Touched by Angels Read online

  Sharp made a show of sniffing the air before saying, “Smell pretty ripe yerself. You wanna get that missus o’ yours to fill the tub. A bar o’ Sunlight wouldn’t go amiss niever, if you can spare a shillin’ from the ale, that is.”

  Then he grated, grin disappearing, “You gotta wife and kid to support. Get on wiv it!”

  He kicked him hard up the backside and Bob made his way blearily out, rubbing his side and rear, cussing under his breath. As curtains parted here and there, some revealing grinning faces, others urgent gestures to come and have a look, his humiliation and anger increased with every stride.

  Three

  As Bob was kicking open his front door, less than a mile away another, much larger one, was being knocked upon; that of the nemesis of all in Rice Lane.

  The workhouse at Marylebone.

  A little round man, with pink jolly cheeks and white hair, looked up at the damp, ivy strewn bricks, the barred windows and the three huge chimneys staggering the roof like accusing fingers. He sighed and knocked.

  A stooped and wizened man answered the door, a small Bible clutched to his breast. A dewdrop dangled from his nose, while spectacles were perched precariously on the end.

  “Yes, Sir?” His voice was an asthmatic wheeze.

  “My name is William Fishwick. I’ve come about the position of children’s overseer.” The man beamed as he removed his hat, knowing his late wife, a devoted Methodist, would be proud of him for aiding the vulnerable and the poor.

  “Come this way, Sir.” The doorkeeper turned and shuffled off, his feet hardly leaving the floor. He muttered continuously as Fishwick followed him through a gloomy reception area. Fishwick couldn’t tell whether he was talking to him, or himself, though it seemed his name was Pocket, and that he ‘did things’.

  They came to a high double door, which Pocket opened before limping off, still muttering to himself.

  Fishwick entered into a small hall, to be confronted by five men sitting atop a high wooden plinth behind a long table. If he was meant to feel intimidated and humble as he looked up at them, it had worked, he thought as he stood there, feeling as though he was on trial. As they regarded him, from their perch, their expressions ranged from distain to haughtiness.

  “Your name?” the middle one asked. He was bigger than the others; black hair, monocle, gold fob watch, and a crisp white rounded collar below a double chin.

  “William Fishwick, Sir. I’m here in response to your advertisement in the Telegraph newspaper, for the position of children’s canteen overseer.” He smiled warmly.

  The man grunted as he briefly scanned Fishwick’s correspondence. “Yes, we have your letter of application here. I am Sir Rupert King,” he said, looking up. “Master of this institution.”

  He introduced the others, two of whom were his brothers. Alistair was slim, foppish, with hair so ginger, it looked like spun copper. The other, Horace, the smaller version for Sir Rupert, was the man who had knocked on Lil’s door, demanding the rent.

  The other two, at the extreme ends of the table, were the Medical Officer, Mr Parsons, and the chaplain, Reverend Crockford.

  “This site was established,” Sir Rupert continued, “in 1833, as a haven for the paupers of London. We are funded out of the public purse, and here they work unpaid for their keep and lodgings, though their medical care is free. Understood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now then, have you references?”

  “I have indeed.” Fishwick fumbled inside his coat, pulling out an envelope.

  Sir Rupert beckoned him forward and Fishwick passed it up. The knight let his monocle drop as he read the two sheets of paper quietly.

  At last, he said, “Your references are impeccable in most respects, Mr Fishwick.” He reinserted his eyeglass.

  “Thank you,” answered Fishwick.

  “As a school teacher, you commanded respect, both in and out of the classroom.”

  “Thank…”

  “Was this with, or without, the application of the rod?”

  “The rod? Oh, you mean the cane.” He laughed. “Oh, good heavens, no! Well, at least very rarely. I firmly believe, as I expect you, gentlemen, do, that respect may be fostered more effectively, not by the application of intimidation and fear, but by mutual understanding, kindness, and concern.”

  Horace and Alistair exchanged glances.

