‘But I don’t think that’s going to happen.’
‘But it might. And what if it does? Mama, will you come in here at once and show it the way out?’
‘At once. I will ask it which wall it came in through, and I will send it back that way, with a map to the cemetery at the end of the line. And now, my love, you must sleep.’ I kissed her again, and heard her whisper, ‘Good night, Mama,’ and I tiptoed out of her room.
The following morning, when there was still no sign of Peter, Lucinda and I went out again. The toes of our boots went in and out of our skirts like pistons, as we scuttled across the wet cobblestones, hunched and downcast against the rain. First we took stuff to Huggitty the hawker to sell. He was the type of dealer who supplied whatever he could get his hands on, and I had bought the piano from him a few pennies at a time. In our courting days, Peter would surprise me with the latest sheet-music, which he had bound up especially for me, and he would say that only lower-class parlours did not have a piano. Out of concern for his dignity, and for Lucinda’s pleasure, I endeavoured to keep it. Instead we took to Huggitty the spoils from the bedroom, a découpaged umbrella stand, the embroidered antimacassars, the black marble mantel clock, and one of my two nice dresses. I even presented him with a description of the contents of the bookbinding workshop, but although Huggitty was cruel and unscrupulous, and told me I was ‘a proper jewel’, even if I were to have found a hawker with more scruples, I knew that the antiquated frames, tools and presses were worth nothing, not since booksellers expected one to have guillotines and sewing machines and whatnot nowadays.
We left Huggity’s and steeled ourselves against the smells coming from the bakery next door, with the consolation that we knew he cut his flour worse than any of the bakers in Lambeth. And then through the drizzle to our next port of call – toes going in and out under our hems – which was the butcher’s, Sam Battye. He let me put a sign in his window, advertising my services as a piano teacher, as I could not afford the rates of the Lambeth Local Gazette.
In and out, in and out, and I would watch our toes as if they were the only things I could depend on in life, although occasionally I would lift my head, and flick my eyes around for signs of Peter amongst the crowds, down the alley-ways, or slumped in door-ways. In and out in and out, a regular beat to counteract the gnawing of our stomachs and the fretting of the endless rain. I tried to distract myself by wondering what it must feel like to have one of those crinolines holding my skirts out, so nothing would be brushing past my legs. I shouldn’t like that, I remember thinking, for my legs would have been colder than they already were. I’ll keep my horsehair petticoat, I thought. Then I realised that I could indeed keep my horsehair petticoat, even if I had one of those crinolines, and wear it underneath to keep me warm, and it would have soaked up the splashes from the puddles, and no one would ever have known.
And finally all that remained for us was to head to the sign of the three golden balls and into the dingy interior of the pawn-shop, next to the gin-shop (as they always were), where we huddled in a cubicle and waited our turn to be served.
‘You gave me eight bob for the gown last Friday! What d’ya mean only seven today? You know I’ll be back Monday, I’m good as gold I am. What’s it to ya?’
And we saw the broker shaking his head, and mouthing ‘seven’ to the woman with no hair and a black eye.
‘But what about our Sunday dinner? Think of that! Or are you not a godly man?’
And then in lurched a man with a mouth full of broken teeth, who put two pairs of tiny little shoes on the counter, pocketed two shillings, and lumbered out again and into the gin-shop next door. Then in came another one, who took off his coat, his belt, and the very boots he was standing in, and watched as they were wrapped into a bundle and ticketed, and I could not help but stare as he hobbled away, his toes poking through the ends of his threadbare socks, holding up his trousers with one hand, and clutching his pennies in the other, and into the gin-shop he went too.
‘He forgot to give me his handkerchief,’ the broker said as he came to serve us. ‘He’ll be back later.’ I shuddered to think what else he might be offered: the man no doubt would prefer to go home naked but with a bellyful of beer, if only the pawnbroker would accept his smalls and all.
‘What we got ’ere then?’ He whistled through the gap in his teeth as I laid out two solid-silver spoons boxed in red velvet, a silver-plated vase, a pair of pearl earrings, and a small, inlaid walnut music-box. He bit the pearls with his teeth, fingered the spoons and held them to the light, brought out a magnifying glass to the hallmarks, and checked the mechanism of the music-box.