Tilly True by Dilly Court Page B

numb with cold and the thin shawl was no protection against the bitter night. Dodging in and out between horse-drawn carts and drays, Bootle led the way across the busy thoroughfare of Chancery Lane and turned into a narrow side street. The buildings were crammed together higgledy-piggledy as if a child had upturned a box of wooden bricks and they had lodged where they had fallen. In the middle of this architectural chaos, Pook’s Buildings stood five storeys high, blackened bricks that might once have been red imprisoned behind rusting iron railings. Bootle climbed the stone steps to the front door and went inside. Tilly followed him into the long, narrow hallway and saw a flight of uncarpeted stairs rising straight ahead of them. If the Palgraves’ lodgings in Bunbury Fields were shabby, then this multiple occupancy house was positively dilapidated. A gas mantle on each landing provided the only source of light, hissing, popping and casting weird shadows on the walls as they went up the stairs. The odour of coal gas mingled with cooking smells, none of which was appetising. From behind closed doors Tilly could hear the sound of raised voices, children screaming, babies crying and somewhere, at the top of the building, a woman was singing in a high-pitched soprano while a musician of sorts scraped at a fiddle.
    â€˜Home sweet home,’ Bootle said cheerfully, as he opened a door on the third floor and was greeted by shouts and cries of delight as a multitude of children hurtled across the floor, flinging themselves at him. All Tilly could see of Bootle was his curly-brimmed bowler hat and the red tip of his nose. Laughing and kissing upturned faces, he peeled the children off and set them on the floor, patting heads as if they were a pack of eager foxhounds.
    â€˜Manners, Bootle children. We have a visitor.’ Bootle held his hand out to Tilly. ‘Come in, Miss Tilly. Come in and meet my family.’
    Hesitating on the threshold, blinking in the comparatively bright light, Tilly felt her cheeks tingle painfully in the heat of the room. ‘Hello,’ she ventured, stepping over a rag doll and a pile of wooden bricks. ‘I’m pleased to meet you all.’
    Standing by the range, stirring a huge black saucepan full of something that smelt temptingly like mutton stew, Mrs Bootle turned her head and beamed at her husband. ‘You’re nice and early, Nat. And who is this?’
    â€˜Susan, my dear, this is Miss True,’ Bootle said, handing his hat to the biggest boy and hurrying over to kiss his wife’s cheek. ‘Miss Tilly has just started work as a type-writer at the office and she’s in need of lodgings.’
    Thrusting the wooden spoon into Bootle’s hand, Susan’s plump features crumpled into a frown. ‘Oh, Nat, you should have give me a bit of notice. But never mind, it’s done now.’ With her frown melting into a smile, she waddled across the floor extending her hand to Tilly. ‘We usually take in commercial gentlemen, Miss Tilly, but if you ain’t too particular as to space, then I’m sure we can make you comfortable.’
    â€˜I ain’t too particular about nothing, Mrs Bootle. I’m grateful for a warm bed and a hot meal.’
    â€˜That’s settled then.’ Susan clapped her hands. ‘Round the table, Bootle children. Toot sweet. You too, Miss Tilly. Make yourself at home.’
    Handing back the spoon as if it were a baton in a relay race, Bootle smiled proudly at his wife as she took charge of the stew and began ladling it into small pudding basins.
    â€˜She’s a pearl,’ Bootle said, swatting off children and holding out a chair for Tilly. ‘A real gem, is my Susan. Educated, too. Speaks French like a native as you just heard. I’m still puzzled why such a jewel married a man like myself.’
    â€˜Don’t talk soft, Bootle.’ Chuckling and blushing, Susan handed him two pudding