  “Your considerations are of course most laudable,” Sir Rupert said, “but the children you taught were not, as they are here, the litter of the forsaken, were they?”

  “Litter? Oh no! Well appointed families for the most part.”

  “What then is your attitude towards workhouse children?”

  Fishwick looked confused. “Well, the same, of course, except that… well, greater consideration and kindness, I suppose, should be…”

  “Let me remind you, Sir, that these are not the offspring of decent hardworking families, but of the slothful, the deceitful, and the ungodly. They are the spawn of failures.”

  “Yes,” his brother Alistair added, “the dwegs, don’t you know? Weal scum. They should be in Borstal, some of them.” Horace nodded in agreement.

  “God has bestowed his mercy upon them,” the chaplain reminded him in a wheeze.

  “Discipline is what is required,” King resumed, “if necessary at the end of your stick, and if you are hired, you must not spare it, or we will have anarchy!”

  “But surely, Sir, the Good Book teaches us that kindness and compassion foster harmony, and…”

  King picked up a little brass bell and tinkled it.

  “We will let you know by return of post, Mr Fishwick. Good day to you.”

  He started writing something on the sheet. The double doors opened. Pocket reappeared and Fishwick was led away, dazed and white-faced.

  As the doors closed, the doctor said wearily, “Philanthropists by the score! Well meaning I suppose, but…” He shook his head.

  There were further sighs as the door opened once more and another man walked in, removing his wet top hat, before standing before the plinth.

  He was tall and slender, bald except for a grey fuzz that surrounded his crown, which he had tried to brush forward, with lamb chop whiskers and washed out blue eyes that never seemed to blink. Far from a natty dresser, he wore a tatty frock coat, the buttons rubbed nearly bare with age, but there was a bearing about him, and the set of his face, that appealed to the five sets of eyes that scrutinised him.

  Sir Rupert examined his references, and nodded several times, before asking, “What is your attitude, Mr Flint, towards the spawn of the poor house?”

  “I believe, Sir, simply in the good Lord, discipline and the rod. All other considerations are secondary.”

  Sir Rupert and the others exchanged approving glances. At last.

  Four

  Fighting Bob had such a sudden headache as he slammed the door behind him that any feelings of resentment towards his wife and child, for being set above him yet again, were shelved for the time being.

  To make matters worse, having been in the pub since noon, he had nearly run his pockets dry, and had no idea how tomorrow’s session was going to be funded.

  Half an hour later, as he sat at the dinner table, bored with Lil’s twittering on about the same old things, he looked at the crystal ball she used for fortune telling and wondered once more where she hid all the pennies she got for looking into it.

  He felt sick as he regarded the hunk of high smelling boiled beef, and the bowl of watery cabbage and chopped carrots next to it.

  “Let’s put our hands together and thank the Lord before we start,” said Lil.

  If the Lord was so damned good, he always reasoned, why didn’t he send better fare?

  “Wass this?”

  A burp and a loud, wet fart sent the reek of stale beer across the table.

  “Your dinner. The same as me and the lad.”

  Bob grunted as he poked at it several times with his fork. Then he lifted a sp
oonful of veg and dropped it back. The spoon clattered against the bowl.

  “I wouldn’t feed this shit to a pig.”

  “Well, that’s all there is. We’ve no money for anything else. You’ve drunk the rest.”

  A tense silence fell around the table.

  Bob looked at her and said, with dangerous calm, “Don’t start tellin’ me what to spend me readies on. It ain’t got nuffing to do wiv you.”

  “It is when our bellies are pinched, and there are backs to be clothed.”

  Bob snatched up his fork and threw it across the room.

  “I said don’t start tellin’ me what do wiv…”

  “I only just managed to scrape enough together to pay the rent man today, and as for next month…”

  Bob stood suddenly and bawled, red faced, inches from hers, “Well, stick it up yer arse then, you fuckin’ ’oare!”

  She closed her eyes against the spit flying from his lips. This infuriated him even more, so he kicked the table on its side, sending the beef and cabbage flying.

