The House on Hill Street (4 page)

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Jordan. Thank you.’

She stood to one side and he edged his way past, trying not to make contact, but she was so hugely with child it was difficult to avoid her altogether as he clutched his top hat to his chest. She seemed to have grown to twice the size in the month since he’d last seen her. He wished she would take more pains to cover her condition; the cotton dress, which was designed to hang loosely, clung to her distended belly in a most distracting fashion. He wondered whether he might suggest Amy bring a smock with her when she next visited the household, although perhaps that would be insensitive.

‘Sit down, Mr Stanford, do.’ Polly indicated the mothy armchair, which had clearly been her husband’s and which dominated the tiny room, then she plonked herself heavily onto the small hardback chair that sat beside the rickety table where upturned packing cases formed the remainder of the family’s seating arrangements. A little girl of around four was perched on one, solemnly watching the proceedings, and an eighteen-month-old infant lay sleeping in a cradle, also assembled from the wood of packing cases. There was no sign of Charlie, who’d ducked out the back door into the rear of the neighbouring house, and was currently making his way through to the front lane to resume his game of marbles.

‘Go outside and play, Sal,’ Polly said. ‘Mr Stanford and me want to have a chat.’ The child stood. ‘And shut the door after you, there’s a love.’

The little girl crossed the room silently, her eyes never leaving Silas. She peered back at him as she closed the door. When she’d gone, Polly, in an automatic gesture reached out a hand and rocked the cradle.

‘Do sit, Mr Stanford, please do,’ she insisted.

But Silas remained hesitant. ‘Perhaps under the circumstances you might be more comfortable . . .?’ He indicated the armchair.

Polly gave a guffaw of laughter as if he’d made a fine joke. ‘Oh Lord no, Mr Stanford. God bless you, I’d never get up, not with this barrel of lard.’ She embraced her giant belly with both hands in a gesture Silas found extraordinarily vulgar, then returned to rocking the cradle.

‘Very well.’ He sat. As Polly Jordan was not in the least concerned by her appearance, he ignored his own self-consciousness and spoke with a greater severity than he normally would to a woman in her delicate condition. ‘I am most displeased to see that Charlie is not at school,’ he said, resting his top hat on his knees.

‘Yes, poor boy, he’s had the grippe something awful.’

‘I have checked the attendance records, Mrs Jordan.’ Silas periodically ran a check on the school attendance of those youngsters whose families were receiving benefits from the society. After all, if the society was paying rent and supplying fresh rations, there was no justification for young children to be put out to work when they should be receiving an education. ‘I believe Charlie has not been to school for the whole of this week –’

‘Miss Amy made exactly the same comment late yesterday afternoon when she dropped by with the delivery man, Mr Stanford.’ Polly dived in before the lecture could begin. ‘And I made exactly the same reply to her as I now make to you. Charlie will be back at school first thing Monday morning, I promise. Today being Friday, I thought I’d start with a fresh week – give him time to get over his cough and all.’

Polly wondered briefly whether young Amy Stanford might have snitched to her father about Charlie. The girl was Charlie’s teacher after all, and had queried his absence. But no, she decided, Miss Amy was no tittle-tattle. Besides, Silas Stanford was as cunning as a rat – he didn’t need his daughter to sniff out truancy. It’s just my luck, isn’t it, she cursed, that the old bastard should choose this week of all weeks to run a check on the records.

Polly Jordan refused to think ill of Amy. She liked Amy Stanford. All the women of Wapping did. That one really cares, they said. Not like the other wowsers and dogooders and toffs. That one has a heart.

Amy taught at the makeshift charity school the society had established in a nearby warehouse to provide education for the poor. She was a favourite with the children, just as she was a favourite with their mothers when she arrived with the drayman who delivered fresh produce and supplies on behalf of the society. Taking part in the deliveries had been Amy’s own idea. ‘It will be the perfect way to make contact with the people of Wapping, Father,’ she’d said when Silas had voiced his misgivings. ‘I’ll get to know the families of my pupils, I’ll gain the trust of their parents.’ She’d been most insistent. She’d also been right.

‘My goodness, Mr Stanford, she’s a breath of fresh air, your daughter, and that’s a fact. It’s always such a treat to see her. And just look what she give me.’ Polly picked up a silk scarf that sat folded on the table and shaking it free she displayed it with pride. ‘Look at that for colour, now. You’d never use it, mind, would you? Silk like that’s just for show.’

