Authors: Dilly Court
The Beggar Maid
Contents
The wonderfully nostalgic, vivid and compelling new novel from the
Sunday Times
top five bestselling author of
A Loving Family
.
From the age of eight, sixteen-year-old Charity Crosse has been living rough with her grandfather and begging on the streets.
When he grandfather passes away, Charity is helped by a kindly doctor who introduces her to bookseller, Jethro Dawkins. He takes Charity in to help in his bookshop and keep house in their one room behind the shop.
Charity sleeps under the counter and is not well treated, but Jethro instills in her the love of books that began when her grandmother taught her to read. And she starts to hope for a better future for herself.
But Jethro dies unexpectedly, and Charity is faced with eviction when the rent is raised by the unscrupulous landlord. Must Charity give up her dream of running the bookshop herself, and worse, be forced to return to the streets ...?
Dilly Court grew up in North-east London and began her career in television, writing scripts for commercials. She is married with two grown-up children and four grandchildren, and now lives in Dorset on the beautiful Jurassic Coast with her husband. She is the bestselling author of nineteen novels. She also writes under the name of Lily Baxter.
Mermaids Singing
The Dollmaker's Daughters
Tilly True
The Best of Sisters
The Cockney Sparrow
A Mother's Courage
The Constant Heart
A Mother's Promise
The Cockney Angel
A Mother's Wish
The Ragged Heiress
A Mother's Secret
Cinderella Sister
A Mother's Trust
The Lady's Maid
The Best of Daughters
The Workhouse Girl
A Loving Family
Dilly Court
For Ruth May and Steve Pardoe BDS, two of my favourite people
Threadneedle Street, London 1887
â
CAN YOU SPARE
a copper, mister?' Charity held out her hand to the gentleman in the city suit who was hurrying towards the imposing colonnaded entrance of the Bank of England. He ducked his head down, eyeing her warily beneath the brim of his bowler hat as he quickened his pace and strode past her. âA halfpenny, then,' she shouted after him. âBlooming old miser.' She shivered as a bitter east wind whistled between the buildings, picking up bits of straw and scraps of paper and flinging them about like a naughty child having a tantrum.
She cupped her mittened hands around her mouth and blew on them in an attempt to bring back the feeling. Her fingers and toes were numbed by cold, and hunger gnawed at her belly. She had eaten nothing since the previous evening, when supper had consisted of a crust of dry bread and a cup of ice-cold water from the communal pump. Duck's Foot Lane, where she and her grandfather lived in a basement room in a dilapidated terraced house, was not the sort of area where anyone would want to venture in daylight, let alone after dark. The damp cellar with fungus growing from the walls and water seeping through the flagstone floor at high tide offered the most basic shelter to a constantly changing assortment of itinerant Irish, immigrant Jews and anyone who could afford to pay the landlord for a night's lodging. It was the last stop before living rough underneath railway arches, or facing the final indignity of the workhouse.
Charity had grown hardened to the privations she suffered daily, but her rebellious spirit refused to accept that this was the way it would always be. She supported her ageing, alcoholic grandfather as best she could, and had done so since the age of eight when begging on street corners evoked some sympathy in the hearts of passers-by. Now, at sixteen, she was only too well aware that men looked on her in a different way. The offers of money she received were rarely unconditional, and she had to choose the time and place where she importuned the better-off with great care. The bustling world of finance in the City was as safe as any area, and safer than most.
She spotted an older man as he emerged from the Monument station with a leather document case under one arm and a tightly furled umbrella in his hand. His greying beard and air of respectability made him a likely target, and she sidled up to him with an appealing smile. âGood day to you, sir. Would you have a halfpenny to spare for a cup of tea? Please,' she added hastily when he stopped and gave her an appraising look. âI ain't used to begging, sir, but misfortune has come upon my family, and I'm an orphan with an ailing grandparent to support.'
The gentleman frowned thoughtfully. âThere are charities that will help such as you, young lady.'
She could see her chance slipping by and she managed a weary smile. âThat's me name, sir. Charity is me name, but I seen little of it since me dad passed away.'
âAnd your mother?'
âDied giving birth to me, sir. My grandpa is the only one left.'
The gentleman put his hand in his pocket and took out a handful of change. He selected a silver sixpence and gave it to her. âI hope you've been telling me the truth, young lady. Don't go spending it on a new bonnet or such fripperies as young women are so fond of.'