  Lil fell backwards, narrowly missing hitting her head against the mantelpiece, crushing both elbows. Scraps of cabbage were strewn around her. Robert had retreated against the far wall.

  Winded, she said, “Robert, go outside.”

  “No.”

  “I said go outside!”

  “No. Every time I goes outside… when I come back… ye’re bleedin’.”

  “Cheeky little runt!” Enraged, Bob went for him.

  ***

  Robert ran, just making the door, and tore out onto the street, where he crashed into the dust, shaking, knowing how close he had come to a cuff.

  He saw Mrs O’Brien glaring at him from her top step, a dangerous gleam in her eyes, arms folded, with Big Molly standing beside her, pointing, but they were as nothing to the commotion coming from his own home.

  Innocent of his impending fate, Robert heard something smash, and then, “… all yer fuckin’ learnin’ and yer oity-toityness, eh! Fink yer shit don’t stink, don’t yer? Talkin’ like a fuckin’ toff all the time. Fink yer better than me, don’t yer?”

  “Get away from me!”

  “Fillin’ that little tyke’s ’ead wiv all them big words. Givin’ ’im ideas ’bove ’is station. Wass ’e gonna do wiv all this learnin’ lark, eh? You fought o’ that? Loada shit, that’s what…”

  “Get a proper job, that’s…”

  “Real work’s wiv yer ’ands, not wiv all that learnin’.”

  “What do you know about work?”

  “Cheeky cah!”

  Something else smashed.

  “You get away from me, Bob Smith, or so help me God, I’ll…”

  “Oh yeah. Wot yer gonna do, eh? Stick me wiv it? You ain’t got the guts!”

  ***

  Lil was backed up against the parlour wall, holding the carving knife in a two-handed grip, her hair falling into her eyes.

  “Come on!” he goaded, grinning, as he edged ever closer, “let’s see what yer fuckin’ made of, yer slag! Let’s see yer loose me guts all over the floor. Come on!”

  His eyes were burning, his grin a feral flash of filth.

  She was slashing blindly, shouting repeatedly, “Get away from me. Leave me alone!”

  Then, just as she caught his arm, tearing more sleeve than skin, his fist struck the side of her face, knocking her to the floor. The knife flew end over end.

  Before he could reach for it, a huge hand grabbed his wrist, spinning him round, and a fist landed squarely on his nose, another walloping him in the stomach. Two of the older O’Driscoll brothers dragged him out onto the street, where another punch threw him onto his back.

  Lil ran out and heard one of the identical twins rasping, “Dat was fer punchin’ our Benny.”

  He kicked Bob in the hip and added, “And dat was fer hittin’ yer woman. You leave her be, and our Benny, or you’ll have us to deal wid.”

  “Piece o’ shite!” the other one said and spat at him, before they both turned away and left him sprawled on the street.

  ***

  He thought he saw Robert before he passed out, but when he opened his eyes, he was horrified to see Sergeant Sharp, who said, with a big leer, “Well, if it ain’t my old chum, Bob Smiff.” He leaned closer, hands on knees, and added, “Ain’t your day, is it, me old mucker?”

  Bob was suddenly gasping as a torrent of water from the street horse trough was poured over his head.

  As he shook it and opened his eyes, he saw Mrs O’Brien holding a pail, as she said, “He’s the father o’ the house. Should be ashamed o’ himself.”

  He just caught a glimpse of her grabbing Robert by the wrist and pulling him firmly away, before Sharp said, “Six months rock breakin’ would take the starch out o’ you, my lad; that, or a dose o’ the cat.”

  As he was walking off, laughing, Bob muttered, “Piss off!”

  “What was that?”

  “Nuffing.”

  ***

  Robert was having the starch taken out of him too, as he found himself over Mrs O’Brien’s knee, howling and struggling as the back of a varnished beech hairbrush came down again and again against his backside.

  He had never known such pain, as the threadbare rug, and a Bible, placed there first, to warn him of the folly of defying the scriptures, loomed before his watering eyes.