The scarf was bright pink. Silas recognised it.

‘I admired the colour was all I did,’ Polly continued, ‘and then suddenly there she is giving it me. Oh she’s a generous girl, your daughter. I’m keeping it for best, mind.’ She stroked the scarf, then refolded it with care and placed it reverently back on the table. ‘Only special occasions for silk like this.’ Special occasions, my arse, she thought. She’d sell the piece at the first opportunity, but it didn’t prevent her appreciating the gift. She enjoyed the touch and the brief ownership of such a pretty thing, but she would enjoy the money it would fetch even more. Miss Amy was a saint, she was.

‘I can’t offer you a cup of tea I’m afraid, Mr Stanford, I’m fresh out at the moment.’ It was a lie, but Polly knew tea was the only offer the man would accept, and she had no wish to encourage conversation. She was feeling a little nervy, to tell the truth. Silas Stanford couldn’t possibly know that Charlie had worked several days at Bob Bates’s smithy shop around the corner when Bob’s own boy had been taken sick. But if she were to be asked questions outright, and then if it were to be later discovered that she’d lied, she might risk losing her widow’s monthly rental allowance.

She heaved herself up from her chair. ‘I did make some lovely lemonade last night though, with the sugar that come yesterday and some of those nice fat lemons that was with the fruit Miss Amy brought –’

‘No thank you, Mrs Jordan.’ Silas hastily rose. ‘I can’t stay long, I’m afraid. I have other calls to make.’ Under no circumstances did Silas drink Wapping water unless it was in the form of tea, and even then he always made sure it was scalding hot and that he could actually see the steam rising from the kettle. Wapping’s water supply came from the Hobart Town Rivulet, and God only knew what sort of disease he might invite should he accept Polly Jordan’s lemonade.

Silas was wise to practise caution. Upstream, where the rivulet ran cleanly down from the mountain, people imbibed its waters with impunity, but here in Wapping, disease had been known to reach epidemic proportions. Deaths from dysentery, cholera and even typhus were not uncommon.

He reached a hand into the inner breast pocket of his frock coat and took out a small cloth purse, which he placed on the table.

‘There we are, Mrs Jordan: on behalf of the society, your monthly widow’s rental allowance at two shillings per week. Eight shillings in all.’

‘Oh Mr Stanford . . .’ Polly’s lisp intensified. ‘It’s so good of you, it truly is. I don’t know how to thank –’

‘There is just one way you can thank the society, Mrs Jordan,’ Silas interrupted, ‘and that is to keep your children in school for as long as is humanly possible.’ Which will mean only until they were twelve, he thought. After that, they’d head off for the hop- and apple-picking seasons, which was the way so many of the poor subsisted. But at least, by then, they would have received the elementary education that would serve them throughout life. ‘I cannot stress enough the importance of learning to read and write. Nor can I stress enough the importance of acquiring basic arithmetical skills. It is imperative we safeguard the future of our children, Mrs Jordan, for they are the future of this colony.’

‘Oh indeed, Mr Stanford, indeed! My Charlie’ll be back at school on Monday, I swear. Why, little Will’s there right now, learning his sums. He’s clever, that boy. I’m dead proud of him, I am.’

With four children and another on the way, Polly Jordan couldn’t wait for every one of them to be twelve years old and out picking fruit and hops. She loved each child with a passion, she always had. She’d loved the two she’d lost as well. But she was tired. It was time someone looked after her for a change. Dear Mother of God, she’d earned the right, hadn’t she?

The interview over, Polly waddled thankfully the several steps to the door, Silas accompanying her.

‘I’m delighted to hear that Will is doing so well,’ he said.

Outside in the lane, as the front door opened, Charlie nudged his mate, and they gathered up their marbles and scuttled out of sight. Best to avoid a lecture, the boy thought.

‘I shall see you again in one month,’ Silas said, putting on his top hat.

‘That you will, Mr Stanford, and without this, eh?’

She flashed her toothless grin and clutched her giant belly, and Silas felt himself flush with embarrassment. But to his credit, he did not look away.

‘I wish you luck with your confinement, Mrs Jordan. May God watch over you and see you safely through your ordeal.’

‘Thank you, Mr Stanford.’ Polly wasn’t sure why, in that instant, she felt a desire to communicate with this stern man. Perhaps she was making a personal plea, fearing that the society would no longer support her once the baby was born, or perhaps she felt genuine sympathy for Silas Stanford because of what she’d learnt from his daughter.

