A Pocketful of Pennies, page 1
A POCKETFUL OF PENNIES
BOOK ONE OF THE NIGHTINGALE FAMILY SERIES
FENELLA J MILLER
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
More From Fenella J. Miller
About the Author
Also by Fenella J Miller
Sixpence Stories
About Boldwood Books
1
COLCHESTER, SEPTEMBER 1841
Sarah Nightingale remained hidden behind the flapping sheets until she was sure her stepfather had slammed from the house. He would be off to the beerhouse, taking a pocketful of pennies when they needed every one to pay the rent at the end of the month.
‘Sarah, I’m going down the river with me mates. I ain’t going in and have Ma bleating at me.’ Alfie, her junior by a year, handed her his day’s wages. ‘Would you put this away with the other for me? I reckon by Christmas I’ll have enough to get myself a berth on one of them ships what go in and out of Harwich.’
‘Ma won’t like you going. She’ll not let me find a position in one of the big houses, says she needs me to run the house while she’s so poorly. I wouldn’t mind, but she’s going to need every penny now Pa’s got no more regular work.’
Alfie scowled. ‘If he laid off the beer there’d be more than enough put by. I ain’t surprised Mr Hyam has given him the boot. Save me some food – I’ll not be back until dark.’
Tommy, her little brother, appeared at the back door. ‘Ma says she wants you – you’re to come in.’
‘I’ll be in in just a minute. I need to get the rest of these sheets down before it rains.’
He grinned and vanished back inside. Although he was only her half-brother both she and Alfie loved him. He was the heart of the family, what kept the two sides together. She didn’t mind that he was Ma’s favourite; he was such a sunny-tempered boy you couldn’t help loving him. When Ma was having one of her bad turns, she and Alfie took care of him.
With the last sheet carefully folded into the linen basket, she picked it up and carried it inside. She’d do the ironing tonight after tea, when Tommy was in bed and Ma rocking in her chair in the front room.
‘Sarah, is that you?’
‘I’m coming, Ma – sorry to have been so long.’
By the time she’d emptied the po down the privy in the backyard and made a pot of tea an hour had past. Tommy was too quiet. The little rascal was up to something. He’d been playing happily in the dirt outside, building a house from a bucket of stones Alfie had brought him back from the river.
‘Tommy, where are you? I hope you’re not making mud pies out there.’ There was no answer. She went to the back door – expecting to see him up to mischief – but the yard was empty, the side gate swinging open. Her heart lurched. He was only four, too small to be out on his own.
She should have kept an eye out for him. It was her fault he’d wandered off. He could have been gone twenty minutes or more, might be anywhere by now. She ran down the side passage and into East Stockwell Street. There were a few passers-by on the way back from the High Street, but no sign of Tommy.
Mrs Skipton, who lived three doors down, was brushing the mud from in front of her cottage. ‘You looking for your little ’un, Sarah? I saw him run past from me bedroom window about fifteen minutes ago.’
‘Thank you. I reckon he’s followed Alfie. I was busy with my ma and he slipped out then. I didn’t know he could undo the gate.’
Which way would he go? He liked the castle. To get there he would turn right and go towards Ryegate Road. With luck he’d still be hanging on the railings when she got there.
Alfie met his two mates, Bert and George Sainty, who lived next door, outside on the pavement. ‘You two finished for the day?’
Bert was a bit older than him, already thirteen, George a year younger, but you would have thought the two of them was twins. Both had hair like straw and muddy blue eyes and were half a head shorter than him. Ma said he took after his own pa; he’d been a tall, dark-haired, brown-eyed man. He’d been drowned at sea, and Alfie scarcely remembered him now.
‘We only got a couple of hours shifting stuff this morning. We’ve bin hanging around ages waiting for you. We’re going down the river. It’ll be high tide in a few hours; we might catch a couple of fish like what we did last time.’
‘I ain’t got me pole so I’ll have to watch. I ain’t going back in – Ma will find me something else to do. Me sister never has a moment to herself.’
‘Your ma badly again, Alfie?’
‘Right poorly, and Jack Rand off down the beerhouse as usual. The sooner I’m out of that house the better, but I ain’t leaving until Sarah does.’
Chatting companionably to his mates, the swearing and carrying on he’d witnessed as he’d come home began to fade from his mind. The sun was out, a nip in the air but warm enough for almost October. Soon he’d need to start wearing his heavy jacket, find his muffler and cap.
There were other fishermen by the river, some seated on old orange boxes, others standing. Still, there was plenty of room for all of them. ‘The water’s high this afternoon. I reckon you’ll catch a couple.’
Leaving his friends to dangle their poles over the edge of the riverbank, he wandered down a little way, loving the sound of the rushing water, the way it swirled and eddied around the reeds. This far from the sea the River Colne was narrower and almost salt-free. The boys were fishing for carp, which didn’t seem to mind if it were fresh water or salt. It was peaceful down here, away from the constant rowing at home, and the shouting and swearing down at the brewery on East Hill where he worked most days.
Idly he kicked a stone into the river, watching the ripples it made on the surface. A childish shout behind him made him turn. As if in a nightmare he watched his little brother run towards him, miss his footing and tumble headlong into the water.
