded as if Miss Eames was claiming to be some kind of church visitor. The man at the window must have thought so too, because he said, ‘Hum. I see. But why all the screeching?’
There was a moment’s pause, as Birdie, Alfred and Miss Eames all glanced at the woodpile. It soon became clear, however, that Fanny wasn’t about to step up and take the blame. So Miss Eames said smoothly, ‘I’m afraid that was my fault. A rat ran over my shoe.’
‘Well, kindly have more consideration,’ the man snapped. ‘These sick people in here need their rest!’ Before Miss Eames could respond, he pulled his head back inside and slammed the window shut.
There was a moment’s silence.
‘Prating old article,’ Fanny muttered, as her own head popped into view again. ‘We never told him nothing, for he don’t believe in bogles. Doctors never do.’ Gazing reproachfully at Miss Eames, she added, ‘Mr Hobney’ll catch it, now. And Mrs Gudge. Why’d you give ’im their names, miss?’
‘What choice did she have, when you wouldn’t speak up?’ Birdie snapped, before it occurred to her that she shouldn’t be trying to defend Miss Eames, even if Fanny was a coward.
Fanny shrugged. ‘It ain’t Miss Eames as would be punished for neglect o’ work,’ she said. ‘Besides, she didn’t need me. She done all right by herself.’
‘That she did,’ Alfred agreed. ‘It were a stroke o’ luck you came along, Miss Eames. Thank’ee for yer help.’
‘Help with the doctor, not help with the bogle.’ Birdie thought this point worth emphasising, just in case anyone had forgotten about it in all the excitement. ‘I knew that pie wouldn’t work. If bogles wanted pastry, we’d be finding ’em in bread ovens.’
She flicked a triumphant look at Miss Eames, who sighed but wouldn’t admit defeat. ‘Perhaps I misidentified the creature. Perhaps it was a fuath. Fuaths don’t like sunshine. Though of course, being Scottish, they normally wouldn’t be living this far south . . .’
Alfred, however, wasn’t interested in fuaths. ‘Come along,’ he said to Fanny. ‘George Hobney owes me six shillings, and you’re a witness to it. I want you there when I claim me dues, just in case he tries to bilk me.’
‘Oh, he’ll not do that, Mr Bunce,’ Fanny promised. ‘But he might faint dead away when I tell him what happened!’ She had come out from behind the woodpile, so that Birdie could give her the fallen oil lamp. Alfred, meanwhile, was wrapping up his spear, while Miss Eames watched him, crestfallen.
‘I hope you haven’t lost faith in the scientific approach, Mr Bunce,’ she said bravely. ‘I still believe there might be some merit in it.’
‘I don’t,’ Alfred retorted. And to Birdie’s delight, he went on to declare, ‘This ain’t no game, miss. It’s dangerous work, and shouldn’t be fumbled – not for all the gold in England. You’re allus welcome to join us, but there’ll be no more pies, nor nothing else as would put us in peril. I’m sorry.’
Then he shouldered his sack and began to walk away.
14
WHATEVER HAPPENED TO
BILLY CRISP?
Birdie was dreaming about bogles when an urgent rat-a-tat-tat jerked her awake. For a moment she lay helpless, confused by the noise and the glare. Then she realised that it was broad daylight, and that she was still in bed because she had arrived home from Hackney workhouse very early that morning.
I must have overslept , she thought vaguely, turning to look at Alfred’s huddled shape on the other side of the room. He was snoring softly in a rat’s nest of soiled blankets and unravelling shawls.
Rat-a-tat-tat! ‘Fred Bunce! Are you there?’ a voice demanded. It belonged to Sarah
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