‘It’s hard bringing up youngsters on your own, isn’t it, sir?’

‘Yes, I’m sure it is.’ The question was no doubt rhetorical, but she was looking at him as if they shared a secret, and Silas felt uncomfortable.

‘Just as it’s hard losing your loved one to the sea. You’d know that too, wouldn’t you, sir?’

There was no misunderstanding her now. The starkness of her words and the meaningful look in her eyes clearly stated that they had a common tragedy.

Silas was rendered momentarily speechless. This is my daughter’s doing, he thought. It had to be. How else could Polly Jordan know of their personal family history? He was bewildered. Why would Amy share such an intimacy? It was tantamount to betrayal. Why would she do such a thing?

‘I appreciate the difficulty of your circumstances, Mrs Jordan,’ he said stiffly, ‘and I give you my personal assurance that the society will continue to supply your widow’s allowance until you are able to return to work. In the meantime, I wish you good day.’

He tipped the brim of his hat, and walked off down the stinking lane without looking back.

Polly watched him for a moment or so. A hard man, she thought, a hard man with no heart. How a bastard like that had managed to sire the likes of Amy Stanford was beyond her. She left the front door open to let in a little breeze, and went back inside. Baby Jake was crying.

Ah well, she thought as she sat and lifted the child from its cradle, at least I’ll have another month or so before the society cuts me adrift. She jiggled the infant on her knees and baby Jake stopped crying immediately, reaching out to play with her hair. What the hell; she’d scored well with her widow’s allowance. She was thankful for that, particularly as it was quite possible she wasn’t a widow at all. She put the child on the floor and smiled as he crawled, then stood, then staggered about the room like a tiny drunken sailor.

Polly wasn’t at all sure that her husband had died at sea. In her opinion, Albert Jordan was too canny to cop it in an accident. He’d more than likely run off because she’d got pregnant again. ‘You keep popping them out like this, Poll, how am I expected to feed them?’ he’d say. Mostly in a good-natured fashion, she had to admit – he was fond of his children. But she’d sensed the prospect of this next one might have pushed him too far, particularly so soon after the last. Well, it was hardly her fault the babies kept coming, was it? He had to keep poking her, didn’t he? The bastard never stopped. What did he expect? God, but she missed him. She missed him and hated him at the same time.

Polly Jordan’s overwhelming grief at the news of her husband’s death had been quickly replaced by anger. Whether or not he’d died, as his crew mates aboard the whaler had reported, was immaterial. A careless death, or a callous abandonment, either way she’d been left pregnant with the prospect of bringing up five children on her own. The only mitigating factor in Albert Jordan’s favour, should he have abandoned her, was that he had rigged his own death in order for her to receive assistance. For that, Polly was grateful.

She stood and, hefting baby Jake onto one hip, grabbed the bag of fresh fruit that had arrived yesterday. She’d pop next door and share it with Meg Henderson who had six youngsters and a drunken husband who beat her. There’s always someone worse off than yourself, Polly thought.

Silas walked down Campbell Street towards the harbour. He would look at the ships, he decided, while the wind off the water cleared his head of the foul rivulet odour.

As he passed the City of London Arms, two men staggered drunkenly out onto the street and a brawl ensued, others joining them, mugs of rum and ale in hand, to urge them on. It is early afternoon, Silas thought vaguely. Why were men drinking in the early afternoon? But then why men chose to lose their senses in drink at all remained a mystery to Silas. He ignored them and walked on.

Upon reaching the harbour, he looked across to Hunter Street and Old Wharf. Beyond the impressive stone facades of warehouses and businesses lay the further network of Wapping’s lanes and alleys and rows that were bordered to the east by the rivulet’s outlet. Housing principally fishermen and labourers, here too life was hard and uncompromising, and here too were the pubs and brothels where drunkenness and lasciviousness were a daily ritual.

Although he believed in the aims of the temperance movement and the banning of spiritous liquor, Silas, unlike many others, did not stand in judgement of men and their drunkenness. Nor, surprisingly, did he stand in judgement of women who sold their bodies. Most of the poor wretches had come from a convict past: they had endured the unspeakable. What right had any man to judge those whose spirits had been broken? The lunatic asylums, of which there were a number in Van Diemen’s Land, were overflowing with pitiable creatures who had been pushed to the brink of madness and beyond. Silas did indeed pray for their souls, but it was his aim to offer help of a more practical nature, help that would lead the colony into a future where such torment had no place.