He froze. Then he raced forward, screaming for help. He couldn’t swim, and the river was too deep to wade into. One of the fishermen dropped his rod and jumped into the water. Tommy had disappeared; one moment he’d been there, the next gone.
The second man joined the first and he watched helplessly from the bank as they dived repeatedly, searching for his brother.
Sarah couldn’t find Tommy by the castle; please God he hadn’t gone down to the river. He knew Alfie went down there. He adored his big brother and would do anything to be with him. Her boots clattered on the cobbles as she ran down Ryegate Road and pounded through the meadow. She was almost there when a hideous scream made the hair on her arms stand up. It was Alfie; she was sure it was. She turned onto the narrow path that led alongside the river to see him standing on the riverbank watching two men swim towards him with something towed beside them.
Alfie’s trousers were soaked, his boots oozing river water, tears running down his face. ‘He fell in. I didn’t know he was down here. I heard him call, turned round and he were gone.’ He sobbed and shook his head, covering her with water. ‘He vanished. One minute he was there, the next nothing…’ His voice cracked. He clutched her hand; they pressed together as the body was fetched to them.
‘It’s my fault. I must have left the gate open, should have paid more attention.’
This was her fault, not Alfie’s. Her inattention had allowed Tommy to run off. He would still be alive if it wasn’t for her.
‘My God, this will finish Ma. She’ll not get over such a loss. Pa will never forgive either of us, Alfie. What are we going to do?’ She clutched his arms, her face twisted with grief.
‘I can’t go back, not even for Ma. He’ll kill me; he’s just been waiting for an excuse. Tell me ma I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t go; don’t leave me to tell them on my own. Alfie, please, stay and help me through this.’
‘I can’t. You can have my money; you’ll need it. I reckon he’ll turn you out as well.’
Sarah begged him to change his mind but he was adamant. He hugged her briefly and without another word ran off down the towpath, leaving her to deal with the tragedy. This couldn’t be happening. She closed her eyes, blotting out the terrible sight. She could see her brothers so clearly… could hear them speaking as if they were both beside her.
‘Are you all right, love?’
A wet hand dropped onto her shoulder and she was jerked back to the present. The images in her head vanished to be replaced by awful reality. The taller of the two men, the one who had spoken, was staring at her anxiously. She forced her head to nod. He must have thought her simple, standing with her eyes closed like that.
His friend was cradling Tommy’s dripping body. He bent his knees to address her.
‘I’m that sorry, but there was nothing we could do. By the time we got to him he was already drowned. You run ahead, now, and let your ma and pa know what’s happened. We’ll carry him up for you.’
She raised her hand and touched Tommy’s cold cheek. Swallowing the lump in her throat she opened her mouth, but no words came. With dry eyes, she nodded. Alfie should be taking the message, but her brother had vanished, running away just when he was most needed. She had to be brave, go and tell Ma and Pa their favourite son was dead. It was going to break her ma’s heart.
Unable to answer, or even thank them, she spun and stumbled back through the meadow into the lane, leaving the men to follow. She paused outside the cottage collecting her thoughts, then pushed open the front door. The two men hesitated on the doorstep. Where should she tell them to put Tommy? The workroom – it had a long bench. It was the place her little brother must go.
Mrs Sainty, from next door, waddled up behind them, her usual smile absent. ‘God help us! Whatever next! You stop here, love, and see to yer ma; I’ll take care of yer brother.’
Sarah nodded, too choked to speak. She listened to the bangs and thumps as space was cleared on Pa’s workbench to lay the body out. Ma must be wondering what was going on. She had to be brave and go in and tell her.
‘Ma, I’ve dreadful news for you.’
Her mother raised tired eyes from her sewing. Sarah saw her expression change to one of horror. ‘Not Tommy? That’s not Tommy they’re bringing in?’
Sarah dropped to her knees beside her. ‘He fell in the river – there was nothing anyone could do. I’m that sorry, Ma. I didn’t know he’d gone out.’
‘I must go to him. He’s my baby, he needs his ma.’
Sarah wanted to get away from the house that had been turned into a mortuary. ‘I’ll fetch Pa for you. I think I know where he might be.’ She’d heard her mother mention more than once that he spent their precious pennies at the beerhouse called The Bugle Horn.
It were his fault. Tommy would never have been able to follow him if he’d locked the gate like he should have. If he’d been watching, he would have seen his little brother arrive, then… Alfie doubled over clutching his stomach and the remains of his breakfast splattered over his dirty boots. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and moved a few feet down the riverbank before sinking to his knees.
He mustn’t cry. He was a man, paid his way. He’d manage on his own. Plenty of boys his age left home. They would blame him – he knew. If he went home he wouldn’t be welcome. He couldn’t bear to think about the grief he’d caused. Sarah was strong; she’d cope without him. Jack Rand wouldn’t use his fists on her.