She drew herself up to her full height. âYou can't eat fripperies, sir. It will feed Grandpa and me for three days, if I'm careful. God bless you, your lordship.' She could hear the small change clinking in his pocket as he walked away, and for a brief moment she wished she had learned to dip like the street arabs who roamed the East End. She had been brought up to be honest and God-fearing, and only in the direst of circumstances had she overcome her scruples and stolen a loaf of bread or a meat pie. Before the lure of jigger gin had stolen his health and loosened his grip on reality, Grandpa had instilled morality into her young mind, and she had learned how to read, write and do basic arithmetic at the Ragged School. She tucked the coin into the top of her stays with a wry grin. Not that learning had been much help to her on the streets, but at least she could add up her takings for the day, and she knew when she was being cheated over the price of a fish supper or a dish of jellied eels.
She looked round for another likely benefactor, but the clerks in their cheap suits with frayed cuffs and leather patches on their elbows were not worth bothering with. They worked long hours for low wages and their grey faces etched with worried frowns suggested married men with families to support, and neat little suburban houses to maintain. She suspected that the brown paper packages clutched in their hands held their lunch, which they would take to St Paul's churchyard at midday and devour in seconds before returning to their dingy offices and dusty ledgers.
The minutes were flying by and soon the streets would be all but deserted as the business of the day commenced. There would always be one or two latecomers scurrying to work, their features pinched with cold and the fear of instant dismissal, but they would as soon trample her underfoot as waste another second and were best avoided. She had learned early in her life that philanthropy was far from the minds of ordinary people whose day to day existence was hard enough, without worrying about the poor and needy.
A hansom cab drew up at the kerb and a gentleman wearing an expensive cashmere coat with an astrakhan collar climbed down. He tossed a coin to the cabby and was about to walk off without demanding change when Charity barred his way. âCan you spare a copper, sir?'
He came to a halt, giving her a speculative look, and for a moment she thought she had struck gold, but then she realised her mistake. He shook his head. âMy dear girl, what you need is gainful employment. You should not be begging on the streets.'
âI know that, sir,' she said humbly. âBut you see I have an aged grandpa to care for and . . .'
He laid his hand on her shoulder. âEven more reason for you to find honest work. How old are you?'
âJust sixteen, sir.'
âAnd what is your name?'
âAre you a cop?'
He smiled. âI am not a policeman, and I believe I have your best interests at heart.'
âI'm not that sort of girl,' Charity said, backing away.
âI can see that,' he said slowly. âAnd I wasn't propositioning you. I merely asked your name, but you don't have to tell me if you don't want to.'
There was something in his tone of voice and an earnest expression in his dark eyes that convinced her he was speaking the truth. âMe name's Charity,' she said reluctantly. âCharity Crosse. Now you know, so push off and leave me to earn a crust.'
âCharity,' he said slowly. âIt seems apt.'
âI only beg because we've fallen on hard times, and I can't find work.' She glanced down at her soiled and ragged skirts. The uppers of her shabby boots had parted from the soles, exposing her bare toes which were ingrained with dirt and blue with cold.
âSo you took to begging on the streets. Not perhaps the best way out of poverty.'
âWhat would a gent like you know about how the rest of us lives?' she said angrily. âWho'd take me on looking like this? I've tried knocking on doors, asking for work of any sort, but they was always slammed in me face. No one wants to employ a girl like me.'
âYou would make an interesting case history.'
âI ain't no one's whatever you said. I'm off.' She was about to walk away when he caught her by the sleeve.
âDon't be frightened, Charity. I mean you no harm.'
âThey always say that. I know your sort.'
He shook his head. âNo, you've misunderstood my motives. I am an academic and a lecturer at University College. You must have heard of it.'
It was her turn to look baffled. âNo, sir. Like I said, I'm off, so kindly let go of me sleeve or I'll have to call a copper.'
âI'm conducting a study on social anthropology. Your case interests me.'
âI got no idea what you're talking about,' Charity said, wrenching free from his grasp. âAnd I ain't a case. Now if your lordship will excuse me, I'm moving on.'
âWhere will you go now?'
âNot that it's any of your business, but I make me way towards Fleet Street, and if there's no profit to be had there, I go to Covent Garden. Sometimes I can pick up a few flower heads and sell them as buttonholes, but you got to watch out for them flower girls. They'll pull your hair out by the roots if they think you're queering their pitch.'
âFascinating,' he said, falling into step beside her. âTell me more.'
She stopped. âWhat's it worth?'
âHow much do you earn an hour, Charity Crosse?'
âYou are a cop,' she said, narrowing her eyes. âI knew it. You want to bang me up for soliciting.'
âNo, indeed I don't. I told you, I'm a professor of anthropology, and I would genuinely like to have someone like you to tell me first hand about life in the gutter.'