  In between each stroke, she was saying, “If that wastrel of a father o’ yours won’t discipline you, boy, I shall! With a will!”

  She was sitting in the same wing-back chair he had seen Big Molly dozing in, while the girl herself stood watching from the door, arms folded, a spiteful smirk tugging the corners of her lips.

  Mrs O’Brien was absurdly strong and there was no escape.

  “In future, you will respect your elders and betters,” she said, as he finally stood, rubbing his rear, “and you may tell your friends to take heed. My brush awaits them too!”

  When he left, tears streaming down his face, he wanted to get to his mum, who he could hear crying beyond the bolted front door.

  His father was up against it, knocking and begging.

  “Let me in! Please! I won’t ’it yer again. ‘onest. You just pissed me off.”

  There was no reply, so he hammered on it with both fists and kicked it a couple of times, before crumpling down onto his knees.

  Robert knew it was not beyond him to smash his way in and take his belt to her.

  ***

  It was completely dark by now and Robert was making his way quietly past him, heading for the back alley, as Bob snivelled, “It’s gettin’ cold out ’ere, an’ I’m wet. That slag tipped water over me, an’ those Micks gave me a levverin’. I could get yoomonia and it’d be your fault.”

  No reply.

  “The kid’d be an orphan. You fought o’ that? ’e’d be in that work’ouse. I’ve ’eard they bugger ’em. Shag ’em raw. Is that what yer want?”

  Still no response.

  “Come on, please! ’av an ’art. You know yer me duchiss, always ’av been. Always will.”

  Robert heard his voice fading as he made his way past. Two cats were fighting somewhere as he found the alley. There was a full moon, so he was able to move quite easily. He didn’t think it would be long before his father thought of coming this way, so he got a move on.

  When he got to the back door, he found that it too was locked, though he heard his father shouting and bashing against the front door once more. Knowing that in his state, it would take him a while to get round here, he put his mouth to the wood, cupped his hands around his lips to amplify his voice, and called, “Mum, let me in. Mum!”

  He kept calling, listening all the time, in between shouts, for his father’s approach, knowing he could be as quiet as a mouse when he wanted to be. It seemed to take forever for her to respond and he wondered how badly hurt she was. He felt the sting of fresh tears and he wished he were bigger. He’d had a few clouts himself.

  He could see a faint glow through
the kitchen window and knew that at least she’d lit the two oil lamps that stood one at each end of the mantelpiece in the parlour.

  He heard a commotion from behind him and knew Bob had finally got wise. He had been sneaking round to surprise him, but in his drunkenness, had blundered into something, as a howl of pain and a clatter of metal came through the darkness.

  “Mum, quick! He’s comin’.”

  He heard the bolt sliding back and the moment he was inside, she shot it once more, before sweeping him into her arms.

  Within seconds, both were in tears, though it was only in the light of the parlour that he saw her shredded ear, surrounded by redness and bruising. In that moment he hated his father more than ever.

  The night wore on, though there was no more commotion from outside.

  Maybe Sharp had arrested him after all, though they both knew from past experience it was more likely he had found a niche somewhere to sleep it off.

  They were cold and hungry, but Lil grabbed him by both arms and said, as tears streamed down her face, “I want you to promise me you will grow up to be a good, decent man.”

  “You mean, not like ’im?”

  She shook him.

  “He’s your father. Show more respect.”

  He looked at her bewildered. Grown ups. He never would understand them.

  “Promise me!”

  She stared deep into his eyes and he replied quietly, “All right, I promise.”

  “And it doesn’t just mean talking, or dressing nicely, or sitting in church pretending you’re good. It means a whole lot more besides. It should come from your heart.”

  “All right,” he said, with more conviction. “I promise.”

  He felt the tears drip from her chin onto his head and knew it wouldn’t be long before she would start talking again about how she wanted him to grow up in a world away from the opium and the grape. That she wanted him to be a success, a winner, a strong, tall man.