He’d be best off out of it; find himself employment. He would come back for Sarah when he’d some money in his pocket, enough to set them both up. He was big for his age – everyone said so. He’d lie, say he was older, sign up as a cabin boy. All he had to do was get himself to Harwich and then he’d find a position easy enough. It was all of fifteen miles to the port. It would take him several hours to walk there; he’d not make it today and he’d no money for food. He sat up, scrubbing his eyes dry with his sleeve. No, he’d better try down The Hythe. The Thames barges were in and out of there all day. It weren’t like getting a position on a proper passenger ship, but he was that desperate he’d take anything rather than return to face his family after what he’d done.
He brushed himself down and, snatching a handful of grass, tried to clean the worst of the mess from his boots; then he ran his fingers through his hair and broke into a rapid jog. He could be down at the docks in under an hour. It was high tide later that afternoon so he might be lucky and find himself some work before the day was out.
Everything had changed; he was on his own now. It was no more than he deserved. Tommy would still be alive if he’d been paying more attention, hadn’t wandered off with his mates. His feet seemed heavy, as if they belonged to someone else. His throat thickened, the pain in his chest so fierce he couldn’t continue. The path was deserted, no one to see him and point accusing fingers, call him a murderer. That’s what he felt like. He might as well have pushed Tommy in himself. No one, not even Sarah, could tell him it weren’t his fault.
His legs buckled under him, and he collapsed face first onto the mud, giving in to his grief. Eventually he was done. His head hurt and his clothes were soaked from being stretched out on the damp ground for so long. He pushed himself on his knees and staggered upright. The sun was low in the sky, the tide almost full. If he wanted to find a berth on a barge today he’d better hurry. Any that were sailing did so as soon as the tide turned.
As he jogged towards the docks he attempted to brush off the worst of the mud. He looked like a boy from the alleys; he doubted anyone would employ him as he was. He stopped. He couldn’t think straight. His eyes were blurred and he ached all over as if suffering from the ague. He’d end up in the new workhouse on Balkerne Hill if he didn’t sort himself out.
Alfie Nightingale, that’s who he was, the son of a sailor. He must push aside his grief. He’d not survive if he didn’t keep his wits about him. He squared his shoulders, tucked in his shirt and practised looking tough.
Her stepfather had taken to visiting this beerhouse over the past months. Sarah reckoned it was because the ale was cheaper there. The Bugle Horn was a rough place, full of ne’er-do-wells and other folk that Ma had said she wasn’t to mix with, and Barrack Street was the poorest side of town. She ran down the cobbled streets, dodging between the passers-by, not noticing the strange looks she got.
As she got closer the streets became narrower, the smell more pronounced, and in spite of her warm shawl she shivered. There were children in the street, barefoot, dirty, some of them looking askance at her; they didn’t move to let her pass and several times she had to step into the centre of the road in order to get round them. She was expecting at any minute to be jeered at because of her smart clothes, stout boots and clean hair. These marked her as better off than they were.
Ma had told her that those less fortunate didn’t take kindly to families like hers. They accepted that grand folks had everything, but thought themselves hard done by when folks like them prospered. It came down to lack of work. Pa had said there was plenty of employment to go round, but the people who lived round here were too idle to go and find it.
She saw a group of women standing on the corner where she had to turn. They all had skinny babies on their hips, and two or three snotty-nosed little ones hanging on their raggedy hems. They stopped their conversation in order to stare at her, but none called out or offered her harm. She was sure the place she was looking for was just ahead, but didn’t like to ask. These people frightened her. They smelled bad and didn’t look as if a washcloth had been near their faces in months.
She heard the noise coming from the building before she reached it. Men were lolling about outside, some with ale pots in filthy hands, others just staring into space, mouths open, eyes glazed. The smell made her stomach clench and she thought she must have come to the wrong district. Surely he couldn’t be inside such a horrible place?
She stopped a few yards from the entrance, not sure whether she should ask someone to go inside or try and wriggle between the stinking bodies and find him herself. She was about to go nearer when a heavy hand fell on her shoulder. She screamed and her head jerked round. She stared up into the grim features of one of the new police constables, his navy blue jacket a welcome change from the ruined appearance of the other men.
‘Now then, miss, what’s the likes of you doing down here? You’ll come to a bad end round these streets. This ain’t a suitable place for a girl like you to be wandering about on your own.’
Sarah recovered and smiled up at the constable. ‘Please sir, my pa’s in there, and my little brother’s been drowned and my ma said I was to fetch him home at once.’
The man’s face softened and the hand on her shoulder relaxed. ‘What’s his name, missie?’
‘My pa’s called Jack Rand, sir. I reckon he’s not as tall as you, has brown hair, and he’s wearing a tweed jacket and trousers. He’s a tailor, sir, so he’ll stand out from those in there.’
The large hand squeezed her shoulder. ‘Right, leave it to me. You run along now, tell your ma her man will be back as soon as I can drag him out. You don’t want to hang around down here – run home as quick as you like.’
She nodded, glad she could go; the sooner she left these filthy streets the better. How could people live like this, not bothered about how they looked or what they said? She’d heard more cursing in the past thirty minutes than in the whole of her life. She fled back the way she’d come, ignoring the rude stares of those she was obliged to push past.
